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"'''"'''' iiiii''l'"iiii'ii;ifeiiiiiliiiiiiiii':iiiiliiiiii'-./:'::.:.,p: 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


HOWITT,    MILMAN,    AND    KEATS, 


COMPLETE 


IN    ONE    VOLUME. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

THOMAS,    COWPERTHWAIT    &   CO. 

No.    253,    MARKET    STREET. 
1841. 


R   r   rnr"!"''  "/.^''"o"'  FairchiUl  &  Co., 


PREFACE. 


The  Editor  of  the  volume  now  offered  to  the  pubhc  has  found 
his  task  one  of  some  delicacy  and  difficulty. 

In  selecting  from  among  the  recent  poets  of  Great  Britain  two, 
whose  works  had  not  been  hitherto  presented  collectively  to  the 
American  reader,  to  be  published  with  a  new  edition  of  Keats,  it 
was,  of  course,  his  object  to  give  the  preference  to  those  which 
would  be  most  acceptable  to  the  public — most  popular.  He  chose 
Mary  Howitt  and  Henry  Hart  Milman ;  and  in  doing  so,  obeyed 
the  dictates  of  his  own  judgment  as  to  their  merits^  compared  with 
those  of  their  contemporaries ;  and  he  believes  that,  considered 
with  reference  to  richness  of  imagination,  fertility  of  invention, 
srace  and  elecjance  of  diction,  and  the  interesting  character  of  the 
subjects  which  they  have  chosen  for  their  various  poetical  works, 
they  will  bear  comparison  with  any  of  the  living  British  poets. 
Milman  is  in  the  classical  style.  His  chaste  and  beautiful  com- 
positions remind  one  of  a  Grecian  temple,  towering  towards 
Heaven  in  the  severe  majesty  of  its  just  proportions ;  while  those 
of  Mrs.  Howitt,  redolent  of  middle  age  lore,  and  rich  in  catholic 
associations,  have  rather  the  semblance  of  some  venerable  Gothic 
cathedral, 

"  With  storied  windows  richly  dight, 
Shedding  a  dim  rehgious  light" 

upon  the  kneeling  devotees  below.  Each  has  a  peculiar  beauty, 
such  as  may  render  them  counterparts  to  each  other,  and  not 
inappropriately,  it  is  believed,  are  they  grouped  opposite  to  each 
other  in  this  volume. 

The  many  editions  already  published  of  Keats's  works  have  suf- 
ficiently attested  his  popularity.  His  reputation  has  been  con- 
tinually advancing  since  the  period  of  his  lamented  death. 

No  pains  have  been  spared  to  render  the  respective  collections 
embraced  in  tins  volume  complete  and  accurate ;  and  it  is  hoped 
they  may  prove  acceptable  to  the  public. 

(3) 


THE 


OF 


MARY  HOWITT. 


MEMOIR    OF    MARY    HOWITT. 


Mary  Howitt  was  born  at  Coleford,  in  Glouces- 
tershire, where  lier  parents  were  making  a  tem- 
porary residence  ;  but  sliortly  after  her  birth  tlicy 
returned  to  their  accustomed  abode  at  Uttoxeter, 
in  Staflbrdshire,  where  she  spent  her  youth.  The 
beautiful  Arcadian  scenery  of  this  part  of  Staf- 
fordshire was  of  a  character  to  foster  a  deep  love 
of  the  country ;  and  is  described  witli  great  ac- 
curacy in  her  recent  prose  work,  "  Wood  Leigh- 
ton."  By  her  mother  she  is  descended  from  an 
ancient  Irish  ^mily,  and  also  from  Wood,  the  ill- 
used  Irisli  patentee,  who  was  ruined  by  the  selfish 
malignity  of  Dean  Swift, — from  whose  aspersions 
his  character  was  vindicated  by  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton. A  true  statement  of  the  whole  affair  may  be 
seen  in  Ruding's  "  Annals  of  Coinage."  Charles 
Wood,  her  grandfather,  was  the  first  who  intro- 
duced platina  into  England  from  Jamaica,  wliere 
he  was  assay-master.  Her  parents  being  strict 
members  of  tlie  society  of  Friends,  and  her  father 
being,  indeed,  of  an  old  line  who  suffered  perse- 
cution in  the  early  days  of  Quakerism,  her  edu- 
cation was  of  an  exclusive  character;  and  her 
knowledge  of  books  confined  to  those  approved 
of  by  the  most  strict  of  her  own  people,  till  a 
later  period  than  most  young  persons  beeome  ac- 
quainted with  them.  Their  effect  upon  her  mind 
was,  consequently,  so  much  the  more  vivid.  In- 
deed, she  describes  her  overwhelming  astonish- 
ment and  delight  in  the  treasures  of  general  and 
modern  literature,  to  be  like  what  Keats  says  his 
feelings  were  when  a  new  world  of  poetry  opened 
upon  him,  through  Chapman's  "  Homer," — as  to 
the  astronomer, 

"  When  a  new  planet  swims  into  liis  ken." 

Among  poetry  there  was  none  which  made  a 
stronger  impression  than  our  simple  old  ballad, 
which  she  and  a  sister  near  her  own  age,  and  of 
similar  taste  and  temperament,  used  to  revel  in, 
making  at  the  same  time  many  young  attempts 
in  epic,  dramatic,  and  ballad  poetry.  In  her 
twenty-first  year  she  was  married  to  William 
Howitt,  a  gentleman  well  calculated  to  encourage 
and  promote  her  poetical  and  intellectual  taste, — 
himself  a  poet  of  considerable  genius,  and  the  au- 
thor of  various  well-known  works.  We  have  rea- 
son to  believe  that  her  domestic  life  has  been  a 
singularly  happy  one.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howitt  spent 
the  year  after  their  marriage  in  Statfordsjiire. 
They  then  removed  to  Nottingham,  where  they 


continued  to  reside  till  about  twelve  months  ago, 
and  are  now  living  at  Esher,  in  Surrey. 

Mary  Howitt  published  jointly  with  her  hus- 
band two  volumes  of  miscellaneous  poems,  in 
1823;  and,  in  1834,  she  gave  to  the  world  "The 
Seven  Temptations,"  a  series  of  dramatic  poems ; 
a  work  which,  in  other  times,  would  have  been 
alone  sufficient  to  have  made  and  secured  a  very 
high  reputation  :  her  dramas  are  full  of  keen  per- 
ceptions, strong  and  accurate  delineations,  and 
powerful  displays  of  character.  She  afterwards 
prepared  for  the  press  a  collection  of  her  most 
popular  ballads,  a  class  of  writing  in  which  she 
greatly  excels  all  her  contemporaries.  She  is  also 
well  known  to  the  young  by  her  "  Sketches  of 
Natural  History,"  "Tales  in  Verse,"  and  other 
productions  written  expressly  for  their  use  and 
pleasure. 

Mrs.  Howitt  is  distinguished  by  the  mild,  un- 
affected, and  conciliatory  manners,  for  which  "  the 
people  called  Quakers"  have  always  been  remark- 
able. Her  writings,  too,  are  in  keeping  with  her 
character :  in  all  there  is  evidence  of  peace  and 
good-will ;  a  tender  and  a  trusting  nature ;  a  gen- 
tle sympathy  with  humanity ;  and  a  deep  and 
fervent  love  of  all  the  beautiful  works  which  the 
Great  Hand  has  scattered  so  plentifully  before 
those  by  whom  they  can  be  felt  and  appreciated. 
She  lias  mixed  but  little  with  the  world ;  the 
home-duties  of  wife  and  mother  have  been  to  her 
productive  of  more  pleasant  and  far  happier  re- 
sults than  struggles  for  distinction  amid  crowds ; 
she  has  made  her  reputation  quietly  but  securely  ; 
and  has  laboured  successfully  as  well  as  earnestly 
to  inculcate  virtue  as  the  noblest  attribute  of  an 
English  woman.  If  there  be  some  of  her  con- 
temporaries who  have  surpassed  her  in  the  higher 
qualities  of  poetry, — some  who  have  soared  higher, 
and  others  who  have  taken  a  wider  range, — there 
are  none  whose  writings  are  better  calculated  to 
delight  as  well  as  inform.  Her  poems  are  always 
graceful  and  beautiful,  and  often  vigorous ;  but 
they  are  essentially  feminine :  they  afford  evi- 
dence of  a  kindly  and  generous  nature,  as  well 
as  of  a  fertile  imagination,  and  a  safely-cultivated 
mind.  She  is  entitled  to  a  high  place  among  the 
Poets  of  Great  Britain ;  and  a  still  higher  among 
those  of  her  sex  by  whom  the  intellectual  rank 
of  woman  has  been  asserted  without  presump- 
tion, and  maintained  without  display. 

(7) 


€onit%xiu. 


Page 

THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS 1 

The  Poor  Scholar 2 

Thomas  of  Torres 6 

The  Pirate 14 

The  Old  Man 24 

Raymond 32 

Philip  of  Maine 46 

The  Sorrow  of  Teresa 70 

HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES 77 

Marien's  Pilgrimage : 

Parti 78 

PartU 79 

Partm 80 

PartIV 81 

Part  V 83 

Part  VI 84 

Part  VII 85 

PartVIII 86 

PartlX 87 

PartX 89 

PartXI 91 

PartXn 93 

■  OldChristmas 95 

The  Twelfth  Hour ib. 

The  Blind  Boy  and  his  Sister 96 

The  Spirit's  Questionings 97 

The  Poor  Child's  Hymn ib. 

A  Dream ib. 

The  Boy  of  the  Southern  Isle : 

Part  I 98 

Part  II 100 

Partm ib. 

Easter  Hymns : 

Hymn  I.— The  Two  Marys 101 

II. — The  Angel ib. 

Ill— The  Lord  Jesus 102 

IV.— The  Eleven ib. 

Com  Fields ib. 

The  Two  Estates 103 

Life's  Matins 104 

This  World  and  the  Next ib. 

A  Life's  Sorrow 105 

The  Old  Friend  and  the  New 106 

Mabel  on  Midsummer  Day : 

Parti 107 

Part  II 108 

A  Christmas  Carol 109 

Little  Children 110 

BIRDS    AND   FLOWERS,    AND   OTHER 
COUNTRY  THINGS: 

The  Stormy  Peterel 110 

The  Poor  Man's  Garden Ill 

B 


Pace 

The  Apple-Tree 112 

The  Heron ib. 

The  Rose  of  May 114 

The  Dor-Hawk 115 

The  Oak-Tree ib. 

The  Carohna  Parrot 116 

The  Raven 118 

Flower  Comparisons ib. 

Little  Streams 119 

The  Wolf ib. 

The  Passion-Flow  er 120 

The  Reindeer 122 

The  Ivy-Bush ib. 

Mornmg  Thoughts 123 

The  Pheasant ib. 

Harvest  Field-Flowers 124 

The  Sea-Gnll ib. 

Summer  Woods 125 

The  Mandrake 126 

The  Hedgehog 127 

The  Cuckoo ib. 

Tae  Hornet 128 

The  Use  of  Flowers 129 

The  Carrion-Crow ib. 

Buttercups  and  Daisies 130 

The  Titmouse,  or  Blue-Cap ib. 

Sunshine 131 

The  Elephant ib. 

The  Wild  Swan 132 

The  MiU-Stream 133 

Summer ib- 

The  Falcon ib. 

The  Child  and  the  Flowers 134 

The  Flax-Flower 135 

The  House-Sparrow 136 

Childhood 138 

Birds 139 

The  Woodpecker ib. 

The  Harebell 140 

The  Screech  Owl ib. 

Flower  Paintings 141 

L'Envoi ib. 

SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY: 

The  Coot 142 

The  Camel ib. 

Cedar  Trees  . , 1 13 

The  Monkey ib. 

The  Fossil  Elephant 144 

The  Locust 145 

The  Broom-Flower ib. 

The  Eagle ih. 

The  Netlle-King 146 

The  Bird  of  Paradise ib. 

(9) 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

TheWater-Rat 147 

The  Sparrow's  Nest ih. 

The  Kingfisher 148 

Migration  of  the  Grey  Squirrels ib. 

The  Beaver 149 

True  Story  of  Web-Spinner ib. 

Spring  151 

The  Northern  Seas 152 

The  Southern  Seas ib. 

The  Garden 153 

The  Lion 154 

The  Fox ib. 

The  Wood-Mouse 155 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly ib. 

The  Tailor  Bird's  Nest  and  the  Long-Tail 

Titmouse  Nest 156 

The  Humming-Bird ib. 

The  Ostrich 157 

The  Dormouse ib. 

The  Wild  Fritillary ib. 

The  Squirrel 158 

The  Dragon-Fly ib. 

The  Wild  Spring-Crocus ib. 

The  Swallow 159 

The  Sea ib. 

TALES  IN  VERSE: 

Olden  Times 160 

Madam  Fortescue  and  her  Cat 161 

Andrew  Lee 164 

The  Wanderer's  Return ib- 

A  Swinging  Song 166 

Ellen  More ib. 

A  Day  of  Disaster 167 

The  Young  Mourner 168 

The  Bear  and  the  Bakers 169 

The  Soldier's  Story 171 

Marien  Lee 172 

The  Child's  Lament ib. 

The  Sailor's  Wife 173 

The  Morning  Drive 174 

The  Found  Treasure 1 75 

Thoughts  of  Heaven 176 

A  Day  of  Hard  Work ib. 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Carrion  Crow 177 

May  Fair 178 

French  and  English 1 79 

The  Little  Mariner ib. 

The  Snow  Drop 180 

A  Poetical  Letter 181 

Alice  Fleming 182 

One  of  the  Vanities  of  Human  Wishes  ... .  183 

The  Garden 184 


Page 

Song  for  the  Ball-Players 184 

The  Kitten's  Mishap 185 

Spring ib. 

Life  among  the  Mountains 186 

Pilgrims «...  ib. 

TheCowsUps 187 

The  Indian  Bird ib. 

The  Children's  Wish 189 

The  English  Mother ib 

The  Departed 190 

A  Poetical  Chapter  on  Tails ib. 

MISCELL A  NEOUS  PIECES 192 

The  Voyage  with  the  Nautilus ib. 

Deliciae  Maris 193 

Flowers 194 

The  Sale  of  the  Pet  Lamb  of  the  Cottage . .  195 

The  Faery  Oath 195 

Child's  Faith 197 

America ib. 

The  Doomed  King 200 

The  Dream  of  Peticius 203 

Lodore,  a  Summer  Vision ib. 

Du  Guesclin's  Ransom 204 

The  Household  Festival 205 

TheThreeAges ib 

Mourning  on  Earth 206 

Rejoicing  in  Heaven ib. 

The  Temple  of  Juggernaut 207 

Household  Treasures ib. 

The  Mosque  of  Sultan  Achmet ib. 

The  Source  of  the  Jumna 208 

The  Baron's  Daughter 209 

Smyrna 210 

Oliver  Cromwell ib. 

Marshal  Soult ib. 

The  Valley  of  the  Sweet  Waters 211 

The  Burial-Ground  at  Sidon ib. 

The  Arrival 212 

An  English  Grave  at  Mussooree 213 

TheOdalique 214 

The  Tomb  of  St.  George ib. 

Vespers  in  the  Capelle  Reale 215 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne ib. 

View  near  Deobun,  among  the  Himalayas  .  216 

The  New  Palace  of  Mahmoud  II 217 

The  Monastery  of  Santa  Saba ib. 

The  Gipsy  Mother's  Song ib. 

The  Ordeal  of  Touch 218 

The  Anduhisian  Lover ib. 

Installation  of  the  Bishop  of  Magnesia  ....  219 

A  Forest  Scene  in  the  days  of  Wickliffe  ...  220 
10 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

MARY    HO WITT 


fffie  SeiJtw  iirnnvtatfons. 


Wlial's  done  we  partly  may  compute. 
But  know  not  what's  resisted. —  Burns. 


TO 


ALARIC  A.  WATTS,  ESQ. 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED,  BY  HIS  SINCERE  FRIEND, 
THE    AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


The  idea  of  this  poem  originated  in  a  strong  impres- 
sion of  the  immense  value  of  the  human  soul,  and  of 
all  the  varied  modes  of  its  trials,  according  to  its  own 
infinitely  varied  modifications,  as  existing  in  different 
individuals.  We  see  the  awful  mass  of  sorrow  and 
of  crime  in  the  world,  but  we  know  only  in  part — in 
a  very  small  degree,  the  fearful  weight  of  solicitations 
and  impulses  of  passion,  and  the  vast  constraint  of 
circumstances,  that  are  brought  into  play  against 
suffering  humanity.  In  the  luminous  words  of  my 
motto, 

'What's  done  we  partly  may  compute. 
But  know  not  what's  resisted.' 

Thus,  without  sufficient  reflection,  we  are  furnished 
with  data  on  which  to  condemn  our  fellow-creatures, 
but  without  sufficient  grounds  for  their  palliation  and 
commiseration.  It  is  necessary  for  the  acquisition 
of  that  charity,  which  is  the  soul  of  Christianity,  for 
us  to  descend  into  the  depths  of  our  own  nature;  to 
put  ourselves  into  many  imaginary  and  untried  situa- 
tions, that  we  may  enable  ourselves  to  form  some 
tolerable  notion  how  we  might  be  affected  by  them ; 
how  far  we  might  be  tempted  —  how  far  deceived — 
how  far  we  might  have  occasion  to  lament  the  evil 
power  of  circumstances,  to  weep  over  our  own  weak- 
ness, and  pray  for  the  pardon  of  our  crimes;  that, 
having  raised  up  this  vivid  perception  of  what  we 
might  do,  suffer  and  become,  we  may  apply  the  rule 
to  our  fellows,  and  cease  to  be  astonished  in  some 


degree,  at  the  shapes  of  atrocity  into  which  some  of 
them  are  transformed ;  and  learn  to  bear  with  others 
as  brethren,  who  have  been  tried  tenfold  beyond  our 
own  experience,  or  perhaps  our  strength. 

The  evil  agent  whom  I  have  employed  for  the 
working  out  of  this  moral  process,  in  this  poem,  may 
either  be  regarded  literally,  as  he  is  represented, 
according  to  the  popular  creed  ;  or  simply,  as  a  per- 
sonification of  the  principle  of  temptation,  as  each 
individual  reader's  own  bias  of  sentiment  may  lead 
him  to  prefer:  for  my  own  part,  I  regard  him  in  the 
latter  point  of  view. 

There  may  lie  some  wlio  may  not  approve  of  the 
extent  of  crime  which  I  have  brought  into  action  in 
the  course  of  these  dramas.  They  may  deem  the 
experiment  especially  dubious  in  a  female  writer. 
But  let  such  reflect,  that  without  high  temptation 
there  could  be  no  high  crime ;  without  high  crime 
there  could  be  no  actual  and  adequate  representation 
of  human  nature,  as  we  know  it  to  exist.  And 
therefore  to  have  flinched  in  this  respect,  would  have 
been  to  defeat  the  whole  object  of  my  work.  Let 
those  reflect  also,  that  it  has  not  been  my  plan  to 
render  the  description  of  crime  alluring.  In  that 
case  I  should  have  deserved,  not  only  all  the  blame 
the  timid  or  the  rigidly  righteous  could  heap  upon 
me,  but  also  that  of  the  philosophical  observer  of  our 
nature ;  for  my  view  of  it  then  would  have  been 
false  and  injust.  But  I  have  painted  the  career  of 
crime  such  as  it  is — one  uniform  downward  tendency 
to  degradation  and  ruinous  misery;  and  have  thereby 
held  up  to  young  and  old,  to  strong  and  weak,  to 
11 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


the  high  and  the  lowly  of  earth,  the  most  important 
moral  lesson  that  the  light  and  darkness  of  this 
strange  life  can  teach  to  tried,  allured,  rational  yet 
corruptible,  intellectual  yet  sense-mvolved  beings — 
the  most  important  we  are  capable  of  giving  or 
receiving. 

The  scenes,  characters,  and  events  in  these  dramas 
are,  as  in  human  life,  exceedingly  various,  and  ex- 
ceedingly diversified  in  their  degrees  of  moral  purity 
or  turpitude  ;  but  if  they  are  allowed  only  to  be  such 
as  fall  really  within  the  scope  of  our  nature,  they 
need  no  defence,  for  they  must  be  full  of  lessons  of 
wisdom  and  of  stimulus  to  good. 


ours  thou  murmurest  against :  it  is  for  less  than  this 
that  he  obtained  them  !" 

"  You  shall  see,"  said  Achzib  exultingly,  "what  I 
will  do.  I  will  select  seven  human  beings,  and  tempt 
them  according  to  their  several  natures ;  and  if  1 
prove  not  beyond  dispute  the  superior  power  of  evil, 
let  me  be  called  tenfold,  Achzib  the  liar  I"' 

"Be  it  so!"  replied  the  other  two. 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


In  a  gloomy  chaotic  region  of  universal  space 
inhabited  by  the  Spirits  of  Evil,  who,  enraged  at 
their  expulsion  from  heaven,  still  endeavoured  to 
revenge  themselves  upon  the  justice  of  God,  by  over- 
turning or  defacing  the  beauty  of  his  moral  creation 
in  the  spirit  of  man,  sate  three  of  the  lower  order  of 
Spirits.  Among  them  was,  Achzib  the  liar,  or  the 
runner  to  and  fro, — a  restless,  ambitious  spirit,  whoj 
hating  good,  coveted  distinction  among  the  bad. 

For  a  long  time  they  had  sate  in  silence,  each  occu- 
pied by  his  own  cogitations ;  and  there  is  no  telling 
how  much  longer  they  might  have  remained  so,  had 
not  the  attention  of  the  youngest  been  diverted  by  a 
gloomily  magnificent  procession,  which  was  dimly 
seen  passing  in  the  distance. 

"  Another  of  the  favoured  ones,"  said  he,  "  is  this  \ 
day  crowned  I" 

"Ay,"   replied  Achzib,    "it  is  an  easy  thing  for 
some  to  obtain  distinction !  I  have  desired  it  for  long;  ! 
I  have  done  services  to  merit  it ;  but  my  merits,  like 
my  desires,  are  fruitless." 

"Hast   thou,"   inquired   the  eldest  of  the  three, 
"proved  the  supremacy  of  evil?  hast  thou  shown 
■  that  we  are  stronger  than  God  ?" 

"  I  have  done  much,"  said  Achzib,  "  as  ye  all 
know !" 

"  But,  if  thou  have  failed  to  do  this, '  rejoined  the 
other,  "  thou  canst  not  have  deserved  the  distinction 
thou  desirest !" 

"  But  that  is  soon  done !"  answered  Achzib. 

"  Not  so  soon !"  interrupted  the  youngest  spirit. 
"  I  have  tried  to  prove  it  till  I  am  weary ;  and  now 
I  unreliictantly  make  the  confession,  that  though  we 
are  mighty,  God  is  mightier  than  we — his  mercy  is 
stronger  than  our  hate,  his  integrity  than  our  craft!" 

"I  deny  all  thi.s,"  said  Achzib,  "and  I  will  prove 
it  beyond  controversy .'  I  will  directly  ascend  to  the 
earth:  and  of  the  human  spirits  whom  I  will  tempt, 
1  will  win  the  greater  number,  if  not  all  of  them,  to 
their  ruin !" 

"If  thou  do  this,"  said  the  eldest  spirit,  "  thou  wilt 
indeed  deserve  to  be  crowned  like  him  whose  hon- 


Achzib  was  upon  earth.  He  took  up  his  abode  in 
a  famous  city,  and  assuming  the  character  of  a  phi- 
losopher, inquired  out  their  most  learned  men.  All 
told  him  of  a  poor  scholar.  Achzib  .saw  him  and 
conversed  with  him.  He  found  him  young,  worn  out 
with  study,  and  as  simple,  unpractised  and  inexpe- 
rienced in  the  ways  of  men  as  a  child.  This  shall 
be  my  first  essay,  said  Achzib ;  and  accordingly,  ac- 
cumulating learned  treatises  and  immeasurably  long 
parchments  of  puzzling  but  unsound  philosophy,  he 
made  his  attempt.  Whether  Achzib  or  the  Poor 
Scholar  triumphed,  shall  be  seen. 


THE   POOR   SCHOLAR. 


PERSONS. 

THE   POOR   SCHOLAR. 
ACHZIB,   THE  PHILOSOPHER. 
THE  MOTHER. 
LITTLE   BOY. 

The  Scholar's  Room.  —  Evening. 

THE   POOR  SCHOLAR  AND   LITTLE   BOV. 

Litde  Boy,  reading.    "These  things  I  have  sjxiken 
unto  you,  that  in  me  ye  might  have  peace.     In  the 
world  ye  shall  have  tribulation:  but  be  of  good  cheer, 
I  have  overcome  the  world."    Here  endeth  the  16th 
chapter  of  the  Gospel  according  to  St.  John. 
Poor  Scholar.  Most  precious  words !   Now  go  your 
way ; 
The  summer  fields  are  green  and  bright ; 
Your  tasks  are  done.  —  Why  do  you  stay  ? 

Christ  give  his  peace  to  you  :    Good  night  I 
Boy.    You  look  so  pale,  sir !  you  are  worse ; 
Let  me  remain,  and  be  your  nurse  ! 
Sir,  when  my  mother  has  been  ill, 
I've  kept  her  chamber  neat  and  still, 
And  waited  on  her  all  the  day ! 

Schol.     Thank  you  I  but  yet  you  must  not  slay, 
Still,  still  my  boy,  before  we  part 

Receive  my  bles.sing  —  'tis  my  last! 
I  feel  Death's  hand  is  on  my  heart. 
And  my  life's  sun  is  sinking  fast; 
Yet  mark  me,  child,  I  have  no  fear, — 

'T  is  thus  the  Christian  meets  his  end  : 
I  know  my  work  is  finished  here, 

And  God  —  thy  God  too  —  is  my  friend  ! 
The  joyful  course  has  just  began; 
Life  is  in  thee  a  fountain  strong  ; 
Yet  look  upon  a  dying  man. 
Receive  his  words  and  keep  them  long  ! 
12 


^ 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


Fear  God,  all-wise,  omnipotent. 

In  him  we  live  and  have  our  being; 
lie  hath  all  love,  all  blessing  sent  — 

Creator  —  Father —  All-decreeing.' 
Fear  him,  and  love,  and  praise,  and  trust: 

Yet  have  of  man  no  slavish  fear ; 
Remember  kin^s,  like  thee,  are  dust, 

And  at  one  judgment  must  appear. 
But  virtue,  antl  its  holy  fruits. 

The  poet's  soul,  the  sage's  sense, 
These  are  exalted  attributes; 

And  these  demand  thy  reverence. 
But,  boy,  remember  this,  e'en  then 
Revere  the  gifts,  but  not  the  men ! 
Obey  thy  parents  ;  they  are  given 

To  guide  our  inexperienced  youth ; 
Types  are  they  of  the  One  in  heaven. 

Chastising  but  in  love  and  truth! 
Keep  thyself  pure  —  sin  doth  efface 

The  beauty  of  our  spiritual  life  : 
Do  gix)d  to  all  men  —  live  in  peace 

And  charity,  abliorring  strife  ! 
The  mental  power  which  God  has  given. 

As  I  have  taught  thee,  cultivate  ; 
Thou  canst  not  be  too  wise  for  heaven, 

If  thou  dost  humbly  consecrate 
Tliy  soul  to  God !  and  ever  take 

In  his  good  book  delight ;  there  lies 
The  highest  knowledge,  which  will  make 

Thy  soul  unto  salvation  wise  ! 
My  little  boy,  thou  canst  not  know 

How  strives  my  spirit  fervently, 
How  my  heart's  fountains  overflow 

With  yearning  tenderness  lor  thee  ! 
God  keep  and  strengthen  thee  from  sin  ! 

God  crown  thy  life  v\  ith  peace  and  joy, 
And  give  at  last  to  enter  in 

The  city  of  his  rest! 

My  boy 
Farewell  —  I  have  had  joy  in  thee  ; 
I  go  to  higher  joy  —  oh,  follow  me  ! 
But  now  farewell ! 

Dorj.  Kind  sir,  good  night! 

I  will  return  with  morning  light.  {He  goes  out. 

[The  Poor  Scholar  sits  for  some  time  as  in 
meditation,  then  rising  and  putting  aivay 
all  his  books,  except  the  Bible,  he  sits  down 
again. 

Schol.  Novp,  now  I  need  them  not,  I  've  done  with 
them. 
I  need  not  blind  philosophy,  nor  dreams 
Of  speculating  men,  entangling  truth 
In  cobweb  sophistrj',  away  with  them  — 
One  word  read  by  that  child  is  worth  them  all ! 
—  The  business  of  my  life  is  finished  now 
With  this  day's  work.     I  have  dismissed  the  class 
F"ur  the  last  time — I  am  alone  with  death! 
To-morrow  morn,  they  will  inquire  for  me, 
And  learn  that  I  have  solved  the  last,  great  problem. 
This  pale,  attenuate  frame  they  may  behold. 
But  that  which  loves,  and  hopes,  and  speculates, 
They  will  perceive  no  more.     Mysterious  being ! 
2 


Life  cannot  comprehend  thee,  though  thou  showest 

Thyself  by  all  the  functions  of  our  life  — 

'Tis  death  —  death  only,  which  is  the  great  teacher' 

Awful  instructor!  he  doth  enter  in 

The  golden  rooms  of  state,  and  all  perforce 

Teach  there  its  proud,  reluctant  occupant ; 

He  doth  inform  in  miserable  dens 

The  locked-up  soul  of  sordid  ignorance 

With  his  sublimest  knowledge!  he  hath  stolen 

Gently,  not  unawares,  into  the  chamber 

Of  the  Poor  Scholar,  like  a  sober  i'riend 

Who  doth  give  time  fur  ample  preparation! 

He  hath  dealt  kindly  with  me,  giving  first 

Yearnings  for  unimaginable  good. 

Which  the  world's  pleasure  could  not  satisfy; 

And  lofty  aspiration,  that  lured  on 

The  ardent  soul  as  the  sun  lures  the  eagle ; 

Next  came  a  drooping  of  the  outward  frame. 

Paleness  and  feebleness,  and  wasted  limbs, 

Which  said,  "  prepare  !  thy  days  are  numbered  !" 

.And  thus  for  months  had  this  poor  frame  declined. 

Wasting  and  wasting ;  yet  the  spirit  intense 

Growing  more  clear,  more  hourly  confident. 

As  if  its  disenthralment  had  begun  ! 

Oh,  I  should  long  to  die  ! 
To  be  among  the  stars,  the  glorious  stars ; 
To  have  no  bounds  to  knowledge  ;  to  drink  deep 
Of  living  fountains  —  to  behold  the  wise, 
The  good,  the  glorified !  to  be  with  God, 
And  Christ,  who  passed  through  death  that  I  might 

live ! 
Oh  I  should  long  for  death,  but  for  one  tie, 
One  lingering  tie  that  binds  me  to  the  earth! 
My  mother  !  dearest,  kindest,  best  of  mothers ! 
What  do  I  owe  her  not  ?  all  that  is  great. 
All  that  is  pure  —  all  that  I  have  enjoyed 
Of  outward  pleasure,  or  of  spiritual  life. 
I  have  derived  from  her  I  has  she  not  laboured 
Early  and  late  for  me  ?  first  through  the  years 
Of  sickly  infancy  —  then  by  her  toil 
Maintained  the  ambitious  scholar  —  overpaid 
By  what  men  said  of  him !    Oh  thou  untired, 
True  heart  of  love,  for  thee  I  hoped  to  live; 
To  pay  thee  back  thy  never-spent  affection  ; 
To  fill  my  father's  place,  and  make  thine  age 
As  joyful  as  thou  mad'st  my  passing  youth  ! 
Alas  !  it  may  not  be  !  thou  hast  to  weep  — 
Thou  hast  to  know  that  sickness  of  the  heart 
Which  bows  it  to  the  dust,  when  some  unlooked-for, 
.Some  irremediable  woe  befals! 

Surely  ere  long  thou  wilt  be  at  my  side, 


For  I  did  summon  thee,  and  thy  strong  love 

Brooks  not  delay  !     Alas,  thou  knowest  not 

It  was  to  die  within  thy  holy  arms 

That  I  have  asked  thy  presence!    Oh!  come,  come. 

Thou  most  beloved  being,  bless  thy  son. 

And  take  one  comfort  in  his  peaceful  death! 

[A  slight  knocking  is  heard  at  the  door, 
and  the  Philosopher  enters. 
Philos.    Well,  my  young  f>iend,  I  've  looked  in  to 
inquire 
After  your  health.    1  saw  your  class  depart, 
.And  would  have  conference  with  you  once  again. 

13 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Schol.  To-night  I  must  decline  your  friendship,  sir. 
I  am  so  weak  I  cannot  talk  with  you 
On  controversial  points  ever  again. 
Besides,  my  faith  brings  such  a  holy  joy, 
Such  large  reward  of  peace,  why  would  you  shake  it? 
Or  is  it  now  a  time  for  doubt*  and  fears, 
When  my  soul's  energy  should  be  concentred 
For  one  great  trial  ?    8ee  you  not,  e'en  now, 
The  spectre  death  is  with  me  ? 

Plidos.  Cheer  up,  friend. 

It  is  the  nature  of  all  sickness  thus 
To  bring  death  near  to  the  imagination, 
Even  as  a  telescope  doth  show  the  moon 
Just  at  our  finger-ends  without  decreasing 
The  actual  distance.     Come,  be  not  so  gloomy  ;  — 
You  have  no  busine.'^s  to  be  solitary  ; 
A  cheerful  friend  will  bring  back  cheerfulness. 
Have  you  perused  the  books  I  left  with  you  I 
Schol.    I  have,  and  like  them  not! 
Philos.  Indeed !  indeed  ! 

Are  they  not  full  of  lofty  argument 
And  burning  eloquence  ?    For  a  strong  soul. 
Baptized  in  the  immortal  wells  of  thought. 
They  must  be  glorious  food ! 

SchoL  Pardon  me,  sir. 

They  are  too  specious ;  —  they  gloss  over  error 
With  tinsel  covering  which  is  not  like  truth. 
Oh !  give  them  not  to  young  and  ardent  minds 
They  will  mislead,  and  baffle  and  confound  : 
Besides,  among  the  sages  whom  you  boast  of, 
^Vith  their  proud  heathen  virtues,  can  ye  find 
A  purer,  loftier,  nobler  character  ; 
More  innocent,  and  yet  more  filled  with  wisdom, 
Fuller  of  high  devotion  —  more  heroic 
Than  the  Lord  Jesus  —  dignified  yet  humble; 
Warring  'gainst  sin,  and  yet  for  sinners  dying  ? 
Philos.     Well ;  pass  the  men,  what  .say  you  to  the 

morals  ? 
Schnl.    And  where  is  the  Utopian  code  of  morals 
Equal  to  that  which  a  few  words  set  forth 
Unto  the  Christian.  "  do  ye  so  to  others 
As  ye  would  they  should  do  unto  yourselves." 
And  where,  among  the  fables  of  their  poets, 
Which  you  pretend  veil  the  divinest  truths, 
Find  you  the  penitent  prodigal  coming  back 
Unto  his  father's  bosom  ;  thus  to  show 
God's  love,  and  onr  relationship  lo  him  ? 
Where  do  they  teach  us  in  our  many  needs 
To  lift  up  our  bowed,  broken  hearts  to  God, 
And  call  him  "  Father  ?" — Leave  me  as  I  am  I 
I  am  not  ignorant,  though  my  learning  lie 
In  Ihis  small  book — nor  do  I  ask  for  more  ! 
Philos.  But  have  you  read  the  parchments  ? 
Schol.  All  of  them. 

Philos.   And   what  impression    might  they  make 
uiKin  you  ? 
For  knowing  as  I  do  your  graceful  mind, 
And  your  profound  research  beyond  your  years, 
I  am  solicitous  of  your  approval. 

Schol.     I  cannot  prai^^e  —  I  cannot  say  one  word 
In  commendation  of  your  mi.«spent  labours. 
Oh,  surely  il  was  not  a  friendly  part 
To  hold  these  gorgeous  baits  before  a  soul 


Just  tottering  on  eternity!    Delusion, 
'Tis  all  delusion!  while  my  soul  abhorred. 
My  heart  was  wounded  at  the  traitorous  act  I 

Philos.    Come,  come,  my  friend,  this  is  mere  de- 
clamation ; 
You  have  misunderstood  both  them  and  me! 
Point  out  the  errors  —  you  shall  find  me  ever 
Open  unto  conviction. 

Schol.  See  my  state  — 

A  few  short  hours,  and  I  must  be  with  God  ; 
And  yet  you  ask  me  to  evolve  that  long 
Entanglement  of  subtlest  sophistry! 
This  is  no  friendly  part:  but  I  conjure  you. 
Give  not  your  soul  to  vain  philosophy  : 
The  drooping  Christian  at  the  hour  of  death 
-\eeds  other,  mightier  wisdom  than  it  yields. 
Oh,  though  I  am  but  young,  and  you  are  old, 
Grant  me  the  privilege  of  a  dying  man. 
To  counsel  you  in  love! 

Philus.  Enough,  enough  I 

I  see  that  you  are  spent.     I  have  too  long 
Trespassed  upon  your  time.     But  is  there  nought 
That  I  can  serve  you  in  ?    Aspire  you  not 
To  win  esteem  by  study  ?    I  will  speak 
Unto  the  primest  scholars  throughout  Europe 
In  your  behalf.     All  universities 
Will  heap  upon  you  honours  at  my  asking. 

Schol.    There  was  a  time  these  things  had  been  a 
snare ; 
But  the  near  prospect  of  eternity 
Takes  from  the  gauds  of  earth  their  tempting'st  lure; 
No,  no  —  it  was  a  poor  unmeet  ambition 
Which  then  was  hot  within  me,  and,  thank  God, 
Affecteth  me  no  more! 

Philos.  Nay,  but  my  friend, 

For  your  dear  mother's  sake  would  you  not  leave 
A  noble  name  emblazoned  on  your  tomb  ? 

Schol.    Can  such  poor,  empty  honours  compensate 
Unto  a  childless  mother  for  her  son? 
You  know  her  not,  and  me  you  know  not  either! 

Philos.    But  think  you,  my  young  friend,  learning 
is  honoured 
By  every  honour  paid  to  ils  disciples  : 
Your  tomb  would  be  a  shrine,  to  learning  sacred. 

Schol.     There  is  more  comfort,  sir,  unto  my  soul, 
To  feel  the  smallest  duty  not  neglected. 
And  my  day's  work  fiillilled,  than  if  I  knew 
This  perisliable  dust  would  be  interred 
In  kingly  marble,  and  my  name  set  forth 
In  pompous  blazonry. 

Philos.  .\ot  to  be  great  — 

You  do  mistake  my  drift —  but  greatly  useful; 
Surely  you  call  not  this  unmeet  ambition! 

Schol.     Sir,  had  the  will  of  God  ordained  a  wider, 
A  nobler  sphere  of  usefulness  on  earili, 
He  would  have  given  me  strength,  and  health,  and 

power 
For  its  accomplishment.    I  murmur  not 
That  little  has  been  done,  but  rather  bless  Him 
^\'ho  has  permiticd  me  to  do  that  little; 
And  die  content  in  his  sufficient  mercy. 
Which  has  vouchsafed  reward  bevond  mv  merit. 

14 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


5 


Phdos.    Xay,  I  must  serve  you !    Let  me  but  con- 
tribute 
Unto  your  buily's  ease.     This  wretched  room, 
And  its  jxwr  pallet  —  would  you  not  desire 
A  lighter,  airier,  more  commodious  chaTulier, 
Looking  out  to  the  hills;  and  where  the  shino 
Of  the  great  sun  might  enter  —  where  sweet  odours, 
And  almost  spiritual  beauty  of  fair  (lowers 
Might  gratify  the  sense  —  and  you  might  liiU 
Gracefully  into  death,  in  downy  ease  .' 
Speak,  and  all  this  is  yours  ! 

Schul.  Here  will  1  die! 

Here  have  I  lived  —  here  from  my  boyliood  lived  ; 
These  naked  walls  are  like  familiar  liices, 
And  that  [)oor  pallet  has  so  oft  given  rest 
To  my  o'erwearieil  limbs,  there  will  1  die! 

Philos.    Uut  you  do  need  physicians  —  here  is  gold, 
I  know  the  scholar's  lee  is  scant  enough  I 
I  will  go  hence,  and  send  you  an  attendant. 

SchoL.     I  caimot  take  your  gold,  [  want  it  not. 
My  sickness  is  beyond  the  aid  of  man ; 
And  soon,  even  now,  I  did  expect  my  mother. 

Fiiilos.  [affecting  sorrow]  iSIy  dear  young  I'riend,  1 
have  to  ask  your  pardon  ; 
The  letter  that  1  promised  to  deliver, 
I  did  tbrget  —  indeed  I  gave  it  not! 

Schol.     How  have  I  trusted  to  a  broken  reed ! 
Oh  mock  me  not  with  oflijrs  of  your  friendship. 
Say  not  that  thou  would  serve  me ! 

Oh  my  mother  — 
Poor,  broken-hearted  one,  I  shall  not  see  thee  I 

[He  covers  his  face  for  a  momeni,   then 
rises  up  with  sudden  energy. 
Whoe'er  you  are,  and  for  what  purpose  come, 
I  know  not  —  you  have  troubled  me  too  long  — 
But  something  in  my  spirit,  from  the  lirst, 
Told  me  that  you  were  evil  ;  and  my  thought 
Has  often  inly  uttered  the  rebuke, 
"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  I"     Leave  me  now  — 
Leave  me  my  lonely  chamber  to  myself, 
And  let  me  die  in  peace  I 

[The    Philosopher  goes   out,   abashed. 
The  scholar  falls  back  into  his  chair, 
exhausted  ;  after  some  time  recover- 
ing, he  faintly  raises  himself. 
'Tis  night-fall  now  —  and  through  the  uncurtained 

window 
I  see  the  stars :  there  is  no  moon  to-night. 
Here  then  1  light  my  lamp  lor  the  last  time  ; 
And  ere  that  leeble  (lame  has  spent  itself, 
A  soul  will  have  departed  1 

Let  me  now 
Close  my  account  with  life;  and  to  affection, 
And  never-cancelled  duty,  give  their  rights  : 

[He  opfjis  his  Bil/le  and  inscribes  it. 
This  I  return  to  thee,  my  dearest  mother. 
Thy  gift  at  first,  and  now  my  last  bequest; 
And  these  |X)or  earnings,  dust  up<jn  the  balance 
Compared  with  the  great  debt  I  owe  to  lliee, 
Are  also  thine  —  would  1  had  more  to  give! 
There  lie  you,  side  bv  side. 

He  lays  a  small  sum  of  money  with  the  Bible 
Thou  blessed  book, 


Full  of  redeeming  knowledge,  making  wise 

Unto  salvation,  and  the  holy  spring 

Of  all  divine  philosophy  —  and  thou  poor  dust, 

For  which  the  soul  r)f  man  is  often  sold  ; 

Yet  wast  thou  not  by  evil  Iradic  won, 

iN'or  got  by  fraud,  nor  wrung  from  poverty  — 

Cod  blessed  the  labourer  while  he  toiled  for  thee. 

.And  may'st  thou  bless  the  widow! — lie  thou  there — 

I  shall  not  need  you  more.     I  am  departing 

To  the  fruition  of  the  hope  of  one. 

And  where  the  other  cannot  get  admittance! 

.-\nd  now  a  few  words  will  explain  the  rest:  — 

[He  writes  a  few  words,  which   he  encloses 
with  them,  and  making  all  into  a  pachet, 
seals  them  up. 
God  com(()ri  her  poor  heart,  and  heal  its  wounds. 
Which  will  bleed  fresh  when  she  shall  break  this  seal. 
[Shortly  after  this  is  done,  he  becomes  sud- 
denlq   paler  —  a  convulsive  spasm  passes 
over    him ;    xrhen   he    recovers,    he  slowly 
ri.ies,  and  kneels  upon  his  pallet-bed. 
Srhol.     .-Mmighty  Ciod!  look  down 
U[)on  thy  feeble  servant!  strengthen  him! 

Give  him  the  victor's  crown, 
And  let  not  faith  be  dim  ! 
Oh,  how  unworthy  of  thy  grace, 
How  poor,  how  needy,  stained  with  sin! 
How  can  I  enter  in 
Thy  kingdom,  and  behold  thy  face  ! 
Except  thou  hadst  redeemed  me,  I  had  gone 

Without  sustaining  knowledge  to  the  grave! 
For  this  I  bless  thee,  oh  thou  Gracious  One, 

And  thou  wilt  surely  save  ! 
I  bless  thee  for  the  life  which  thou  hast  crowned 

With  never-ending  good  ; 
For  pleasures  that  were  found 

Like  wavside  flowers  in  quiet  solitude. 
I  bless  thee  for  the  love  that  watch'd  o'er  me 
Through  the  weak  years  of  infancy. 
That  has  been,  like  thine  everlasting  truth. 
The  guide,  the  guardian-angel  of  my  youth. 
Oh,  Thou  that  didst  the  mother's  heart  bestow, 
Sustain  it  in  its  woe, 

For  mourning  give  it  joy,  and  praise  for  heaviness! 
[He  falls  speechless  upon  the  bed. 
His  mother  enters  hurriedly. 
Mother.     Alas,  my  son  I  and  am  1  come  too  late  ? 
Oh,  Christ!  can  he  be  dead? 

Scliol.  [looking  up  faintly.]  Mother,  is't  thou? 
It  is  !  w  ho  summoned  thee,  dear  mother  ? 

Mother.     A  little  boy,  the  latest  of  thy  class; 
He  left  these  walls  at  sunset,  and  came  back 
With  me  e'en  now.     He  told  me  of  thy  words. 
And  of  thy  pallid  cheek  and  trembling  hand  ;  — 
Sorrowing  for  all,  hut  sorrowing  inosl  because 
Thou  saidst  he  would  behold  thy  lace  no  more  I 

Schol.     My  soul  doth  greatly  magnify  the  Lord 
For  his  unmeasured  mercies! — and  fijr  this 
Great  comfi)rt,  thy  dear  presence!     I  am  spent  — 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me!     Ere  the  sun 
Lightens  the  distant  mountains,  I  shall  be 
.Among  the  bles&ed  angels  I     Even  now 

15 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  see  as  'twere  heaven  opened,  and  a  troop 
Of  beautiful  spirits  waiting  my  release! 

Mother.     I\ly  son  I  my  son  !  and  thou  so  youn;^,  so 
wis^e, 
So  well-beloved,  alas,  must  thou  depart! 
Oh,  rest  thy  ))reeious  head  within  njine  arms, 
My  only  one  I  —  Thou  wast  a  son  indeed  I 

Sdiol.     Mother,   farewell !     I  hear  the   heavenly 
voices, 
Tlicy  call !  —  I  cannot  stay  :  farewell  —  farewell  I 


Choir  of  Spiritual  Voices. 
No  more  sighing. 
No  more  dying, 
Corae  vviih  us,  thou  pure  and  bright ! 
Time  is  done, 
Joy  is  won, 
Come  to  glory  inliniie! 
Hark !  ihe  angel-songs  are  pealing  ! 
Heavenly  mysieries  are  unsealing, 

Come  and  see,  oh  come  and  see  I 
Here  the  living  waters  pour. 
Drink  and  thou  shalt  thirst  no  more, 

Dweller  in  eternity  ! 
No  more  toiling  —  no  more  sadness! 
Welcome  to  immortal  gladness, 

Beauty  and  unending  youth  I 
Thou  that  hast  been  deeply  tried, 
And  like  gold  been  puri/ied, 

Come  to  the  eternal  truth ! 
Pilgrim  towards  eternity. 
Tens  of  thousamls  wait  for  thee! 

Come,  come ! 


Achzib  was  surprised  at  the  ill  success  of  his 
attempt  upon  the  ['oor  Scholar.  He  was  humiliated 
to  feel  how  powerfully  he  had  been  rebuked  by  one 
comi)araiively  a  youth— one  who  was  poor,  and  who 
had  so  little  knowledge  of  men.  It  was  before  the 
aulliorily  of  virtue  he  had  shrunk,  but  he  had  never 
believed  till  that  moment,  that  virtue  possessed  such 
authority;  and  almost  confijiinded,  he  walked  forth 
from  the  door  of  the  Toor  Scholar  into  the  fields  that 
surrounded  the  city- 

Achzib  had  done  unwisely  in  making  too  direct  an 
attack.  The  integrity  of  jirinciple  may  be  under- 
mined, but  is  seldom  taken  by  storm. 

When  Achzib  had  duly  pondered  upon  the  cause 
of  his  failure,  his  desire  was  only  redoubled  to  make 
a  fresh  attemjjt.  "  f  will  neither  choose  a  dying  man, 
a  scholar,  nor  one  ol'inlle.\ible  virtue,"  said  he,  "and 
yet  ray  triumph  shall  be  signal  and  coinplete."  He 
thought  over  tlie  bails  for  human  souls  —  love  — 
ambition  —  pleasure;  but  all  these  he  rejected. — 
"  For,"  said  he,  "  is  not  avarice  more  absorbingly, 
more  hopelessly  cruel  than  all  these?  The  lover  may 
be  fierce,  ungovernable,  extravagant;  still  is  ilie 
pa.ssion  in  itself  amiable.  The  man  of  ambition  may 
wade  through  blood  to  a  kingdom ;  yet  even  in  his 
career,  give  evidence  of  good  and  great  qualitn*.  The 
votary  of  pleasure,  though  he  sacrifice  health,  wealth, 


talents,  and  friends,  yet  has  the  moments  when  the 

soul,  reacting  upon  itself,  prays  to  be  disenthralled. 
■None  are  retrievele.is  ;  none  are  utterly  alien  togocxl, 
save  the  victim  of  avarice  ;  for  when  did  the  soul, 
abandoned  to  this  vice,  fi^el  misgivings  ?  \\hen  did  it 
feel  either  pity  or  love  ?  or  when  did  it  do  one  good 
thing,  or  repent  of  one  evil  thing?  It  will  strip 
without  remorse,  the  fatherless,  the  widow,  nay  even 
the  very  sanctuary  of  God!  Avarice  is  the  I'pas  of 
the  soul  —  no  green  thing  flourishes  below  it,  no  bird 
of  heaven  flies  over  it;  and  the  dew  and  the  rain,  and 
the  virtues  of  the  earth,  become  pestilential  because 
of  it !  It  shall  be  the  love  of  gold  which  shall  be 
ray  next  temptation." 


THOMAS    OF   TORRES. 


PERSONS. 

TIIO.M.AS   OF   TORRES. 

ACHZIB,   A   STKA.\GEK. 

THE   SECOND   LORD   OF   TORRES. 

ISABEL,    A    WIDOW, 

A.\D   OTHER   SUBORDINATE   CHARACTERS. 

Time  occupied,  one-and-lwcnhj  years. 


SCENE  I. 

A  green  kill  overlooking  a  broad  valley,  in  the  centre 
of  which,  among  a  few  old  trees,  stands  a  nolle 
mansion  of  grey  stone ;  a  fine  lake  appears  in  the 
winding  of  the  volley,  and  the  hillsides  are  scattered 
with  a  few  worthless  old  trees,  the  remnants  of  woods 
which  have  been  felled.  —  Thomas  of  Torres  comes 
forward,  and  throws  himself  on  the  grass. 

Thomas.    That  was  my  home  —  the  noble  hall  of 

Torres ! 
Mine  were   those  meadows  —  yon  bright  lake  was 

mine. 
Where  when  a  boy  I  fished,  and  swam,  and  hurled 
Smooth  [lebbles  o'er  its  surface;  those  green  hills 
Were  mine,  and  mine  the  woods  that  clothed  them — 
This  was  my  patrimony  !  a  fair  spot. 
Than  which  this  green  and  pleasant  face  of  earth 
Can  show  none  fairer!    With  this  did  descend 
An  honourable  name  —  the  lord  of  Torres  I 
An  unimpeachable  and  noble  name. 
Without  a  blot  on  its  escutcheon, 
Till  it  descended  to  a  fool  like  me  — 
A  spendthrift  fool,  who  is  become  a  proverb  ! 

JVIy  father  was  a  good  and  quiet  man  — 
He  wedded  late  in  life;  and  I  was  born 
The  child  of  his  old  age;  my  mother's  face 
I  knew  not,  saving  in  its  gilded  frame. 
Where,  in  the  chamber  of  her  loving  husband, 
It  hung  before  his  bed.     My  father  died 
VVhen  I  was  in  my  nonage.     Marvellous  pains, 
Reading  of  books,  study,  and  exercise, 

16 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


Made  me,  they  said,  a  perfect  gentleman  ; 

Such  was  the  lord  of  Torres  three  years  since! 

lie  rode,  he  ran,  he  hunted,  and  he  hawked. 

And  all  exclanned,  "a  gallant  gentleman  I" 

He  had  his  gay  companions —  what  of"  that? 

They  said  that  youiii  must  have  ils  revelries. 

He  laughed,  he  sung,  he  danced,  he  drank  his  wine, 

And  all  declared,  "a  pleasant  gentleman!" 

They  came  to  him  in  need  —  his  many  friends  — 

Money  he  had  in  jjlenly,  it  was  theirs  I 

He  paid  their  debLs ;  he  gave  them  noble  gifts  ; 

He  feasted  them  ;  he  said,  "  they  are  my  friends. 

And  what  [  have  is  tlieir"sl"  and  they  exclaimed, 

•'  Oh,  what  a  noble,  generous  gentleman !" 

He  had  his  friends  too,  of  anolher  sort  — 

Fair  women  i/iut  seduced  him  with  their  eyes, — 

For  these  he  had  his  fetes  ;  his  pleasant  shows  ; 

His  banquetings  in  forest  solitudes. 

Beneath  the  green  boughs,  like  the  sylvan  gods  : 

And  these  repaid  him  with  sweet  flatteries. 

And  with  bewitching  smiles  and  honeyed  words 

The  lord  of  Torres  did  outgo  his  rents  ; 

His  many  friends  had  ta'en  his  ready  cash  ; 

"  What  then !"  said  they,  "  thy  lands  are  broad  and 

rich. 
Get  money  on  them  I"     Ah,  poor  thoughtless  fool, 
He  listened  to  their  counsels  !  —  Feasts  and  gifis, 
And  needy  friends,  again  have  made  him  bare  I 
"  Cut  down  thy  woods !"  said  they.    He  cut  them 

down  ,- 
And  then  his  wants  lay  open  to  the  day. 
And  people  said  "  this  thriftless  lord  is  poor!" 
This  touched  his  pride,  and  he  grew  yet  more  lavish. 
'•  Come  to  my  heart,"  said  he,  "  my  fiiithful  friends  ; 
We  'II  drink  and  laugh,  to  show  we  yet  can  spend  !" 
—  "The  woods  are  felled ;  tiie  money  is  all  spent; 
What  now  remains?  — The  land's  as  good  as  gone. 
The  usurer  doth  take  its  yearly  rent !" 
So  spake  the  lord  again  unlo  his  friends : 
"  Sell  house  and  all !"  exclaimed  the  revellers. 
The  young  lord  went  to  his  unea.sy  bed 
A  melancholy  !nan.    The  portraits  old 
Looked  from  their  gilded  frames  as  if  they  spoke 
Silent  upbraidings  —  all  seemed  siern  but  one. 
That  youthful  mother,  whose  kind  eye  and  smile 
Appeared  to  say,  Return,  my  son,  return .' 

The  lord  of  Torres  is  a  thouglitful  man : 
His  days  are  full  of  care,  his  nights  of  fear; 
He  heedeth  not  which  way  his  feather  sits; 
He  wears  the  velvet  jerkin  fiir  the  silk; 
He  hath  forgot  the  roses  in  his  shoes ; 
He  drinks  the  red  wine  and  forgets  the  pledge; 
He  hears  the  jest,  and  yet  he  laughelh  not: 
Then  said  his  friends  "Our  lord  hath  lost  his  wits. 
Let's  leave  him  ample  space  to  look  fijr  them  !" 
They  rode  away,  and  left  his  house  to  silence  ; 
The  empty  rooms  echoed  the  closing  doors  ;  — 
The  board  was  silent !  silent  was  the  court. 
Save  for  the  barking  of  the  uneasy  hounds. 
Soon  spread  those  friends,  the  news  of  his  distress! 
And  then  again  a  crowd  was  at  his  doors  : 
2*  C 


This  was  a  jeweller,  and  must  be  paid  ; 
This  was  a  tailor  —  this  had  sold  perfumes. 
This  silks,  and  this  confectionery  and  wine  — 
They  must — they  must  be  paid — they  would  be  paid! 

"The  lord  of  Torres  is  a  ruined  man!" 

So  said  the  cunning  lawyer;  —  and  they  sold 

Horses  and  hounds  and  hawks,  and  then  ihey  said  — 

The  house  Uself  must  go!     The  silent  lord 

Rose  up  an  angry  man  :     "  Fetch  me  my  horse  !" 

Said  he  ;  for  now  a  thought  had  crossed  his  mind 

Wherein  lay  hope.  —  .-Mas  I  he  had  no  horse  — 

The  lord  of  Torres  walked  a-fbot  that  day  ! 

"FU   seek   my   friends!"    said   he,  "my  right  good 

friends  ; 
They  '11  help  me  in  my  need,  each  one  of  them." 
He  sought  their  doors  —  this  saw  him  through  the 

blind. 
And  bade  his  valet  say,  he  was  abroad  : 
This  spoke  him  pleasantly,  and  gave  him  wine. 
And  pledged  him  in  the  cup,  his  excellent  friend! 
But  when  he  told  the  purport  of  his  visit. 
He  shook  his  head,  and  said  he  had  no  gold. 
Even  while  he  paid  a  thousand  pieces  down 
For  a  vain  bauble  !     From  another's  lips 
He    heard   the  mocking  words  of  "  spendthrift,"  — 

"  beggar." 
The  lord  of  Torres  turned  upon  his  heel. 
And  muttered  curses  while  his  heart  was  sad. 
"There's  yet  anolher  friend,"  said  he,  "  beloved 
Beyond  them  all ;  for  while  I  held  them  churls. 
This  was  the  chosen  brother  of  my  heart !" 
The  lord  of  Torres  stood  beside  his  gate  ; 
There  was  a  show  as  for  a  festival. 
"I  come  in  a  good  hour!"  said  he  to  one 
Who  stood  hard  by — "  w  hat  means  this  merry  show  ?" 
"  How  !  know  you  not,"  said  he,  "  this  very  morn 
The  noble  Count  hath  wedded  the  fair  daughter 
Of  Baron  \  orm !"    The  young  lord's  cheek  is  white, 
His  brain  doth  reel  —  he  holds  against  the  gate. 
And  hides  his  flice  that  none  may  see  his  tears! 
He  back  returned  unto  his  lathers'  house, 
And  entering  in  liis  chamber,  barred  the  door, 
And  passed  a  night  of  sleepless  agony  I 

The  lord  of  Torres  was  an  altered  man  : 
A  woe  had  shadowed  o'er  his  countenance; 
His  speech  was  low,  and  tremulous,  and  sad 
He  bore  a  wounded  heart  within  his  breast. 
Then  came  his  aged  steward  with  streaming  eyes. 
And  gave  to  him  a  little  bag  of  gold  ; 
"Take  it,"  he  said,  "  I  won  it  in  thy  service. 
And  in  the  service  of  thy  noble  fiiiher!" 
The  lord  of  Torres  took  the  old  man's  hand, 
And  wept  as  weeps  a  child  ;  his  heart  was  touched. 
"Take  back  tliy  gold,"  said  he;  "I  wasted  mine. 
Yet  will  I  not  exjiend  thy  honest  gains:  — 
I'Viend,  take  it  back  —  1  will  not  touch  thy  gold  !" 

The  house  was  sold  —  the  lands,  the  lakes  were  sold, 
And  debts  and  charges  swallowed  up  the  price  ; 
And  now  he  is  a  landless,  homeless  man, — 
He  is  no  lord,  he  hath  no  heritage  I 
Thomas  of  Torres,  get  thee  from  this  place, 

17 


8 


HOWITTS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


What  dosi  thou  here  ?  — art  like  a  cursed  sprite 
Looking  into  the  heaven  that  thou  liast  lost? 
Ay,  look  and  long —  for  yonder  do  they  lie, 
Tliy  fair  lands  and  thy  broad  I     Poor  outcast  wretch. 
Thou  may'.st  not  set  thy  foot  witliin  those  (ields; 
'i'hou  may'st  not  pull  a  sapling  from  the  hills; 
Thou  may'st  not  enter  yon  fair  mansion-house  — 
Another  man  is  railed  the  lord  of  'I'orres.' 
Out  with  thee !  thou  art  but  a  thriftless  hiiid; 
They'll  drive  thee  hence  if  thou  but  set  thine  eyes 
I'lJon  their  fair  jwssessions I     What  art  now 
Better  than  him  who  wins  his  bread  by  toil  ? 
Belter  than  that  poor  wretch  who  lives  by  alms  ? 
Thou  canst  not  dig;  to  beg  thou  art  ashamed : 
Oh,  worse  than  they — thou,  one-time,  lord  of  Torres! 

[A  STRANGER  advancf^s,  and  pauses  before  T/wmas. 

Stranger.     Are  you  the  lord  of  Torres  ? 

IVios.  I  was  he ! 

Strang.     You  are  the  man  I  seek  I 

Thos.  What  is'l  you  want  ? 

I  can  bestow  no  favours,  give  no  gifts  — 
I  have  not  even  a  stiver  for  myself! 

Strang.     ISothing  I  ask;  I  seek  but  to  confer. 
IVovv  listen  to  my  words,  my  noble  friend! 
I  knew  a  man  whose  case  was  like  your  own ; 
He  stood  upon  the  hills  that  overlooked 
Tiie  fair  lands  he  had  lost;  as  you  on  yours  — 
He  saw  his  treeless  woods,  his  desolate  mansion, 
(jone  to  a  stranger's  name  —  yet  what  did  he? 
Sit  sidl  and  make  a  moan  about  the  past. 
And  call  himself  ill  names  and  beat  his  breast  ? 
IS'o,  no !  —  he  was  another  kind  of  man  ! 
He  made  a  vow  to  win  his  lost  lands  back; 
To  set  a  tree  for  every  tree  he  felled  ; 
To  dwell  ia  his  ancestral  home  again  I 

Thos.     And  was  his  vow  ])erformed  ? 

Strang.  Indeed,  it  was! 

Whore  he  had  counted  one  in  his  wild  youth. 
In  his  old  age  he  counted  twenty  fold ; 
And  died  witliin  the  room  where  he  was  born. 

Thos.    To  win  the  laithless  lady  of  his  love 
Made  he  a  vow  ? 

Strang.  That  vow  he  did  not  make  ; 

J5ecau.sc  1  know  not  if  his  heart  had  loved. 
Btit  you  may  make  that  vow. 

Thos.  She  is  a  wife ! 

Strang.    He  that  has  wedded  her  is  not  immortal ; 
Suppose  he  die,  can  you  then  claim  her  hand, 
A  homeless,  landless  man  ;'     Beside,  she  then 
Would  have  increased  weallii '. 

Thos.  She  was  to  me 

Dearer  than  gold  or  silver.     I'd  have  ta'en  her, 
A  serving  wench,  without  a  single  doit, 
In  my  prosperity. 

Strang.  And  she  loved  too  I 

Thos.     Methought  she  did. 

Strang.  She  did  —  nor  would  liave  wedded 

Another  man  might  she  have  made  her  choice. 

Thos.     Hal  say  you  so  ?    Could  1  believe  it  true, 
I'd  make  the  vow  and  keep  it! 

Strang.  I  swear  to  you 

She  was  compelled  to  wed  against  her  will  — 
And,  but  that  it  were  si;i,  slie  still  would  love  you! 


Thos.  I'll  do  as  thou  hast  said  !  give  me  thy  hand ! 
Thou  hast  performed  a  friend's  part,  though  a  stranger; 
Witness  my  vow  —  witness,  thou  ancient  earth. 
And  ihoii,  more  ancient  heaven,  oh,  witness  it! 
All  that  was  mine  I  will  win  back  to  me  — 
All  1  have  lost  I  will  again  possess  — 
Silver  or  gold,  or  love  more  precious  still  I 
All  that  gave  joy  and  beauty  to  my  life. 
Shall  gladden  and  adorn  it  ere  its  close ! 
Hunger  and  thirst,  and  cold,  and  weariness 
Shall  not  oppose  me !  —  through  the  day  I  '11  toil. 
And  through  the  night  I  will  lay  ceaseless  schemes ! 
Here,  in  the  fiice  of  my  ancestral  home, 
I  make  this  solemn  vow!  —  So  help  me  God! 

Strang.    You  have  done  well.    The  oath  is  good — 
now  keep  it ! 
But  I  must  part  from  you  —  my  road  lies  hence. 

7'hos.     Aly  road  lies  any  way.  —  I'll  go  with  you. 

Strang,  [sobig  forward.']  The  ground  was  good  — 
and  now  the  seed  is  sown 
Which  will  produce  a  harvest  lijr  my  reaping  ! 

[Thomas  remains,  loohbig  into  the  valleij  for 
a  few  moments,  and  then  follows  him. 


SCENE  II. 
The  interior  of  a  miserable  hut,  cold  wood-ashes  lie 
upon  the  hearth,  and  straxv,  as  for  a  bed,  in  one 
corner.  —  Enter  Thomas  of  Torres,  in  a  ininer's 
dress  ;  he  carries  a  lighted  fagot  in  one  hand,  and 
a  log  in  the  other.  . 

Thos.    I  '11  have  a  blaze  anon. — The  night  is  cold. 
And  firewood  costs  me  nothing. 

[He  Itiijs  wood  upon  the  hearth,  kindles  it ; 

and  then  bolting  his  door,  sits  down  upon 

a  log  by  the  fire. 

'Tis  bright  and  warm  ! 
These  dry  pine  logs  burn  cheerily  enough  ; 
Hissing  and  crackling,  blazing  merrily, 
They  are  good  company  —  and  better  still. 
They  cost  me  nothing  —  do  not  call  for  wine. 
Sauces  and  dainty  meats,  and  savoury  dishes  — 
They  live  without  rich  doublets  —  do  not  need 
Gold-hilted  swords,  nor  rings,  nor  laced  cravats. 
A  fire's  a  good,  companionable  friend, 
A  comfortable  friend,  who  meets  your  face 
Vv"ith  pleasant  welcome,  makes  the  poorest  shed 
As  cheerful  as  a  palace  !     Are  you  cold  ? 
lie  warms  you  —  weary?  he  refreshes  you  — 
Hungry?  he  doth  prepare  your  viands  lor  you  — 
.•\re  you  in  darkness  I  he  gives  light  to  you  — 
In  a  strange  land,  his  face  is  that  of  one 
Familiar  from  your  childhood  — are  you  poor  ? 
What  matters  it  to  him  ?  he  knows  no  diHerence 
Between  an  emperor  and  the  poorest  begcar ! 
Where  is  the  friend  that  bears  the  name  of  man 
Will  do  as  much  for  you  ?     When  I  was  rich, 
I  could  have  counted  out  a  hundred  men, 
And  said,  "All  these  would  serve  me,  were  there 

need!" 
And  any  one,  or  all,  had  sworn  they  would  ; 
But  when  need  came,  where  was  the  readv  friend 
.Said  •'  Here's  my  puree,  good  fellow !" 

18 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


Curse  on  them ! 
I  had  my  liveried  servants  in  those  days ; 
Both  men  and  maids  I  had  to  wait  on  me  ; 
I  slept  on  down  ;  the  hangings  of  my  bed 
Were  damask  ;  I  did  eat  from  silver  ; 
All  sorts  of  meats,  and  rare  elaborate  dishes 
Were  set  belbre  me,  with  the  choicest  wines; 
Upon  my  hands  I  wore  most  dainty  rings. 
And  of  the  whiteness  of  my  hands  did  boast ! 
Look  at  them  now — hardened  and  seamed  and  dark  . 
I  wear  no  jewels  now  —  I  drink  no  wine. 
A  crust  of  bread,  and  a  poor  herb  or  two' 
Make  up  my  daily  meal ;  —  my  couch  is  straw  ; 
1  liave  no  liveried  servants  —  and  what  then? 
Am  I  the  less  a  man  than  in  those  days  ? 
My  limbs  I  use  —  and  I  use  all  my  senses  ; 
I  see,  hear,  feel,  taste,  smell  as  I  did  then. 
Go  to !  thou  hast  not  lost  much  by  the  change  ! 
Ay,  but  thou  hast !  thou  wast  a  rich  man  then, 
Had'st  friends,  at  least  thy  riches  made  them  for  thee — 
Wast  loved  —  poor  wretch  I  —  art  loved  now,  thinkest 

thou  ? 
Look  at  thy  sordid  frame  —  look  at  thy  garb  — 
Look  at  thy  blackened  face,  thy  length  of  beard, 
Thy  uncombed,  tangled  locks  —  could  she  love  thee? 
'T  is  but  a  process  I  am  passing  through  ; 
To-day  the  grub,  but  on  the  morrow  morn 
The  painted  butterfly  ! 

[A  rap  is  heard  at  his  door.  Thomas 
starting,  deadens  the  light  with  ashes,  and 
carefully  covers  somethij]g  in  a  hole  in  the 
wall  —  the  rap  is  heard  again. 

Trav.  [miJioiU.]  For  God's  sake,  worthy  Christian, 

give  me  shelter. 
Thos.     Who  are  you — and  what  brings  you  to  this 

door? 
Trav.     A  weary  traveller  who  hath  lost  his  way ; 
And  chance  has  brought  me  here. — I  am  sore  spent; 
The  night  is  chill  and  stormy,  give  me  shelter. 

Thos.    My  hut  is  no  fit  place  for  guest  to  lodge  in  ! 
I  've  neither  chair  nor  table,  bread  nor  wine. 


SCENE  III. 
A  fine  vioonlight  night.  —  A  lonely  field  in   the  ex- 
tremity of  the  valley  of  Torres.  —  Enter  Thomas 
with  an  ass,  he  takes  off  the  bridle  and  turns  it  to 
graze. 

Thomas.     There,  thou  poor,  half-starved,  patient 
animal, 
There's  grass,  rare,  green  grass  for  thee!  eat  thy  fill, 
Would  thou  could'st  take  a  store  ibr  forty  days  ! 
This  once  was  mine  —  I  tell  thee,  it  was  mine  1 
I  know  it  inch  by  inch  —  yon  leafy  hedge 
Is  hazel  every  twig.     I  little  dreamed 
When  I  was  wandering  here  a  happy  boy 
The  time  would  come  when  I  should  steal  in  here 
A  thief  o'  nights! 

Ah,  I  remember  well  — 
There  is  a  little  hollow  hereabout. 
Where  wild-briar  roses,  and  lithe  honeysuckle 
Made  a  thick  bower;  'twas  here  I  used  to  come, 
To  read  sweet  books  of  witching  poetry ! 
Could  it  be  I  ?    jVo,  no,  I  am  so  changed, 
I  will  not  think  this  man  was  once  that  boy ; 
The  thought  would  drive  me  mad  !    I  will  but  think 
I  once  knew  one  who  called  this  vale  his  own  ; 
I  will  but  think  I  knew  a  merry  boy. 
And  a  kind,  gentle  lather,  years  agone. 
Who  had  their  dwelling  here  ;  and  that  the  boy 
Did  love  this  lonely  nook,  and  used  to  find 
Here  the  first  nests  of  summer;  here  did  read 
All  witching  books  of  glorious  poetry  ; 
And  then,  that  as  the  boy  became  a  youth. 
And  gentle  feeling  strengthened  into  passion. 
And  love  became  the  jioetry  of  life. 
Hither  he  wandered,  with  a  girlish  beauty. 
Gathering,  like  Proserpine,  sweet  meadow-flowers ; 
And  that  they  sate  beneath  the  wild-briar  rose, 
And  that  he  then  did  kiss  that  maiden's  cheek 
The  first  time  as  a  lover!     Oh  my  God  ! 
That  was  the  heir  of  Torres  —  a  brave  boy, 
A  noble-hearted  boy  !  he  grew  a  man. 
And  what  became  of  him?    Ha!  pass  we  that  — 


Trav.    But  you  have  fire  -and  a  good  roof  above    y^-^^jj  ^,,3^  j  ,.„g„.  ^^t  „.,,ai  became  of  him  ! 


you! 

Thos.    A  little  further  on  a  village  lieth  ; 
You  '11  there  get  fire  and  shelter,  and  good  cheer. 
Trav.     Direct  me  there. 

Thos.  [carefully  opening  his  door.]  First  you  must 
pass  the  mines ; 
Then  cross  yon  woody  ridge  ;  the  hamlet  lies 
Below,  in  the  next  valley. 

Trav.  Thank  you,  friend  , 

And  yet  the  way  is  long,  and  the  night  dark. 

Thos.   'Tis  scarce  a  league — follow  yon  trembling 
star, 
O'er  the  old  tower  ;  you  cannot  miss  the  wav. 

[He  .^huls  to  the  door,  and  bars  it. 
Am  I  to  lodge  all  weary  travellers  ? 
If  he  got  shelter,  he'd  be  asking  food. 
iSo,  no,  i'  faith,  the  world  was  none  so  ready 
To  give  me  aught  —  I've  feasted  guests  enow  ! 

[He  puis  out  his  fire,  and  then  throws 
himself  on  the  straw. 


[He  advances  into  the  hollow. 
'Tis  even  as  then!  this  bower  hath  little  changed. 
But  hearts  have  changed  since  then  —  and  thoughts 

have  changed. 
And  the  great  purpose  of  a  life  hath  changed ! 
Oh  that  I  were  a  bird  among  these  boughs. 
To  live  a  summer  life  of  peace  and  joy  ; 
To  never  fret  my  soul  Ibr  broken  faith  ; 

To  ha\e  no  onward  hope,  no  retrospection! 

Ah  1  there's  the  tiny  glow-worm  as  of  old ! 

It  is  a  lovely  thing.     O  mo!  how  much 

That's  beautiful  and  pure  have  I  forgotten! 

Years  is  it  since  a  glow-worm  crossed  my  thoughts, 

.And  it  was  the  bright  marvel  of  my  boyhood  — 

A  fire,  and  yet  so  cold  !  let's  feel  it  now. 

If  'tis  as  it  was  then.  [He  stoops  to  pick  it  up. 

Heavens,  it  is  gold  ! 
And  here  is  more  I  bright,  shining,  glorious  gold  ! 

[He  pulls  awai/  moss  and  roofs,  and  draws 
out  a  small  hag  of  gold  coin. 
19 


10 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Let  me  into  the  moonlight  —  gold,  gold,  gold  ! 
A  hoard  of  shining  gold  :  here  lieth  more 
Than  I  have  saved  in  seven  years'  wearj-  toil, 
And  honest  gain — this  is  some  robber's  booty  — 
It  were  no  sin  to  take  a  robber's  gold, 

[A  step  is  heard  approaching. 
llal  some  one  comes! 

[He  shrinks  info  the  shade,  and  lies  close 
under  the  bank. 
Man.     Now,  by  your  leave,  good  friend. 
Who  may  you  be  ? 

Thos.    A  poor  night  traA'eller, 
Who  takes  up  his  cheap  quarters  'neath  the  hedges. 
3Tan.    I'm  in  the  like  case  too.    But,  honest  friend, 
I  have  a  little  liking  for  your  pillow, 
May'st  please  you  take  the  farther  side  o'  the  bed  ! 
Thos.      First  come,   first   served  —  it    is    a    well 

known  adage. 
Man.  Come,  come,  my  friend,  these  are  my  ancient 
quarters ; 
I  have  a  foolish  liking  for  this  spot  — 
All  are  alike  to  you  — 

Thos.  I  have  possession, 

And  will  maintain  it! 

Man.     It  shall  then  be  tried  ! 

[He  lays  hold  on  Thomas,  and  they 
struggle  together. 
Ha!  ha,  you  thief,  then  you  have  got  the  bag  ! 
Thos.     I  have! 
Man.     You  villain !  you  marauding  thief! 

[Thomas  rushes  into  the  thicket  — 
the  man  folloirs. 
^Man.  [iL'ithin  the  thicket.]     I  am  a  dead  man,  help! 
oh,  I  am  murdered  ! 
Christ  help  me!  I  am  murdered  ! 

Thos.  [rushing  out.]     He  is  not !  no  ! 
Cufis  do  not  murder  men  I  [He  runs  off. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  cave  by  the  sea  slinre.  —  Enter  Thomas  of  Torres  ; 
he  takes  out  the  bag. 

Thos.    Now  let  me  count  —  now  let  me  see  my 
gains. 
Ah  !  it  reminds  me  of  the  thirty  pieces, 
The  price  of  blocxJI     I  would  give  every  piece 
To  know  he  were  not  dead  !     A  murderer  — 
Thomas  of  Torres  a  night  murderer  I 
No,  'tis  not  so!  they  were  not  killing  blows  — 
I  will  not  think  of  it! 

Now  let  me  count  — 
[He  counts  out  a  hindred  pieces. 
Oh,  thou  most  goodly  thing  —  most  lovely  gold 
Dearer  unto  my  soul  than  meat  or  drink; 
More  beautiful  than  woman  !     tilorious  gold, 
I  love  thee  as  a  youth  his  earliest  mistress! 
Come  to  my  heart,  thou  bright  and  heauiiful  — 
Come,  come !  [H':  hugs  the  gold. 

Bright  prize,  I  care  not  liow  1  won  thee, 
I  '11  ease  my  heart  vvitli  thee  !     A  hundred  pieces ! 
Had  it  been  five-and-twenty  —  even  fifty, 


I  might  have  groaned  for  that  poor  WTetch's  groan  — 
But  for  a  hundred  brave,  broad,  golden  pieces 
I'll  groan  not. 

[He  takes  off  his  belt,  and  then  securely  fixing 
them  i?i  it,  fastens  it  round  his  body. 
Thoil  shall  be  my  true  breast-plate. 
My  heart's  joy,  my  night  and  day  companion  ! 
But  hence !  this  is  no  land  of  safety  for  me. 

[He  goes  miU 


SCENE  V. 

Several  years  afterwards. — A  dark  night  in  a  distant 
country.  —  A  field  of  battle  covered  with  dead.  — 
Enter  Thomas  of  Torres  with  a  small  lantern  in 
his  hand. 

Thos.  Rings ;  dagger-sheaths ;  gold  chains  and 
spurs  ;  massy  gold  embroidery — this  is  all  clear  gain 
— no  deduction  for  agents — no  plaguy  discount — all 
net  profit  I  [he  gropes  among  the  bodies.]  But  ha  I — 
thou  art  worth  looking  after!  Come,  my  young 
gentleman,  I  '11  be  your  valet ! — Let  go  your  sword. 
Poor  wretch !  that  was  a  strong  death-grasp !  Now 
off  with  your  rings ! — one,  two,  three !  I  '11  lay  my 
life  thou  wast  a  coxcomb — a  fine  blade,  with  wit  as 
keen  as  thy  sword's  edge,  [he  tears  open  the  pockets.] 
Empty,  empty!  I'd  be  sworn  he  expended  his  gold 
on  his  outside — I  've  known  such  in  my  day ! 

[He  goes  forward  ;  —  a  groan  is  heard. 
Thos.    Here 's  life  among  the  dead  I — mercy !  that 
sound 
In  this  unearthly  silence  chills  my  blood. 
A  faint  Voice.    For  the  dear  love  of  Christ,  be't 
friend  or  foe. 
Make  short  my  death  ! 

Thos.    What,  art  thou  sick  of  life  ? 
Voice.    It  is  not  life  —  it  is  a  living  death  ! 
Thos.  [approaching  him,  and  looking  at  him  atten- 
tively.]    Ha!  thou'rt  an  argosy  with  treasure  laden! 
Voice.     My  sword  is  at  my  head  —  for  pity's  sake, 
Make  short  work  with  it ! 
Thos.  [seizi7]g  his  hand.]  Gems  worthy  of  a  king ! 
\Vou7ided  Mart,  [raising  himself]     Off  with  thee, 
thou  accursed  plunderer, — 
Thou  stony-hearted  wretch,  off,  off! 

[He  faintly  strikes  him  off,  and  then  falls 
back  dead.  —  Thomas  proceeds  to  strip  the 
body. 
Thou  art  a  magazine  of  gems  and  gold  ! 

[He  draws  a  gold  chain  from  his  neck. 
What,  more?    Some  love-gift! — 'Twas  a  heavenly 

lady. 
For  whom  our  earthly  gold  was  all  too  mean, 
That  she  was  set  with  lustrous  pearls  o'  the  sea  — 
Let's  see  this  radiant  jewel  of  a  lady! 

Heavens!  it  is  Isabel  —  the  gentle  queen 
Of  my  young  love  — and  this  was  her  good  lord  ' 
Methought  the  voice  had  a  familiar  tone. 
Mine  ancient  friend !  thus  have  I  paid  thee  back 
The  treachery  of  thy  wooing.  —  Yet,  poor  Count, 
My  heart  misgives  me  for  despoiling  thee  — 

20 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


11 


And  thou,  bright  Isabel !  it  was  for  thee 
I  made  the  solemn  vow,  which  I  am  keeping ; 
Accursed,  wretched  spoiler,  that  I  am  ! 
Let  me  begone  !     I  will  nut  look  again 
Upon  a  dead  man's  face  —  at  least  to-night ! 

[He  gathers  up  his  spoil,  and  goes  slowly  off. 


SCENE  vr. 

A  foreign  city. — A  miserable  den-like  room,  surround- 
ed with  iron  chests,  secured  with  heavi/  padlocks —  i 
the  door  and  windows  grated  and  barred. —  Thomas 
of  Torres  sitting  at  a  desk,  with  pen  and  ink  before 
him. 

Enter  A  fine  gentleman. 
Gent.    Good  morrow,  most  excellent  sir! 
Thos.    Humph! 

Gent.     I  have  the  misfortune,  sir,  to  need  a  thou- 
sand gold  pieces,  and  knowing  your  unimpeachable 
honour,  I  have  pleasure  in  asking  the  loan  from  you. 
Thos.     Humph ! 

Gent.     Your  rate  of  interest,  sir,  is ? 

Thos.  Thirty  per  cent,  for  spendthrift  heirs,  and 
two  responsible  sureties. 

Gent.    The  terms  are  hard,  sir. 
Thos.  They  are  the  terms! 
Gent.     Sir,  twenty  per  cent,  is  high  interest :  else- 
where   

Thos.    Then  go  elsewhere ! 

[The  Gentleman  turns  on  his  heel, 
and  goes  out  whistling. 
Tlios.    The  jackanapes ! 

Enter  a  grim-looking  man. 

^lan.  He  cannot  pay,  sir;  he  declares  it  impossi- 
ble, and  prays  you  to  have  patience;  —  and  in  the 
meantime  leaves  in  your  hand  this  casket. 

Thos.  [opening  it.]  Baubles! — Can't  pay! — impos- 
sible !  —  I  say  I  will  be  paid  ! 

Man.  His  ship  was  lost  in  the  squall  —  he  must 
sell  the  furniture  of  his  house  to  cover  your  demand, 
and  he  prays  you  to  have  mercy  on  his  wife  and 
children! 

Thos.  ^Vife  and  children  !  talk  not  to  me  of  wives 
and  children  !  —  I  '11  have  my  money  ! 

Man.  I  tell  you,  sir,  it  is  impossible,  without  you 
seize  his  goods. 

77ios.  Then  take  the  city  bailiff,  and  get  them 
appraised. 

Man.  I  cannot  do  it,  sir!  —  You  shall  see  him 
yourself,  [aside.]  The  nether  mill-stone  is  running 
water  compared  to  his  heart !  [He  goes  out. 

Thos.  Twenty  thousand  gold  pieces,  and  seven 
months'  interest — and  give  that  up  because  a  man 
has  wife  and  children.  —  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

[He  resumes  his  pen,  and  calculates 
interest. 

Enter  a  gentleman,  with  a  depressed  countenance. 

Gent.     Sir,  my  misfortunes  are  unparalleled — 
My  ship  was  stranded  in  the  squall  last  week, 
And  now  my  wife  is  at  the  point  of  death  I 


Thos.     Produce  your  sureties  ! 

Gent.  They  have  proved  false — 

Alas!  they  proved  themselves  false  friends  indeed  ! 
They  left  the  city  ere  I  knew  my  loss. 
And  are  not  to  be  found. 

Thos.  Thou  wast  a  fool 

To  put  thy  trust  in  friends;  all  friends  are  false  ! 

GeJit.     [pointing  to  the  casket]  This  casket,  sir,  I 
sent  to  you  in  pledge  ; 
It  holds  the  jewels  of  my  dynig  wife, — 
She  will  not  need  them  more ! 

Thos.  I  '11  not  accept  it ! 

I  'II  have  my  money,  every  doit  of  it. 
Principal  and  interest,  paid  down  this  day  ! 

Gent.    Inhuman  wretch!  —  will  you  profane  the 
chamber 
Of  my  poor  dying  wife  ! 

Thos.  I  'II  have  my  money  ! 

[The  Gentleman,  in  great  agitation,  lays  down 
a  bundle  of  parchments  before  him. 
Thos.    Well,  w  hat  of  these  ? 
Ge7it.  Give  me  the  further  sum 

Of  twenty  thousand  pieces  on  these  lands — 
These  parchments  will  be  surety  for  the  whole  ! 
Thos.    [glanci7ig  over  them.]  The  lands  of  Torres  ! 

ha  !  ha  !  ha !  —  and  you're ? 

Gent.     The  lord  of  Torres. 

Thos.  How  shall  I  be  sure 

Of  the  validity  of  these  same  deeds  ? 
Lord  of  T.    I  've  heard  it  said  that  you  are  of  that 
country ; 
If  so,  the  signatures  of  its  late  lords. 
Father  and  son,  may  be  well  known  to  you. 

Thos.     [carefully  examining   them.]      I  had  some 
knowledge  of  them — these  are  theirs  : 
And  you  give  up  your  right  unto  this  lordship 
For  the  consideration  of  the  sum 
Of  twenty  thousand  pieces  ? 

Lord  of  T.  No,  no,  sir ; 

That  doth  exceed  my  meaning. 

Thos.  Then  pay  down 

The  original  sum,  with  interest,  or  a  prison 
Shall  be  your  home  this  night, 

Lord  of  T.  'T  would  be  unjust 

To  give  away  my  children's  patrimony  ! 

Thos.    Sir,  take  your  choice.  —  Resign  this  petty 
lordship. 
Or  go  you  to  the  prison  ! 

[He  resumes  his  pen,  and  sits  down 
doggedly  to  his  calculations. 
Lord  of  T.  Ah,  my  wife,— 

My  little  innocent  and  helpless  children  ! 

Thos.    Your  home  shall   be  a  dungeon  on   the 

morrow  ! 
Lord  of  T    Thou  cruel  bloodsucker !   thou  most 
inhuman, 
Most  iron-hearted  scrivener! 

Thos.  Spare  yo»T  tongue  ! 

Ill  words  obtain  not  men's  consideration  — 
Pay  down  the  principal  and  interest ! 
Lord  of  T.     Sir,   forty  thousand   pieces   for  the 
lordship 

21 


12 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  Torres  were  a  miserable  price  — 

Too  cheap  were  it  at  sixty  thousand  pieces  ! 

Thos.  I  iinow  these  lands  of  Torres— sore  run  otit : 
Woods  felled  —  houses  fallen  to  decay  —  I  know  it  ; 
A  ruined,  a  dilapidated  place! 

Lord  of  T.     So  did  the  last  possessor  leave  it,  sir— 
A  graceless  spendthrift  lieir,  so  did  he  leave  it; 
'Tis  now  a  place  of  beauty  —  a  fair  spot, 
None  fairer  under  the  broad  liice  of  heaven  ! 

Thos.     Sir,  I  am  no  extortioner,  God  knows  ; 
I  love  fair,  upright  dealings!     I  will  make 
The  twenty  thousand  pieces  you  have  asked 
A  thousand  pieces  more,  and  drop  my  claim 
To  the  whole  sum  of  interest  which  is  due  ! 

Lord  of  T.     Forty-one  thousand  pieces,  and  five 
hundred  — 
'T  is  a  poor  price  for  the  rich  lands  of  Torres  ! 

Tlios.     You  do  consent  —  let 's  have  a  notary. 

Lord  of  T.     Give  me  till  night  to  turn  it  in  my 
thoughts. 

Titos.     I'll   give  you  not  an   hour!  —  not   e'en  a 
minute  !     [he  stamps  on  the  floor  with  his  foot. 

Enter  a  bov. 
Quick,  fetch  the  notary  !  [Exit  Boy. 

[The  Lord  of  Torres  covers  his  face  with 
hishands — Thomas  of  Torres  resumes 
his  calculations. 


And  't  would  have  seemed  ungracious  to  refuse  her 
But  I  '11  beware,  and  keep  out  of  her  sight, 
I  '11  warrant  me,  her  eyes  are  sharp  enough ! 


SCEiNE  vir. 

The  hold  of  a  ship. — Thomas  of  Torres  seated  upon 
an  iron  chest,  and  another  beside  him.  —  Enter  a 
lady,  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak  and  veiled ;  two 
younger  ones  follow,  supporting  a  third — the  master 
of  the  vessel  follows  them. 

Lady.    Are  these,  good  sir,  the  best  accommoda- 
tions ? 
Master.     Unless   you   pay  the  price  of  what  are 

better. 
Lady,     [throwing  haclt  her  veil,  and  showing  a  fair 
hut  sad  countenance] 
Sir,  I  have  told  you  more  of  our  distress 
Than  may  be  [ileasing  to  a  stranger's  ear ; 
I  seek  no  favours  on  my  own  account. 
But  for  my  youngest  child,  my  dying  daughter — 

Mast,     [turning  towards  the  y<mng  ladi/] 
Poor,  delicate  young  thing!     Oh  no,  not  here 
Is  a  fit  place  for  that  poor,  dyituj  ladv  — 
Follow  me,  madam.     She  shall  have  my  cabin  : 
But  stay,  my  gentle  mistress,  lean  on  me  ! 

[Ill-  support?!  the  young  ladi/  out,  and 
the  0/1,1  rs  follow. 
Thos.     Why,  yonder  is  the  lady  of  the  |iparls  — 
The  Isabel  of  my  fl)nd,  boyish  passion  ! 
And  she  is  poor,  is  burdened  wiih  tlin^e  dauirhters  I 
Four  women  in  a  house  would  be  cxpeiisivo  ! 
I  was  a  fool  to  think  I  e'er  slioiild  mnirv  — 
Marry,  forsooth,  a  widow  with  fiiur  daughters. 
And  a  poor  widow  too!     No,  I  'II  not  mnrrv  ! 
'TIS  well  they  're  gone  ; — if  they  had  seen  me  here, 
She  might  have  asked  fi)r  help  in  her  distress, 


SCENE  VIII. 

A  small  chamber  in  the  house  of  Torres. — Thomas  as 

the  lord  of  Torres,  with  money-bags  on  his  table. 

Lord  of  T.    I  am  the  Lord  of  Torres !   that  one 
thought 
Is  with  me  night  and  day.    The  lord  of  Torres ! 
A  rich  lord,  who  need  borrow  gold  nor  silver, 
But  will  add  heaps  unto  his  countless  heaps. 
Gold  to  his  gold,  and  silver  to  his  silver! 

[A  low  rap  is  heard,  and  a  poor  widow 
enters  timidly. 
Widow.     Pardon,  my  lord  :  I  am  an  aged  widow. 
Whose  children's  children's  bread  depends  upon  me. 
I  hold  a  little  field,  which  we  have  held. 
In  my  dead  husband's  lime,  for  forty  years 
The  field,  to  us,  is  as  the  staff  of  life  ; 
Good  tenants  have  we  been,  and  regular. 
Never  have  missed  our  rent  on  quarter-day; 
But  now  your  wealthy  neighbour,  John  o'Nokes, 
Desires  to  have  the  field  to  add  to  his  — 
He  will  be  here  anon  to  make  his  offer ; 
Oh  my  good  lord,  befriend  a  feeble  widow'. 
And  her  poor  fatherless  babes ! 

'T  is  not  for  me, 
To  make  a  worthy  offering  to  my  lord  — 
We  are  but  poor  —  the  field  is  all  our  wealth 
But  what  I  have,  I  offer  in  submission. 

[She  lays  a  few  small  silver  coins  before 
him,  and  a  gold  ring. 
Lord  of  T.    You  shall  not  be  disturbed  in  your 

possession ! 
W'id.      Ten   thousand   blessings   on    your  noble 
lordship  I  [She  goes  out. 

Lord  of  T.     [testing  the  ring  and  coins]     They  're 
sterling  gold  and  silver,  though  the  weight 
Is  small ;  but  every  little  addeth  to  the  whole. 
Enter  John  o'Nokes. 

John     [bowing  very  low.]     There  is  a  little  field — 
a  worthless  field, 
My  noble  lord,  which  brings  you  little  profit 
As  't  is  now  let;  and  seeing  it  adjoins 
My  land,  and  is  upon  the  utmost  verge 
Of  your  estate,  I  (iiin  would  buy  it  from  you. 

Lord  of  T.     I  have  no  thought  to  sell  that  little 

field. 
John.     My  lord,  its  worth  is  small  to  your  estate  ; 
To  mine  't  is  otherwise  —  and  she  who  rents  it 
Is  poor,  and  hath  no  management  of  land. 
Lord  of  T.     She  pays  her  rent  as  true  as  quarter- 
da  v. 
John.     That  rent  is  small  :  my  price  would  yield 

you  more. 
Lord  of  T.     I  would  not  do  her  wrong,  she  is  a 

widow ! 
John.     She  is  a  widow  only  through  their  crime — 
Her  husband  died  for  murder  — a  foul  murder, 
Done  in  this  vory  field  I 

22 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


13 


Lord  of  T.  This  very  field  ! 

John.    Yes,  my  good  lord.    Some  nineteen  years 
agone. 
Within  a  lonesome  hollow  of  this  field  — 
A  wandering  pedlar  was  discovered,  murdered. 
His  ass,  and  all  his  little  merchandise 
Were  found  within  this  woman's  husband's  shed 
The  facts  were  clear  against  him,  though  he  swore 
Unto  the  last  that  he  was  innocent — 
And  as  was  just,  he  died  u|X)n  the  gallows  ! 
But  you  are  pale,  my  lord  — you  're  very  pale  I 
Lord  of  T.     Pardon  me,  sir,  my  health  is  not  the 

best. 
John.    \V'ell,  sir,  about  the  business  of  the  field. 
Lord  of  T.    The  widow   woman   still  shall  hold 

the  field ! 
John,     [lai/ing  a  fmall  bag  before  him'] .     But  my 
good  lord,  to  me  it  is  an  object — 
One  himdred  marks  I  "11  give  you  for  the  field. 
Lord  of  T.     What  doth  this  hold,  sir  >.  is  it  gold  or 

silver  ? 
John.    Gold,  sir,  each  piece  is  gold  ! 
Lord  of  T.  One  hundred  marks  ?  — 

One  hundred  marks  and  ten,  and  it  is  yours  I 
John.     Sir,  every  piece  within  that  bag  is  gold  ! 
Lord  of  T.    One  hundred  marks   and   ten  —  I'll 

lake  no  less  I 
John.     RIy  notary  is  without  —  I  'II  bring  him  in. 

[He  goc.^  out. 
Lord  of  T.    I  '11  not  believe  it !    Otlier  men  had 
asses  — 
And  others  might  be  murdered  in  that  field  ; 
Besides,  if  it  were  so,  was  it  my  crime 
That  the  land's  law  did  deal  unjustly  by  him  ? 
Upon  their  heads,  who  heard  him  plead  in  vain, 
Shall  be  his  innocent  blood,  and  not  on  mine  ! 

[He  take.t  up  the  hag. 
Ha !  ha !  this  wealthy  purchaser  has  gold 
In  plenty,  if  he  thus  can  bribe.     May  be 
I  have  another  little  field  will  tempt  him; 
But  next  time,  I  will  have  a  better  price  — 
.Now  let  me  find  a  place  wherein  to  store  it  I 

[He  considers:  for  a  few  moments —  then  tahs 
up  his  keys,  and  goes  to  a  small  closet. 


SCENE  IX. 

A  chamber  lighted  by  a  small  iron  lamp,  the  lord  nf 
Torres  in  his  night-cap  and  dressing-gov:n — a  closet 
with  an  iron  door  is  beside  his  bed,  he  has  a  bunch 
of  keys  in  his  liand.  —  Enter  as  old  serva.nt. 

Servant.    Master,  there  is  a  woman  at  the  door, 
And  two  small  children  ;  they  do  cry  for  bread ; 
Only  a  little  morsel  I 

Lord  of  T.  Drive  them  hence  ! 

A  murrain  on  them ! 

Serv.  I  have  warned  them  hence, 

But  master,  she  is  dying  ;  and  the  cry 
Of  those  poor  little  children  wrings  my  heart! 

Lord  of  T.     Liars  they  are  and   thieves  !    Drive 
them  away ! 


iSVrii.     Master,  good  lack  I  she  will  be  dead  ere 

morning  ! 
Lord  of  T.    Then  elsewhere  let  her  die  I   Bethink 
you  (cxjI, 
'T  would  cost  a  noble,  but  to  bury  her  I 

iS'eri;.    [going  out]    (lood  lord  !  and  he  such  plenty ! 

Enter  STEWAKD. 

Steward.  The  barns  are  full,  my  lord,  and  there 
is  yet  grain  to  be  housed. 

Lord  of  T.  The  cost  were  great  to  build  more 
barns  —  let  it  be  hou.sed  under  this  roof. 

Slew.     My  lord  I 

I^ord  of  T.  To  be  sure  !  the  state-rooms  are  large 
and  lofty  —  and  to  me  they  are  useless,  let  them  be 
filled  I 

Stfw.  What!  with  the  gilt  cornices,  and  the  old 
lords  and  ladies  on  the  walls  ! 

J^ord  of  T.  The  same  !  are  they  not  well  placed, 
so  that  a  wain  might  approach  without  impediment  ? 

Stew.     It  were  a  mortal  sin! 

Ijjrd  of  T.  I  catmot  afford  to  build  new  barns  — 
remember  the  mildew  last  season,  and  the  cow  that 
died  in  March  —  these  are  great  losses! 

Slew.  Well,  my  lord,  the  harvest  is  ready,  it  must 
be  done  quickly. 

Lord  of  T.     A  broad  door-way  making,  will  not 

cost  much  ;  send  me  a  builder  to-morrow,  and  let  us 

have  an  estnnale  —  these  people  require  being  tied 

down  to  the  fiirthing!  [Tiic  steward  goes  out. 

[The  I-,ord  of  Torres  uidocks  his  iron  door, 

counts  his  bags,  puts  his  keys  tinder 

his  pillow,  and  then  lies  down — after 

some  time,  he  starts  up. 

Fire !  murder !  thieves  !  my  gold  !  my  iron  chest ! 

[He  rubs  his  eyes,  and  looks  around  him. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  tiiank  heaven,  it  was  a  dream! 
Then  all  is  safe  —  my  iron  chest  is  safe ! 

[He  feels  for  his  keys. 
Ay,  they  are  safe,  the  keepers  of  my  treasures  — 
Xow  let  me  sleep —  I  've  much  to  do  to-morrow. 
I  must  be  wary  in  this  estimate. 
One-half  the  sum  he  asks  will  be  enough  ! 

[He  lies  down  and  sleeps. 
[An  avfid  voice  parses  through  the  chamber. 

"Thou  fool,  this  night  thy  soul  will  be  required 
from  thee ;  then  whose  will  those  things  be  which 
thou  hast  provided  V 


Aciizin  was  abundantly  satisfied  with  the  result  of 
his  second  temptation.  He  had  watched  the  gradual 
strengthening  of  the  passion  ;  the  sealing  up,  as  it 
were,  of  the  heart  against  both  (iod  and  man. 

"  It  was  not,"  said  .Xcli/ib,  in  great  self-gratulation, 
"  because  the  temptation  was  in  itself  strong,  that  I 
have  this  time  been  so  successful,  but  especially  be- 
cause the  tempted  was  so  wisely  chosen.  Human 
nature  has  a  strange  propensity  to  extremes  ;  he  who 
wastes  his  patrimony  with  profligate  indifl^rence, 
and  reduces  himself  to  penury,  is  of  all  others  the 
man  to  become  insatiably  avaricious.  In  proportion 
23 


14 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


as  he  lavished  in  youlh,  will  he  hoard  up  in  age; 
the  hand  that  threw  away  thousands,  will  afterwards 
clutch  at  groats, — and,  oh  marvellous  inconsistency  ! 
not  from  having  learned  the  value  of  the  good  he 
has  abused,  but  from  a  passionate  lust  of  possession, 
which,  like  the  extravagance  of  madness,  seems  to 
reverse  the  very  nature  of  the  man." 

"The  world,"  continued  Achzib,  "has  but  litlle 
sympathy  for  the  ruined  spendthrift;  men  are  slow 
in  giving  to  him  v\  ho  has  not  taken  care  of  his  own 
— and  thus  they  assist  the  reaction  of  his  spirit.  lie 
talks  of  the  faithlessness  of  friends,  of  the  jeers  and 
taunts  of  the  world,  and  the  triinnph  of  enemies,  till, 
exciting  himself  to  hostility  against  his  kind,  he  com- 
mences a  warfare  upon  it,  and  becomes  its  scourge 
and  its  shame,  lie  gives  not  to  the  needy  ;  because, 
says  he,  in  my  need,  none  gave  to  me — and  he  gets 
all  he  can  by  fair  means  and  foul,  because  in  his 
abundance  all,  he  believes,  made  a  prey  of  him.  Oh, 
most  blind  and  senseless  of  passions.' — he  would  even 
rob  himself,  to  enrich  his  coffers — he  would  deny 
himself  even  sustenance,  were  it  not  that  death 
would  sever  him  from  the  god  of  his  idolatry!" 

"  And  now,"  said  .\chzib,  "Twill  try  this  passion 
in  a  modified  degree,  upon  another  and  a  nobler  spirit. 
The  sins  of  Thomas  of  Torres,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, were  sins  against  society  at  large.  My  next  vic- 
tim shall  be  taken  from  the  bosom  of  affection ;  he 
shall  bring  desolation  upon  the  domestic  hearth,  and 
wither  those  souls  in  which  he  was  bound  up  as  in 
the  bundle  of  life.  To  accomplish  this,  I  must  first 
sap,  if  not  remove  the  barriers  of  sound  principle.  But 
once  familiarize  him  with  sin;  but  once  induce  him 
to  sunder  some  one  tie  which  has  hitherto  bound  him 
to  virtue, — no  matter  how  slight  it  be, — the  most  im- 
portant work  is  done,  and  the  remaining  ties  become 
loosened:  for  the  first  dereliction  of  duty,  the  first 
swerving  aside  from  the  integrity  of  virtue,  is  the  act 
by  which  a  human  soul  becomes  the  chartered  vic- 
tim of  evil." 

"The  mere  sordid  miser,"  continued  Achzib,  recur- 
ring once  more  to  his  subject,  "  is  a  hateful  spectacle. 
The  toad  hiding  itself  under  a  noisome  stone,  is  not 
more  hideous  than  his  moral  def()rmity  ;  but  the  down- 
fall of  a  nobler  spirit,  drawing,  as  it  were,  the  sev- 
enth part  of  heaven  after  it,  in  the  darkened  plea- 
sures, the  wounded  affections  of  all  that  clung  to  it, 
is  an  achievement  worthy  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness 
himself!" 


THE    PIRATE. 


PERSONS. 

ALBERT   LlTBt^RG,   THE  PIRATE. 

MADAME    LUBERG,    HIS  MOTHER. 

CONSTANCE,    HER    NIECE,    AND    THE    BETROTHED 

OF   ALBERT. 
ACHZIB,   THE   CAPTAIN    GF   THE    VESSEL. 
EDAH,   A   YOU.VG   ISLANDER. 
SEAMEN,     CREW    OF    THE     WRECi;,    MERCHANTS, 

AND  TOWNS-PEOPLE. 


SCENE  I. 

A  seaport  city.— Evening.— A  small  mansion  in  the 
suburbs;  Constance  silling  in  a  little  room,  looking 
at  a  miniature. 

Constance.    There  is  a  faint  resemblance — but  so 
faint! 
And  yet  the  eyes  in  colour  are  the  same  — 
So  is  the  hair,  with  its  thick  clustering  curls  — 
And  the  fine  oval  of  the  countenance ; 
But  oh,  the  mouth!  no,  no,  it  is  not  Albert's! 
And  yet,  when  he  is  absent,  I  shall  say 
'Tis  like,  'tis  very  like!    Oh,  how  I  wish 
This  voyage  were  made !  ray  heart  has  fearful  au- 
guries ; 
And  when  I  prtiy  for  him,  my  spirit  takes 
All  unawares  such  fervency  of  tone 
As  terrifies  myself.    Great  God  protect  him  ! 

Enter  madame  lueerg  ;  she  sils  domi  by  Constant 

Mad.  L.     I  am  the  bearer  of  most  heavy  tidings ! 

Cons.     Is  Albert  dead  ? 

Mad.  L.  Oh  no,  oh  no,  thank  heaven  I 

Compared  with  that,  my  news  is  light  indeed ! 
The  sudden  squall  that  came  and  pa.sscd  at  noon. 
Like  lightning  in  its  speed,  loosened  his  vessel 
From  its  strong  moorings,  drove  it  out  of  harbour, 
And  there,  in  half  a  moment,  it  went  down! 
All,  all  is  lost,  not  even  a  single  bale 
Is  come  to  shore! 

Cons.  And  any  lives  on  board  ? 

Mad.  L.    But  two,  the  helmsman  and  a  cabin-boy; 
The  others  were  gone  out  by  Albert's  leave. 
To  pass  the  day  on  shore.     God  help  him  now ! 
For  there  went  down  his  all. — All,  all  was  ventured 
In  that  one  cargo ;  he 's  a  beggar  now ! 
No  longer  Albert  Lubcrg  the  young  merchant, 
On  whom  the  old  grey-headed  men  on  'Change 
Looked  with  respect  'cause  fortune  favoured  him ! 
Yet  that  was  the  least  reason  he  should  win 
A  wise  man's  grace  —  was  he  not  good  and  kind  ? 
A  prudent,  generous  captain  ;  loved  by  all, 
And  served  with  such  devotion,  that  his  crew 
Symbolled  fidelity  ?  and  such  a  son  ! 
Oh,  there  is  not  a  mother  in  the  city, 
But,  when  impressing  on  her  child  its  duty, 
Says,  "  be  thou  but  a  son  like  Albert  Luberg!" 

[She  weeps. 
Cons.     This  is  our  consolation,  not  our  sorrow ! 
God  will  not  let  him  want  a  helping  hand  — 
lie  only  tries  him  thus,  to  prove  his  virtue. 
But  hark  —  his  step !    Oh,  't  is  his  step  indeed ! 

Enter  albert. 
Mad.  L.    God  give  thee  comfort  in  this  great  af- 
fliction. 
And  make  it  work  together  for  thy  good ! 
Albtrf.    Mother,  your  prayer  is  answered — so  is 
yours. 
Dear  Constance,  for  I  see  you  have  been  weeping. 
Like  my  poor  mother;  but  you  've  won  from  heaven 
Blessing  for  one  unworthy  as  I  am! 
Cons.  No,  not  unworthy,  Albert !  But  what  bless- 
ing? 

24 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


15 


Albert.    Oh,  you  shall  hear — it  is  n  new  romance! 
IVow  listen.     I  was  slandina;  on  the  rocks, 
With  m\'  eyes  (ixetl  upon  the  lx)ilinc  syxM 
Where  my  goud  sliip  went  down,  lull  of  sad  tlioughts, 
When  there  came  up  a  foreign  gentleman, 
Drest  in  an  antique  garb.     Awhile  he  stood 
With  his  eye  fixed  on  me,  and  then  he  spake 
Some  cruel  words  of  passing  condolence, 
Which  I  more  briefly  answered  ;  for  my  heart 
Lay  with  my  sunken  ship,  nor  had  I  mood 
To  talk  with  any  one;  so  I  went  further. 
And  took  another  station  :  there  he  came. 
And  once  again  addressed  me;  "Sir,"  said  he, 
"  I  am  no  stranger  to  your  reputation  — 
All  men  have  heard  tiie  name  of  Albert  Ltiberg, 
And  from  my  soul  I  ever  longed  to  serve  him!" 

Mad.  L.   'Twas  very  true,  'twas  very  true,  my  son  ; 
Vet  like  1  not  these  over-civil  men. 

Albert.     Nay,  hear  me  on.    To  this  I  made  reply, 
"  Your  good  opinion  flatters  me  too  much !" 
To  which  he  said,  "  Merit  is  diffident," 
And  twenty  other  gracious  common-places; 
And  so  discourse  went  on:  at  length,  said  he  — 
And  here  his  voice  assumed  anotiier  tone. 
The  blandest,  the  most  winning  e'er  I  heard, 
"  Will  you  to  sea  again  ?"  "  (iladly,"  said  I, 
"  For  diligence  must  give  me  lL)rtune  back: 
Those  that  are  dearer  unto  me  than  life, 
Depend  upon  my  labour."     "Done!"  said  he, 
"  Vou  shall  win  fortune  back  !  now  look  you  there ; 
Reyond  that  point  of  rock,  my  vessel  lies!" 
I  looked,  and  in  a  distant  cove  descried 
A  stately  vessel  lying  at  its  anchor. 
"  Yon  ship,"  said   he,  "  is  mine,  well-manned  and 

freighted 
For  a  far  port." 

Cons.  And  do  you  sail  with  him  ? 

Albert.     I  do,  dear  love,  even  this  very  night 
If  the  wind  favour,  when  the  moon  shall  rise ; 
Soon  after  midnight  will  they  weigh  the  anchor. 

Cons.     And  to  what  [wrt  ?  and  who  is  this  strange 
captain  — 
And  what  the  vessel's  name? 

Albert.  I  was  so  chained 

By  the  strong  fascination  of  his  voice, 
I  thought  not  of  his  name,  nor  of  the  vessel's ; 
Our  destination,  is  unto  the  east. 

Mad.  L.    It  is  a  compact  that  comes  o'er  my  heart 
Like  evil  influence. 

Albert.  'Tis  woman's  fear 

Makes  you  desponding.    If  I  went  with  Raphael, 
Like  Tobit  in  old  time,  yon  would  have  fear 
.And  augury  of  ill !     Heard  you  my  friend, 
His  easy  gaiety,  his  frank  good-humour, 
His  almost  fatherly  kindness  for  your  son, 
Vou  would  not  have  one  fear! 

But,  dearest  Constance, 
Here  is  a  parting  present,  to  console  you 
When  I  am  far  away! 

[He  holds  up  a  chain  of  diamonds. 

Cons.  IVo,  not  console  me ! 

But  .\lbert,  whence  came  these?  so  beautiful, 
A  dowry  for  an  empress! 
3  D 


Mad.  L.  Here  is  wealth 

Might  make  thy  vessel's  loss  of  small  account  — 
Their  value  frightens  me  !  where  came  they  from  ? 

Albert.    'I'hey  are  an  earnest  from  my  unknown 
friend. 
Of  my  redeemed  fortune.     They  were  given 
For  thee,  dear  Constance,  with  such  pleasant  raillery 
On  woman's  love  of  show,  as  made  me  envy 
The  sportive  keenness  of  his  merry  wit. 

Mad.  L.    (iod  send  it  all  for  good !    But  tell  me 
now 
On  what  conditions,  sail  you  with  this  man  ? 

Albert.     On  strange  conditions  truly,  for  himself; 
For  me,  without  exception.     Thus  they  run  : 
'i'hat  without  bond,  or  even  doit  laid  down, 
I  shall  become  co-partner  in  the  vessel. 
Now  and  Itir  ever,  and  in  all  her  tradings 
Have  equal  share,  with  this  sole  stipulation. 
That  I  shall  hold  myself  to  him  subservient. 
To  this  I  have  subscribed  ;  and  by  a  notary 
It  has  been  sealed  and  \\itnes.sed  in  due  form. 

Mad.  L.     I  like  it  not !     For  in  these  sordid  times 
Men  do  not  willingly  give  up  their  profit 
Without  equivalent.     But  Cod  is  good  ! 
And  He  will  guard  you  if  you  trust  in  him. 
My  son,  a  mother's  blessing  be  with  thee! 
But  there  are  various  little  stores  and  comforts 
Which  't  is  your  mother's  pii^ilege  to  furnish. 
I  will  go  get  these  ready,  though  't  is  late ! 

[She  goes  out. 

Albert,    [lahing  Constance's  hand]    Dear  love,  you 
look  so  pale,  so  very  anxious  ! 
Why  are  you  thus  cast  down  ? 

Cons.  Must  we  not  part  ? 

And  then  I  have  so  many,  many  fears ! 
I  say  "  amen  "  to  all  j'oiir  mother  uttered  ; — 
I  do  not  like  this  man  ! 

Albert.  Fear  nothing,  love 

Ere  long  I  will  return;  and  then,  sweet  Constance, 
You  know  your  promise  for  that  blessed  time  — 
Till  then  be  happy,  dear  one  !  laugh  and  sing 
As  vou  were  wont,  and  fill  the  house  with  gladness. 
As  the  birds  fill  the  woods  in  summer  time. 

Cons,     [taking  up  the  diamonds.]     But   these — I 
cannot  wear  them  —  take  them  back  — 
I  have  a  superstitious  dread  of  lliem  — 
They  are  like  the  thirty  pieces  in  the  scripture, 
The  price  of  blood  I 

Albert.  Oh,  foolish,  foolish  girl ! 

But  you  shall  wear  them  !    They  are  amulets  — 
And  will  grow  dim  if  1  am  false  to  you ! 

Cons.    Oh,  take  them,  take  them  hence!  they  are 
so  heavy  ! 

[.S7/e  falls  on  his  nech  and  weeps. 

Albert.     My  dearest  one  !  look  up,  and  let  me  kiss 
Away  these  idle  tears. 

Cons.  Oh,  Albert,  Albert! 

I  know  that  we  .shall  never  meet  again  — 
I  know  that  some  great  sorrow  hangeth  o'er  ns  — 
True  love  has  ever  a  prophetic  spirit ! 

Mad.  L.     [co?ning  in.]     Here  is  a  messenger  come 
down  in  haste 
To  summon  vou  —  the  boat  is  at  the  quay 


16 


HO  WITTS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Albert.   Tnily  he  keeps  quick  time ! — The  moon  "s 
not  up  — 

But  we  must  part  at  last,  —  and  farewell 's  said 
As  easily  now  as  at  another  time. 
My  dearest  love,  good  bye ! 

Mother,  God  bless  you ! 
Mad.  L.     Farewell,  my  son  —  Way  God  Almighty 
bless  you. 
[He  looks  vpon  them  vnth  great  tenderness, 
then  goes  out,  and  shortly  after  returns. 
Albert.     I  am  a  fool,  a  very  childish  fool, 
Thus  to  return  to  say  "  good  bye  "  again  ; 
But  my  heart  yearned  toward  ynii,  and  I  obeyed  it. 
Once  more,  dear  mother,  let  me  kiss  thy  cheek, 
And  take  once  more  thy  blessing! 

[He  emhrares  her  solemnly. 
And.  sweet  love,  [to  Cons. 

Once  more,  once  more  farewell  I  What  ails  my  heart  ? 
I  never  was  so  much  a  child  before. 
Cons.    May  God  in  heaven  bless  you  ! 

[Albert  rushes  out. 


SCENE  II. 

Night. — A  vessel  on  the  mid  seas  ;  a  fine  moon  shinitig. 
—  The  watch  on  deck. 

\st  Man.  Now,  meilfematc,  can  you  understand 
what  sort  of  a  trip  we  are  on  ? 

2nd  Man.  Trading,  I  take  it.  Ar'n't  we  bound 
to  the  Indies  ? 

\st  Man.  So  they  say  ;  but  mark  me  if  there  is  n  't 
some  other  scheme  at  bottom.  Here  have  we  been 
tacking  about  in  these  seas  for  the  last  fifteen  days, 
and  a  steady  wind  blowing  all  the  time  !  The  old 
captain  gives  orders  through  the  young  one  —  the 
devil 's  at  the  bottom  of  the  business,  I  say. 

2nd  Man.  And  let  it  be  the  devil  himself! — while 
he  gives  the  wages  he  does,  and  plenty  of  grog,  I  '11 
go  round  the  world  with  him.  Don't  you  bother 
your  brains  with  other  folks'  business;  let's  have  a 
song!  here  's  mine  without  asking  for,  the  jolly  song 
of  the  devil  at  sea  — 

"  Let  the  v^-inds  blow " 


\ St  Man.  Don't  be  singing  that  song  for  ever,  or 
I'll  take  it  for  a  bad  token.  —  Can't  you  give  us  a 
good  hymn,  or  a  song  set  to  a  hymn-tune  ? 

2nd  Man.  Why.  one  might  think  you  were  grow- 
ing gwily  in  your  old  age — ha!  ha!  ha! — You're 
mighty  particular  for  a  fellow  that  uses  the  can!  A 
hymn-tune,  on  my  conscience  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  Well, 
here  goes,  then 

Who  was  the  first  sailor  ?  —  tell  mo  w ho  can  ; 

Old  Father  Neptune  ?  —  No,  you  're  wrong  ; 
There  was  another  ere  Neptune  began  ; 
Who  was  he  ?  tell  me.    Tightly  and  strong 
Over  the  waters  he  went  —  he  went, 
Over  the  waters  he  went  I 

Who  wa§  the  first  sailor  ?  —  tell  me  who  can  ; 
Old  Father  Noah  ?  —  No,  you  're  wrong  ; 


There  was  another  ere  Noah  began  ; 

Who  he  was,  tell  me  ?    Tightly  and  strong 
Over  the  waters  he  went  —  he  went, 
Over  the  waters  he  went. 

Who  was  the  first  sailor  ? —  tell  me  who  can  ; 

Old  Father  Ja.son  ?  —  No,  you  're  wrong  ; 
There  was  another  ere  Jason  began; 

Don't  be  a  blockhead,  boy  !    Tightly  and  strong 
Over  the  waters  he  went  —  he  went, 
Over  the  waters  he  went ! 

Ha!  't  is  nought  but  the  poor  little  Nautilus  — 

Sailing  away  in  his  ancient  shell; 
He  has  no  need  of  a  compass  like  us, 
Foul  or  fair  w  eather  he  manages  well ! 
Over  the  water  he  goes  —  he  goes, 
Over  the  water  he  goes ! 

Helmsman.  Land  a-head  ! — Down  with  you  to  the 
captains  below,  and  don't  keep  dinning  there  with 
your  cracked  pipes ! 

Enter  the  captain  and  albert. 

Cap.    The  isle  I  told  you  of!  't  is  in  our  reckoning, 
But  't  is  an  undiscovered  island  yet 
By  any  but  m}fself     In  my  last  voyage. 
Thus  standing  on  the  deck,  helmsman  myself 
And  watch,  I  first  discerned  it  on  a  night 
Radiant  as  this,  yet  do  I  claim  it  not  — 
Yours  be  the  honour  of  discovering  it ! 
You  shall  first  give  the  knowledge  to  the  world 
Of  a  new  paradise  amid  the  sea. 

Albert.    How  bright  the  moonlight  falls  upon  its 
shores ! — 
What  slumberous  shades  lie  in  those  woody  valleys — 
What  sky-ascending  mountains,  with  white  peaks 
Shining  like  silver  spires! — and  what  a  weight 
Of  spicy  odour  comes  on  every  breeze! 
Oh,  glorious  land  !  surpassing  all  my  dreams 
Of  Kden  while  the  angels  walked  in  it. 
But  let 's  cast  anchor  here  —  the  soundings  taken. 
Are  seven  fiiihom  water  with  good  anchorage. 

Cap.     Let  it  be  done ! 

[The  anchor  is  cast  —  all  hands  crowd  on 
deck,  eagerly  looking  out.  —  Morning  be- 
gins to  break — The  Captain  and  Albert 
stand  together  on  the  forecastle. 

Cap.    Now,  friend,   you  will  acknowledge  your 
suspicion 
Has  done  me  great  injustice  ! 

Albert.  Pardon  me  ! 

I  was  indeed  unjust  —  I  v\-as  impatient 
Of  our  long  wandering.  —  My  brain  grew  weary 
With  reckoning  latitude  and  longitude. 
Month  after  month  —  beside,  the  crew  began 
To  have,  like  me,  suspicions  —  and  to  murmur. 
But  you  must  pardon  me  !     Give  mo  your  hand  — 
I  will  not  (loiibt  jou  more  I 

Cop.  [lakinis  hi.'i  hand  eagerly.]  No,  doubt  me  not 
Swear  you  will  trust  in  me  from  this  day  forth ! 

Albert.     I  will— I  will ;— and  by  yon  glorious  islev 
Over  whose  eastern  summits  kindles  now 
The  splendour  of  the  sunrise,  I  will  swear 

26 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


17 


To  serve  you,  but  free  ronluleiice  in  you. 

Good  heavens!  there  hath  a  sudden  cloud  arisen 

Which  halh  obscured  tlie  morning  ! 

Cap.  Vou  have  sworn ! 

Now  contemplate  the  island  at  your  leisure. — 
Now  is  he  my  sure  victim,  and  l()r  ever !  [aside. 

Yon  fairy  isle  will  so  sulxlue  his  soul 
With  its  luxurious  pleasures  —  he  no  more 
Will  be  the  chafed  lion  he  has  been !  [He  goes  below. 
[The  morning  s/iiites  out,  and  the  island 
becomes  perfectly  di.itinct. 

Albert.     Beautiful  island,  rising  out  of  darkness 
Like  a  divine  creation,  a  new  day 
Hath  dawned  upon  thee,  a  momentous  day 
Never  to  be  forgotten,  which  will  change 
Thy  destiny  for  ever! 

Hast  thou  sinned 
That  God  has  taken  away  the  sacred  veil 
Which  kept  thy  mountain  tops  concealed  so  long 
From  eye  of  civilized  man  ?    Oh  innocent  people  I 
The  cup  of  knowledge  now  is  at  yuur  lips. 
And  ye  will  drink  —  ay,  drink,  and  find  it  poison  ; 
For  in  the  train  of  civilization  comes 
Sure  ill,  and  but  remote,  uncertain  good  ! 

Strange  is  it,  that  ray  singular  destiny. 
Under  the  guide  of  that  mysterious  man. 
Has  led  me  only,  of  ten  thousand  voyagers, 
To  this  fair  island  I    Ah  I  for  what  intent 
1  know  not,  evil  or  good  —  but  this  I  know, 
It  must  be  glorious  —  yes,  it  shall  be  glorious! 
I  will  return  in  triumph  to  my  city. 
And  make  a  splendid  holiday  with  news 
Of  this  fair  conquest  from  the  unknow  n  sea ! 
But  there  they  throng,  the  natives  of  the  land. 
Gazing  in  eager  wonder  from  the  heights ! 

[He  examines  them  through  his  glass. 
A  noble  race,  in  their  unfettered  beauty, 
As  God  first  made  them,  with  their  mantle  folds 
Descending  to  the  knee,  and  massy  armlets. 
And  chains  of  twisted  gold,  pliant  as  silk  I 
And  women,  too,  like  goddesses  of  old. 
Or  nymphs  by  some  gloomed  fountain ! 

Let's  to  land. 
The  sun  ascends ;  and  those  cool-gladed  woods 
Promise  delicious  rest.  —  Let's  to  the  shore ! 


SCENE  111. 

A  beautiful  rocky  valley,  crowned  vntk  palms,  plan- 
tains, and  all  the  rich  and  picturesque  vegetation  of 
tropical  dimaies. 

The  CAPTAIN'  and  albert. 

Cap.    Not  satisfied  !    Is  three  months'  tarriance 
Too  little  for  your  will  ? 

AlUrt.  Three  little  moons  ! 

Why  here  one  might  live  out  an  age  of  love, 
And  count  it  as  the  passing  of  a  day  ! 
But  you,  by  nature  cold  and  anti-social. 
Can  have  no  spark  of  sympathy  with  us! 
Choose  you  a  bride  from  these  sweet  islanders, 


And  in  the  lap  of  |)leasurc  take  your  ease. 
Then  will  1  leave  the  island  at  your  bidding! 

Cap.     Fool  that  you  are !     Mean  you  to  tarry  out 
Existence  in  this  place !     Where  is  the  glory 
Of  bearing  to  your  native  port  the  tidings 
Of  a  new  land  >.  where  is  the  proud  ambition 
That  once  was  All)ert  Luberg's,  to  be  great  ? 
Have  you  ne'er  thought  u[)on  a  gentle  maiden 
That  sils  beside  your  mother  all  day  long. 
Shedding  hot  tears  on  her  embroidery  frame  ; 
Waiting  till  she  is  sick  at  heart  (iir  tidings ; 
Enquiring  shi|>news  from  all  voyagers; 
And  hoping  until  hope  itself  is  dead  ? 
If  fortune,  fame,  ambition  count  as  nothing  ; 
Is  love  too  valueless,  save  fur  a  dusk 
Young  beauty  of  the  woods,  who  is  a  pebble 
Beside  a  kingly  diamond,  if  compared 
With  that  fair  mourning  girl?    Oh  !  virtue,  virtue. 
Thou  art  a  mockery  ;  a  base,  gilded  coin. 
That  men  buy  reputation  with ! 

Albert.  No  more! 

We  will  collect  the  seamen  scattered  now 
Over  the  island  ;  lay  in  fruits  and  stores 
Of  all  this  most  munilicent  land  affords; 
And  ere  the  moon,  which  now  is  in  the  wane, 
Shall  be  a  silver  thread,  hoist  sail  and  bear 
Over  the  waves  away  ! 

Cap.  Let  it  be  done. 

[They  go  forward. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  sylvan  grotto,  the  floor  covered  with  rich  Indian  mat. 
Albert  asleep,  with  his  head  resting  on  the  knees  of 
Edah,  a  beaxtliful  young  native,  who  fans  him  with 
a  gorgeous  plume  of  feathers  —  she  sings  in  a  low, 
sweet  voice : 

Little  waves  upon  the  deep 
Murmur  soft  when  thou  dost  sleep ; 
Gentle  birds  upon  the  tree. 
Sing  their  sweetest  songs  for  thee  ; 
Cooling  gales,  with  voices  low 
In  the  tree-tops  gently  blow  ! 
Dearest,  who  dost  sleeping  lie, 
All  things  love  thee,  so  do  I ! 

When  thou  wak'st,  the  sea  will  pour 
Treasures  for  thee  to  the  shore ; 
And  ihe  earth  in  plant  and  tree, 
Bring  f()rlh  fruits  and  flowers  for  thee; 
And  the  glorious  heaven  alwve 
Smile  on  thee  like  trusting  love  I 
Dearest,  who  dost  sleeping  lie, 
All  things  love  thee,  so  do  I ! 

Albert,  [opening  his  eyes.]    'Tis  a  sweet  song,  who 

taught  it  thee,  my  Edah  ? 
Edah.     Love  taught  it  me — I  made  it  as  I  sang. 
I  ever  think  thus  when  I  think  of  thee ! 
Thou  art  a  song  for  ever  in  my  soul ! 

Albert.     Mv  glorious  Edah,  thou  art  like  a  star 
Which  men  of  old  did  worship! 

27 


18 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Edah.  Golden  stars ! 

The  wise  men  of  our  nation  call  them  worlds, 
Where  happy  spirits  dwell — where  those  that  loved, 
And  those  that  have  been  wise  and  good,  like  thee, 
Live  in  delight,  and  never  die  again. 
I  love  the  stars  —  the  happy  stars  —  dost  thou  ? 

Albert.     All  that  is  beautiful  resembles  thee, 
And  what  resembles  thee  1  love,  my  Edah  ! 
I'.iit  knovv'st  thou  we  must  part  ( 

Edah.  Why  must  we  part  ? 

Oh,  no  '.  thou  said'st  we  would  not  part  till  death  ! 

Albert.     A  spirit  from  my  native  land  doth  call  — 
I  may  not  disobey  it ! 

Edah.  Wlien  called  it  thee  ? 

Albert.     I  hear  it  calling  ever  —  I  must  hence  ! 

Edah.    Is  't  death  ?    For  on  the  eve  my  sister  died 
I  saw  a  shadowy  phantom,  and  1  heard 
Low  voices  calling  —  is  it  death  thoi:  liearest? 

Albert.     \o,  no,  my  beautiful !  it  is  not  death, 
But  it  is  strong  as  death  I  —  In  my  far  land 
I  have  a  mother  who  doth  mourn  fiir  me. 
And  ever,  ever  do  I  hear  her  voice  I 

Edah.  Oh  I  I  would  leave  my  mother  for  thy  sake  ! 
Let  me  go  with  thee  ! 

Albert.  Sweet  love,  that  cannot  be  I 

Far,  far  we  go  beyond  the  setting  sun  ! 
I  cannot  take  thee  with  me.     Yon  dark  man 
That  ever  in  the  ship  keeps  by  himselfi 
Is  a  stern  chief — we  dare  not  disobey  him  ; 
lie  would  not  let  thee  come  on  board  with  me ! 

Edah.    Oh  woe  is  me !  oh  woe,  oh  woe  is  me  I 
[>S7(e  inririgs  her  hands  in  an  ngoni/  of 
despair  —  Albert  embraces  her  tenderly. 

Albert.    My  dearest  love !    my  dark-eyed  island 
beauty ! 
Look  on  me,  Edah,  listen  to  my  words  — 
Thou  art  the  chosen  bride  of  a  white  man. 
Be  worthy  of  his  love  —  this  passionate  grief 
Control,  as  I  do  mine  ! 

Edah.  Thou  dost  not  love  ! 

Thou  coiildst  not  lay  thy  life  down  for  my  sake  — 
Oh  thou  art  calm  and  cold,  thou  lovest  not! 
I  cannot  live  if  I  bcliold  thee  not;  — 
Thou  wilt  live  on  —  thou  wilt  love  other  maids. 
Wilt  break  their  hearts  as  thou  hast  broken  mine! 

Albert.    Heaven  is  my  witness,  that  I  love  thee, 
Edah ! 

Edah.     My  lord  !  my  lord  I  swear  not !  didst  thou 
not  swear 
Day  after  d,ay,  that  w'e  should  never  part  ? 
Thy  words  are  like  thy  love,  all  perlidy  ! 
Swear  not,  swear  not,  lest  the  great  God  be  angry, 
And  'whelm  thee  in  the  deep.  —  Alas!  alas! 
What  a  great  grief  is  mine  ! 

[.SVie  rushes  from  the  grotto. 

Albert.  Poor  wounded  heart 

Thy  morning  is  o'erclouded  —  a  great  sorrow 
Will  bow  thy  youthful  beauty  to  the  grotmd. 
And  thou  wUt  curse  the  day  whereon  we  met ! 
Kind,  trusting  spirit,  I  have  done  thee  wrong! 

Enter  Tiif:  captaiv. 
Cap.    What,  are  you  tarrying  still  I  the  girl  is  gone, 


The  wind  is  fair,  the  seamen  are  aboard  ; 
Sullen  enough,  yet  they  obey  my  orders. 
You  only  lag  behind. 

Albert.  Would  we  had  never 

Broken  the  sleep  of  this  fair  paradise! 
Sorrow  and  sin  have  entered,  as  of  old 
They  entered  into  Eden. 

Cap.  Enough,  fond  fool. 

Of  your  pathetic  whine  !  who  was  this  time 
The  wily  snake  that  robbed  the  gentle  Eve 
With  flattering  lies,  of  her  sweet  innocence  ? 

Albert.     Nay,  taunt  me  not!  lead  on,  and  I  will 
Ibllow ! 

[They  go  off  together. 


SCENE  V. 

llie  dec!;  of  the  ship,  all  hands  on  board,  anchor  weigh- 
ed, and  sails  set — a  crowd  of  natives  on  shore;  uo- 
vien  tearing  their  hair  and  uttering  loud  lamenta- 
tion— a  Little  boat  puts  off,  rowed  by  Edah. 

Cap.  Crowd  sail !  let  not  yon  little  boat  approach ! 
Albert.    This  moment  slacken  sail!  take  in  the 

canvas ! 
Cap.    [aside]  Blind  fool  of  headlong  pa.ssion,  have 
your  way ; 

[He  folds  his  arms,  and  loohs  sullenly  on. 
The     boat    comes    alongside  —  Albert 
throws  out  a  ladder  and  descends  into  it. 
Albert.     What  now,  my  love,  would'st  Ihou  ? 
Edah.  Oh  do  not  leave  me ! 

Come  back  and  see  the  grotto  I  have  decked  — 
Thou  said'st  thou  loved'st  the  red-rose  and  the  lotus, 
Come  back  and  see  how  I  have  twined  them  for  thee! 
Thou  said'st  thou  loved'st  the  gushing,  fragrant  me- 
lon, 
I  've  sought  the  island  o'er  to  find  the  best  ; 
Come  back  and  eat  it  with  me! 

Albert.  Oh,  kind  heart. 

It  wounds  my  very  soul  to  part  with  thee! 
Edah.    Each  shell  thou  praised — pearl  ones,  that 
blush  inside. 
And  rosy  corallines,  I  have  collected  — 
Oh  come  thou  back!     I  would  be  slave  to  thee. 
And  fetch  thee  treasure  from  the  great  sea-caves! 
I  would  do  aught  to  win  thee  back  again. 
Albert.     Peace,  peace!  poor  innocent  heart,  thou 

dost  distress  me! 
Edah.    Oh  thou  art  angry,  I  have  angered  thee  — 
1  have  said  that  which  is  unpleasing  to  thee! 
Let  me  go  with  thee!  I  will  be  thy  sister; 
Will  watch  by  thee,  when  thou  art  sick  or  weary; 
Will  gather  (nuts  for  thee;  will  work  bright  flowers 
Into  a  mantle  for  thee:  I  will  be 
More  than  a  loving  daughter  to  thy  mother! 
Albert.    Thou  can'st  not  go ;  but,  my  sweet  island 
queen, 
I  will  return  to  thee  !  now  fare  thee  well ! 
Edah.     Wilt  Ihou,  wilt  thou  indeed !  oh  then  fare- 
well 
For  a  short  season.     I  will  watch  for  thee 
For  ever  from  the  hills,  and  all  night  long 

28 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


19 


Keep  a  bright  beacon  burning!  Oh  come  soon, 
And  bring  thy  mother  with  thee  —  I  will  love  her, 
Thou  dost  not  know  how  I  would  love  thy  mother! 
Albert.     But  we  must  part !  so  now  my  love,  lare- 
well.  [He  embraces  Iter. 

Edah.     But  tell  me,  lell  me  !  when  thou  wilt  come 

back ! 
Albert.     Soon,  soon,  O  very  soon — farewell,  fare- 
well ! 

[He  springs  again  on  deck  —  gives  a  sign, 
and  the  ship  is  put  in  motion. 
Edah.    Oh  take  me  I  take  me  with  you  !  for  I  know 
He  never,  never  will  come  back  again  ' 


SCENE  VI. 

Mid-seas — the  deck  of  the  ship — Albert  and  the  Cap- 
tain  stand  together,  with  glasses  in  their  hands — a 
ship  is  seen  in  the  distance,  slowly  making  vmij  as  if 
heavily  laden. 

Albert.     She  is  a  goodly  ship,  well-built  and  large, 
But  in  her  aspect  she  has  something  strange ; 
She  walks  the  glittering  waters  wearily ; 
There  is  an  air  of  desolation  on  her; 
If  she  were  human,  I  should  call  her  haggard  ! 
Cap.   [to  the  seamen.]   Quick,  slacken  sail!  we  will 
join  company! 

[He  looks  again  through  his  glass. 
'T  is  a  strange  vessel,  and  a  stranger  crew ! 
They  look  like  dead  men  risen  from  their  graves! 
Albert,  [speaking  through  a  trumpet.]    What  cheer, 
whence  come,  and  whither  are  ye  bound? 
And  why  are  ye  so  few,  and  ghastly  all  ? 

[A'o  answer  is  returned,  the  ship  slowly 
takes  in  sail,  and  comes  alongside. 
Albert.    Oh  heavens!  they  are  like  dead  men  ! 
Many  weak  voices  from  the  ship.]     Waier  !  water  ! 
Cap.     Speak,  one  of  you,   whence   come  I    and 

what's  your  freight  ? 
Man.   Our  cargo  is  of  gold,  and  pearl,  and  diamond, 
A  kingly  freight,  from  India  ;  but  we  're  cursed  ; 
The  plague  is  in  the  ship  !  All,  all  are  dead 
Save  we,  and  we  are  twelve!  Give,  give  us  water! 
We  have  not  had  a  drop  for  twenty  hours  I 

Cap.     [To  Albert.]     You  see  these  men — 'twere 
merciful  to  kill  them, 
They  will  go  raging  mad  before  to-morrow, 
And  prey  on  one  another,  like  wild  beasts. 
And  then  the  cargo!    Think  you  what  a  freight  — 
Gold,  pearl,  and  diamond ! 

Albert.  Nay,  tempt  me  not  — 

I  cannot  shed  their  blood.     I  am  no  murderer! 

Cap.    They'll  die;  and  think  ye  not  'twere  mer- 
ciful 
To  rid  them  of  their  miserable  lives  ? 

Albert.     No,  let  them  die,  as  die  they  surely  must; 
We  will  keep  near  them,  and  when  all  are  dead, 
Possess  the  abandoned  cargo! 

Cap.  As  you  will ! 

[Albert  speaks  with  his  seamen  —  they 
crowd  on  sail  with  alacrity,  and  the 
ship  begins  to  move. 
3* 


Sailors  of  the  plague  ship.    [  With  frantic  gestures. 
Oh  give  us  but  one  little  cask  of  water! 
For  God's  sake  give  us  water! 

[The  ship  moves  off,  and  the  sailors  of 
the  plague-ship  are  heard  uttering 
dreadful  imprecations. 


SCENE  VII. 

Night — third  night  from  parting  with  tlie  ship — deck 
of  Albert's  vessel  —  watch  on  deck. 

1st  Man.  And  all  to  have  share  and  share  alike 
in  the  plunder  —  why  you  can't  say  but  that  is  fair 
enough ;  and  yet  drown  me,  if  I  like  the  job! 

2nd  Man.  Neither  do  I!  and  yet  if  they 're  dead, 
't  will  be  neither  robbery  nor  murder,  and  they  must 
be  dead  by  this  time.  But  somehow,  it  went  against 
my  conscience  to  leave  'em  as  we  did  :  I  warrant  a 
cask  o'  water  wouldn't  have  kept  'em  alive  a  day 
longer. 

1st  Man.  But  th'  old  one  said  if  they  had  water 
they  would  go  raging  mad,  and  eat  one  another. 

2nd  Man.  I  say,  did  you  see  the  big  fellow  with 
the  red  eyes?  never  saw  I  such  a  sight  before! 

1st  Man.  Well,  the  fearsomest  thing  I  saw,  and 
the  saddest,  was  a  boy  about  as  big  as  my  Jack,  with 
hands  like  claws,  they  were  so  wasted  away,  and  a 
poor,  yellow,  deathly  face,  that  set  its  patient  lead- 
coloured  eyes  upon  me,  and  for  all  the  clamour,  ne- 
ver said  a  word,  but  kept  looking  and  looking,  as  if 
it  had  a  meaning  of  its  own,  that  I  should  know. 
Well,  I '11  tell  you  a  secret :  what,  said  I  to  myself, 
should  it  want  but  water,  so  I  heaved  up  a  can  of 
I  water  over  to  him,  and  I  shall  never  forget  his  look, 
to  my  dying  day !  My  heart  fairly  sprung  a  leak — 
i  for  what  did  he  do  with  it  ?  he  tasted  not  a  drop  him- 
self, but  poured  it  into  a  poor  fellow's  mouth,  that 
was  lying  gasping  beside  him — I  guessed  it  was  his 
father! 
j  2nd  Man.  Well,  I  'II  Irll  you  what,  I  wish  we  had 
got  it  all  over!  It  looks  dismal  to  see  that  death-ship 
always  before  us.  But  this  is  the  third  day,  and  as 
soon  as  morning  breaks  we  shall  come  up  with  her 
and  see  what  slate  she  's  in. 


SCENE  VIII. 

Morning — they  lay  alongside  the  strange  vessel — the 
crew  still  on  board,  with  wild  looks  and  making  me- 
nacing  gestures. 

ALBERT  and  the  captain  .<!tand  together. 
Albert.    Not  one  of  them  is  dead — how  gaunt  they 
look. 
How  horribly  ferocious,  with  clenched  hands 
Like  furious  skeletons ! 

Cap.  Board  them  at  once. 

And  cut  them  down  at  once,  nor  thus  be  mouthed  at! 
Albert.     Still,  still  you  are  a  bloody  counsellor! 
Cap.     Well,  if  you  still  object  unto  the  means. 
Let's  leave  this  wretched  ship  to  rot  at  once. 

2'J 


20 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  give  her  cargo  to  the  thankless  deep! 
I  'm  tired  of  dodging  them  —  we  miglit  as  well 
Be  changed  to  greedy  sharks  as  follow  thus 
These  wretches  day  by  day  I 

Albert.  I  am  perplexed 

Between  the  wish  to  have,  and  the  repugnance 
To  shedding  human  blood  I 

Cap.  Let 's  spread  the  sail, 

And  leave  them  to  the  sea —  them  and  their  gold ! 

Albert.    No,  no,  we  '11  have  the  gold  I 

Cap.  You  are  a  man  ! 

Gold  is  too  good  to  pave  the  ocean  with. — 
Throw  out  the  grappling-irons  I     Board  the  ship, 
And  end  their  miserable  lives  at  once  ! 

[A  linrrihlc  scoie  ensues  —  the  strange 
crev)  is  murdered  —  the  ship  plunder- 
ed and  set  fire  to. 


SCENE  IX. 

Several  hours  afterwards —  Albert's  cabin  ;  he  rushes 
in  distractedly,  throws  his  bloody  cutlass  on  the  floor, 
and  flings  himself  upon  a  couch. 

A  SAILOR  enters  hastily. 

Sailcyr.    There  is  a  woman  on  the  burning  ship! 
Albert.     Oh  save  her,  save  her!   by  one  act  of 
mercy 
J,et  us  atonement  make  to  outraged  heaven! 

[The  sailor  goes  out. 
Oil  what  a  bloody  wretch  I  am  become, 
The  ocean  would  not  cleanse  my  soul  again. 
Atonement  never  can  be  made  to  heaven  ! 
Not  even  the  blood  of  Christ  could  wash  me  clean! 
[He  s!nrls  up,  and  sees  himself  in  a  ?nirror. 
My  mother  would  not  know  me!  no,  no,  no! 
And  Constance  would  not  know  me!  I  am  lost  — 
The  flames  of  hell  are  in  my  burning  soul. 
The  gold  is  cursed  for  which  I  did  this  thing. 
And  I  am  cursed  that  yielded  to  temptation  ; 
(iive,  give  me  drink  —  and  let  me  murder  thought, 
As  1  have  murdered  men  ! 

[He  fills  a  goblet  several  times  and  drinis, 
then  dashes  the  goblet  to  the  floor. 
It  tastes  like  blood ! 
And  wine  will  ever  taste  thus,  so  will  water! 
The  bread  I  eat  will  choke  mel 

I  am  mad ! 
1  am  gone  raging  mad  ! 

[He  reels  out  rf  the  cabin. 


SCENE  X. 

The  deck — Albert  holding  a  young  female  by  tlte  arm 
—  Jewels  and  gold  are  scattered  about. 

Albert.    Thou  say'st  thy  name  is  Angela  —  well  — 
well  — 
Thon  ahalt  be  now  the  angel  of  the  ship! 
Shalt  be  my  queen  —  mv  liitle  ocean-queen; 
And  I  will  deck  ihee  in  most  regal  fashion  — 


Come,  thou  shalt  have  these  diamonds  on  thy  neck 
[He  takes  up  a  necklace 
Angela.      Keep   back  thy  horrid   arm!  —  Those 
diamonds!  — 
Oh,  sir,  they  were  my  mother's !    If  thou  have 
A  mother,  I  conjure  thee  by  her  love. 
Have  pity  on  me!     If  thou  have  a  sister. 
Think  of  her  innocence,  and  wrong  me  not ! 
Oh,  thou  art  young! — thou  must — thou  must  have 
pity! 
Albert.    I   have  a  mother  —  but  she  would   not 
know  me — 
The  savage  creatures  are  my  kindred  now! 
But  I  will  love  thee,  Angela  —  will  make 
Thee  queen  o'  th'  sea — I  'II  wed  thee  with  this  ring ! 
[He  attempts  to  put  a  ring  on  her  finger. 
Angela.     Away  with  thy  unholy  touch!  away! 

[She  springs  to  the  prow  of  the  vessel. 
If  thou  but  lay  thy  finger  on  my  garment, 
The  sea  shall  have  a  creature  so  polluted  ! 
Stand  ofi!  thou  shalt  not  drag  me  from  this  place  — 
Here  will  I  die,  if  so  the  will  of  heaven! 

Albert,    [turning  aside,  and  pressing  his  hand  on  his 
forehead.]    I  'm  mad  !  I  knew  I  was  !  —  this 
throbbing  pain 
Is  madness !  —  I  have  done  a  deed  of  hell. 
And  God  has  cursed  me  for  it !  —  Angela  ! 
I  will  not  do  thee  wrong — poor  friendless  child, 
I  will  not  do  thee  wrong  !     [He  staggers  off  the  deck. 


SCENE  XI. 

Nighl — Albert's  cabin,  a  dim  lamp  is  burning — Albert 
appears  asleep  —  a  shriek  is  heard  on  deck,  and  a 
heavy  plunge  into  the  sea  —  Albert  starts  up. 

Oh,  gracious  heaven,  that  is  the  woman's  voice ! 
Where  is  she  ? —  where  am  I  ?  —  Ah,  I  have  slept 
A  blood-polluted  murderer,  I  have  slept ! 

Enter  the  captain. 

Albert.     What  shriek  was  that?  —  and  where  is 
Angela? 

Cap.    ^\'here  plummet  will  not  reach  her ! 

Albert.  Heartless  wretch.— 

Dost  say  she  's  dead  with  such  a  voice  as  that  ? 
If  thou  know'st  aught  of  this,  by  all  that 's  sacred 
Thy  life  shall  answer  for  't! 

Cap.  My  hands  are  clean 

Of  this  girl's  life  ! — But  listen,  and  I  '11  tell  you  — 
Your  drunken  wooing  frightened  her  last  night! 
Have  you  forgot  how,  in  her  desperation. 
She  stood,  her  wild  hair  streaming  in  the  wind. 
And  her  pale  countenance  upturned  to  heaven? 

Albert.     But  she  is  dead  ! 

Cap.  Well,  as  slie  stood  at  eve 

Stood  she  at  midnight,  motionless,  yet  muttering 
A  thousand  quick-said  prayers,  with  clasped  hands. 
Like  some  carved  image  of  immortal  sorrow  ! 

Albert.    Cease,  thou  wilt  drive  me  mad  ! 

Cap.  The  loaded  sails 

Dropped  momently  their  heavy  beads  of  dew 

30 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


21 


Upon  the  silent  deck,  meting  out  time 
As  the  clock's  ticking;  —  still  she  stood,  like  death, 
The  midnight  dew  in  her  black  trailing  hair. 
And  the  while  moon  upon  her  whiter  fiice ! 

Albert.  And  I  the  w  hile  was  taking  senseless  sleep ! 

Cap.    The  drunken  watch   believed   themselves 
alone;  — 
They  seized  her  in  the  darkness  ; —  from  their  grasp 
She  sprang  into  the  w-aves,  and  sank  for  ever ! 

Albert.     And  thou  saw'st  this,  and  did  not  strike 
them  dead  !  [He  rushes  out. 

Cap.  I  '11  let  them  settle  it  as  they  like  best. 
'T  was  but  to  know  if  she  were  dead  or  living 
That  the  poor  men  approached  her ! 

[He  goes  to  a/i  inner  cliamber. 


SCEi\E  XII. 

Night  —  tempest  —  thunder  and  lightning  —  the  ship 
drives  before  the  storm  —  Albert's  cabin  —  Albert 
alone : 

Three  days  the  storm  has  raged  —  nor  is  there  yet 
Token  of  its  abatement !     All  is  done 
That  skill  of  man  can  do  to  save  our  lives  ; 
The  ship  is  lightened  of  her  heavy  lading  — 
That  cursed  freight  for  which  we  sold  our  souls 
Has  been  cast  overboard  —  yet  rages  still 
The  fury  of  the  tempest.    'T  is  a  sign 
Of  heaven's  eternal  punishment.  —  O  sin. 
How  are  thy  wages  death !  —  But  God  is  just, 
And  hath  no  mercy  on  us,  who  had  none ! 
Tlie  very  sea  hath  from  her  jaws  cast  forth 
The  murdered  dead — she  has  made  cause  against  us; 
Pale  ghastly  faces,  cresting  the  fierce  waters. 
Keep  in  the  vessel's  wake  as  if  in  mockery  I 
And  groans  and  cries,  and  curses  dark  as  hell. 
Howl  in  the  tempest  —  and  that  woman's  shriek. 
And  the  wild  protestations  of  the  men. 
Are  ever  in  our  ears!    The  ship  is  full 
Of  terrible  phantoms  that  pass  lo  and  fro. 
Keeping  their  eyes  on  me  —  they  haunt  him  not  — 
He  has  no  mercy,  no  comi)unction  either, 
And  calmly  sleeps  as  though  he  had  not  sinned  — 
But  if  /sleep,  in  dreams  they  drag  my  soul 
With  horrible  compulsion  to  the  pit!  — 
There,  there  they  stand  !  I  see  them  now  around  me! 
'Oh,  fearful  spectres,  fasten  not  your  eyes 
On  me  with  such  a  woful  meaning  !     Hence  ! 
Hence!  ye  do  blast  my  vision  like  the  lightning  ! 
Stand  offi  stand  off!  ye  do  approach  too  near  — 
The  air  is  hot !  I  have  not  space  to  breathe  ! 

[He  rushes  lo  the  door,  the  Captain  meets  him. 

Cap.     I  heard  your  voice,  you  have  got  company? 

Albert.     Out  of  my  way  !  —  My  blackest  curse  be 
on  thee : 
I  am  a  damned  sinner  through  thy  means ! 

Cap.    Peace,  peace  !  your  passion  overmasters  you  I 

Albert.     Have  I  not  need  to  curse    thee  lo  thy 
face  ? 


Thou  hast  brought  misery  on  me  !  I  am  dyed 
Black  in  eternal  shame  — The  fierce  purgation 
Of  everlasting  fire  would  cleanse  me  not! 

Cap.  Come,  come,  my  friend,  we  've  had  too  much 
of  raving ! 
Are  we  never  to  meet  without  these  squabblings? 
I  'm  tired  of  them,  and  I  have  tidings  lor  you  — 
The  rain  has  ceased,  the  tempest  is  abating; 
The  moon  is  struggling  through  the  broken  clouds. 
We  shall  have  calm  anon,  and  gain  a  harbour. 

Albert.     Tempest  or  calm  is  all  alike  to  me  : 
Harbour  I  seek  not  —  give  annihilation  — 
An  everlasting  hush,  and  I  will  bless  thee! 

[He  goes  out  —  the  Captain  follows  him. 


SCENE  XIII. 

The  vessel  floating  without  mast  or  rudder— famine  on 
board — the  crew  mutinous — Albert  and  the  Captain 
apart  from  the  rest — Albert  sits  with  his  head  resting 
on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  as  if  in  unconscious- 
ness— a  violent  struggle  is  heard  on  the  distant  part 
of  the  deck,  and  a  body  falls. 

Albert.    What  miserable  sound  of  mortal  strife 
Was  that  I  heard  e'en  now  ? 

Cap.  Two  famished  wretches 

Strove  for  a  mouse,  and  one  hath  killed  the  other  — 
And  now  they  fight  like  tigers  for  the  body ! 

Albert.    Oh,  horrible!    \'engeance  is  with  us  now ! 
What  further  consummation  can  there  be  ? 

[He  advances  along  the  deck  leilh  difficulty ; 
the  seamen  are  eagerly  stripping  the  body. 
Albert.     My  brethren  in  affliction,  sin  not  thus; 
Touch  not  that  llesh,  lest  God  abandon  you ! 

Mate.    There  is  no  bread  !  —  there  is  no  drop  of 
water ! 
These  cannot  speak  for  thirst  —  nor  shall  I  long  — 
If  you  have  water,  give  it  us ! 

Albert.  Alas! 

I  have  it  not  —  I  shared  the  last  with  you! 
Mate.    Then  let  us  have  the  boat,  and  save  our- 
selves ;  — 
Some  land  is  near,  for  many  flights  of  birds 
Have  patsed  us  since  the  morning. 

Alhert.  [aside.]  Still  that  prayer ! 

If  they  reach  any  shore,  I  am  undone ! 
But  'tis  impossible!  —  their  feeble  arms 
Could  not  sustain  the  oars  —  and  without  compass 
They  cannot  gain  the  land  —  I  'm  safe  from  them ! 
[aloud]  Well,  take  the  boat  —  ye  can  but  die  at  last! 
[The  baal  is  launched  in  silence,  and  mth 
difficulty  —  they  throw  in  their  blankets, 
and  all  take  their  seals  except  the  mate. 
Male.  Now,  sir,  we  want  a  compass — there  are  tvi'o 
Down  in  the  cabin.  ' 

Albert.  There  is  only  one. 

And  that  ye  shall  not  have  ! 

Mate.  Then  be  our  blood 

Upon  your  head — and  may  the  fiend  keep  with  you! 
[They  row  off  in  silence. 
31 


22 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SCENE  XIV. 
Albert's  city  —  two  merchants  on  'Change. 

1st  Mer.    I've  seen   the  men  myself,  and  heard 
their  story, 
In  number  they  are  seven  —  a  ghastly  crew, 
Like  walking  corpses  from  a  charnel-house  ; 
Their  lips  were  black  and  shrivelled,  and  their  jaws 
Hang  like  the  stiffened  jaws  of  a  dead  face. 
For  thirteen  days  they  had  not  tasted  food ; 
They  now  are  lodged  within  the  hospital; 
And  I  have  heard  their  dreadful  history, 
More  horrible  than  their  condition! 

2nd  Mer.  How  ? 

Be  quick,  and  tell  us  how  ? 

Ist  Mer.  It  doth  involve 

The  credit  of  a  well  esteemed  house: 
They  are  the  remnant  of  a  crew  thai  sailed 
With  Albert  Luberg,  on  that  fatal  night 
When,  by  a  sudden  tempest  wrecked,  his  ship 
Went  down  without  the  harbour.     On  that  night, 
As  you  perhaps  have  heard,  for  it  was  talked  of, 
He  joined  himself  unto  a  foreign  captain, 
And  sailed,  no  one  knew  whither. 

2nd  Mer.  And  what  then  ? 

\st  Mer.  This  captain  was  a  pirate,  and  these  men 
Tell  such  a  horrible  story  of  their  deeds 
As  makes  the  blood  run  cold  ! 

2nd  Mer.  But  Albert  Luberg 

Could  not  turn  pirate !    'Tis  a  base  assertion ! 
These  fellows  have  been  mutinous,  and  now 
Would  blast  the  honour  of  a  worthy  man  ; 
They  are  a  lying  crew  —  I'll  not  believe  it! 

\st  Mer.    Nay,  hear  the   men  yourself!    You'll 
not  detect 
The  semblance  of  a  lie  —  't  is  a  calm  story ; 
Made,  by  their  separate  testimony,  sure. 
But  here  comes  one  whom  I  did  leave  with  them, 
Ask  him,  and  he  will  tell  you  this,  and  more. 

"ird  Mer.  [coming  jip.]    Well  sir,  I  've  heard  this 
doleful  story  through. 
And  fresh  particulars  which  you  heard  not. 
It  is  a  fearful  tale ;  and  yet  is  full 
Of  a  most  wholesome  lesson,  which  will  preach 
Unto  the  sinner  that  the  arm  of  God 
Is  still  stretched  out  to  punish,  let  him  strive 
Against  it  as  he  will  —  for  this  poor  wretch. 
Though  he  refused  a  compass  to  these  men. 
That  they  might  reach  no  shore  to  implicate  him, 
Shall  find  his  cruel  wisdom  incfrectiial. 
For  they  were  guided  by  the  arm  of  God 
Ovc  the  pathless  waters,  to  this  port, 
That  so  his  infamy  might  be  perfected  ! 
For  them  the  sea  grew  calm  —  and  a  strong  gale 
Impelled  them  ever  forv\ard  without  oars, 
Which  they  were  all  unfit  to  ply  —  their  sail 
A  tattered  blanket ! 

2nd  Mer.  Ah,  my  heart  doth  ache 

To  think  of  his  poor  mother,  that  good  lady 
Who  ever  lived  in  blameless  reputation  ! 
And  then  her  niece,  the  gentle,  orphaned  Constance! 


\st  Mer.    I  know  they  had  misgivings  —  for  his 
mother 
Took  to  her  bed  in  grief  for  his  departure, 
And  Constance  hath  shunned  company  since  then. 

2nd  Mer.    Alas,   'twill   break   their  hearts,  they 
loved  him  so ! 

Alh  Mer.   [coming   vp.]     I  would   consult  you  on 
this  dreadful  business 
Of  Albert  Luberg  —  Were  it  not  most  right 
To  send  a  vessel  out  to  meet  with  him  ? 
He  cannot  be  far  distant,  for  these  men 
Came  hither  in  five  days  in  their  poor  boat! 

3rd  Mer.    If  he  were  in  another  hemisphere, 
It  were  but  right  to  follow  him,  for  justice! 

1st  Mer.  And  is  not  the  great  will  of  God  revealed 
In  the  miraculous  saving  of  these  men  ? 

4M  Mer.     We  are  agreed  then  I  Let  us  find  a  ship 
Fit  for  this  service,  lightly  built  and  swiff. 
Which  may  pursue  him  round  the  world  itself 

1st  and  3rd  Mer.     'T  is  a  right  judgment ! 

2nd  Mer.  Ah,  poor  Madame  Luberg ! 

[They  all  go  off  together. 


SCENE  XV. 
Street  —  a  crowd  assembled. 

1st  Man.    He  was  brought  in  this  morning. 

2nd  Man.     Did  you  see  him  ? 

1st  Man.  No,  but  I  saw  the  wreck  he  was  taken 
from  —  nothing  but  a  black,  weather-beaten  hull ;  it 
lay  like  an  old  boat  on  the  water,  you  would  have 
said  it  would  go  to  pieces  with  every  wave,  and  yet 
the  timbers  were  all  sound  —  they  said  it  had  not 
sprung  a  leak,  nor  would  have  perished  for  months. 

3rd  Man.     And  have  they  got  them  both  ? 

Isl  Matt.    Only  Luberg;  the  other  got  off,  nobody 
knows  how,  —  they  say  he  is  the  devil ! 

2nd  Man.     Lord  have  mercy  on  us ! 

[The  crowd  increases. 

Aih  Man.  Well,  I  've  seen  him — and  I  wish  I  had 
never  set  eyes  on  him!  Oh,  he's  a  bad  man  I  he 
has  a  horrid  look  —  and  I  remember  him  a  proper 
young  man,  and  the  handsomest  that  went  out  of 
harbour ! 

5lh  Man.  But  he  was  dying  of  hunger  when  they 
picked  him  from  the  wreck — they  say  a  child  would 
outweigh  him  !  poor  fellow  ! 

C)th  Man.     Do  you  pity  him,  a  bloody  pirate .' 

bih  Man.  Oh  but  you  havn't  seen  his  face  as  T 
have!  He  is  like  a  withered  old  man,  and  has  such 
a  look  of  misery !  God  help  him  ! 

1st  Man.     And  what's  to  be  done  with  him  ? 

Gth  Man.  They  say  he  w  ill  be  hung  in  irons  on 
the  wreck,  and  then  all  will  be  sunk  together  I 

Ith  Man.     'T  is  no  more  than  he  deserves  I 

5M  ^fan.  If  all  had  their  deserts,  who  would  es- 
cape the  gallows  ? 

2rd  Man.    Let 's  go  look  at  the  wreck. 

Several.    Let's  go!  [They  disperse. 

32 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


23 


SCEM-:  XVI. 

A  small,  (lark  cell  in  a  prison — Albert  heavily  ironed, 
is  sealed  upon  straw ;  he  is  hag:gard  and  wild  in 
appearance,  with  his  eyes  cast  down  as  if  stupified. 
The  door  slowly  opens,  and  Constance,  in  deep 
mourning,  enters;  she  seats  herself  on  a  bench  near 
him,  looks  on  him  in  silence  and  weeps ;  Albert 
slowli/  raises  his  head,  and  gazes  at  her  for  some 
time  before  he  appears  to  recognise  her. 

Albert.    I  dare  not  speak  the  name,  but  is  it  thou  ? 
Cons.    Oh   Albert,  Albert! 

Albert.  Canst  ihou  speak  my  name  ? 

Do  ye  not  curse  me,  thou  and  my  iioor  mother? 

[He  bows  his  head  to  his  knees,  and  weeps 
bitterly. 
Cons,     [kneeling  beside  him.]    Oh  God  !  who  art  a 
father  to  the  aflhcted. 
Who  art  a  fount  of  mercy  — look  on  him! 
Pity  and  pardon  liim,  and  give  him  peace. 
Oh  Christ !  who  in  thine  hour  of  mighty  woe, 
Didst  comfort  the  poor  thief  upon  the  cross, 
Bless  tiie  bowed  sinner  in  his  prison-house ! 

Albert.    Thou  angel  of  sweet  mercy  !  woe  is  me! 
Sorrow  hath  left  its  trace  upon  thy  cheek — 
I  am  a  cursed  spoiler,  who  was  born 
To  wring  the  hearts  that  loved  me  ! — oh  my  mother! 
My  gracious  mother !  is  she  changed  as  thou  ? 

Cons.    Thy  mother  !  ask  not,  Albert,  of  thy  mother. 
Albert.     Ah,  she  does  not  forgive  me  !    nor  will 

God! 
Cons.     Albert,  thy  mother's  dead — and  her  last 
words 
Were  prayers  for  thee ! 

Albert.  Then  I  have  killed  my  mother ! 

Oh  blood  !  blood,  blood !  will  my  poor  soul  be  never 
Freed  from  the  curse  of  blood  ! 

Cons,  [taking  his  hmid.]  Albert,  be  calm, 
'T  was  by  the  will  of  God,  that  that  dear  saint 
Went  to  her  blessed  rest  —  I  mourn  her  not  — 
I  do  rejoice  in  her  eternal  peace  ! 

Albert,    [looking  on  the  hand  (f  Constance.]    I  dare 
not  press  it  to  my  longing  lips  — 
There  is  pollution  on  them  —  they  have  sworn 
False  oaths  —  they  have  by  cruel,  flittering  lies, 
Lured  to  destruction  one  as  true  as  ihou ! 
There  is  a  gentle,  a  meek-hearted  maiden 
Burning  her  nightly  beacon  of  sweet  woods 
Upon  the  peak  of  a  fair,  palmy  isle, 
To  guide  me  o'er  the  waters  !  long  ere  this 
She  must  have  pined,  and  pined  —  and  she  will  die 
Heart-broken  I  Constance,  do  not  look  on  me  — 
For  thou  w  dt  curse  me,  hate  me,  spurn  me  from  thee. 
I  am  a  monster,  dost  thou  fear  me  not  ? 
Have  they  not  told  thee  of  my  cruel  sins  ? 

Cons.     Albert,  I  fear  thee  not —  I  mourn  for  thee. 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  siiuied,  but  I  forgave  thee ! 
May  God  forgive  thee,  and  support  that  maiden! 
Albert.    Thou  art  not  woman,  Constance,  thou  art 
angel ! 
Ah,  there  were  days  when  we  two  sate  together, 


Glad,  innocent  spirits;  when  from  the  same  prayer- 
book 
We  made  the  same  respon.ses,  and  our  eyes 
Traversed  the  page  together,  save  when  mine 
Glanced  from  the  book  upon  thy  gentle  cheek. 
And  watched  it  crimson,  conscious  of  my  gaze  ! 
Ah,  I  was  guiltless  then!  and  then  my  mother 
Gave  me  the  holy  book  to  read  to  her, 
Fve  afler  eve.  —  Oh  then  I  loved  that  book, 
And  holy  things — then  heaven  seemed  just  before  me, 
Death  an  immeasurable  distance  off! 
Now  death  stares  in  my  face  —  a  horrid  death  ! 
And  heaven  —  oh,  I  am  damned  !  I  have  no  hope  ! 

Cons.     Say  not,  dear  Albert,  that  thou    hast  no 
hope! 

Albert.    I  have  no  hope — I  tell  thee,  I  have  none ! 
It  were  abusing  mercy  to  extend  it     * 
To  such  a  wretch  as  I ! 

Cons.  But  cry  to  God 

For  pardon,  for  repentance  :  he  will  hear  thee! 

Albert.     I  cannot  pray  —  my  tongue  has  cursed  so 
long 
I  have  forgot  the  words  men  use  in  prayer! 

Co7is.    Dear  Albert,  now  I  fear  thee  —  thou  art 
frantic !  [She  rises. 

Albert.    Nay,  leave  me  not !    Oh  do  not,  do  not 
leave  me ! 
When  we  part  here,  we  ne'er  shall  meet  again  — 
That  great  impassable  gulf  will  lie  between  us  ! 

Co7is.    Oh  Albert,  promise  me  to  pray  to  God  — 
Christ  died,  thou  know  'st,  ibr  sinners ! 

Albert.  My  good  angel. 

Would  that  my  judge  were  pitiful  as  thou! 

[A  rattling  cf  keys  is  heard  outside  the 
door,  it  opens,  and  the  gaoler  enters. 

Gao.    The  chaplain  is  without,  and  he  would  pray 
Yet  once  more  with  the  prisoner. 

llie  CHAPLAIN  enters. 

Cons,  to  Albert.  Now,  now  farewell ! 

And  may  Almighty  God  look  down  and  bless  thee ! 
Albert,  [wildly]  Farewell,  farewell!  we  shall  meet 
never  more ! 
It  is  a  farewell  for  eternity ! 

[Constance,  overcome  by  her  feelings,  is 
supported  out  by  the  chaplain. 


Achzib  made  his  escape  from  the  pirate-ship  in 
some  way  which  eluded  all  detection.  He  did  not, 
however,  think  it  expedient  to  enter  again  the  sea- 
port ;  and  as  all  places  were  alike  to  him,  with  this 
exception,  he  resigned  himself  to  chance,  and  took 
up  his  abode  in  the  first  considerable  city  he  came  to. 
He  was  so  extravagantly  elated  with  his  success, 
that  he  carried  himself  with  so  self  satisfied  an  air  as 
to  attract  the  notice  of  every  one.  Some  said  he 
was  newly  come  into  possession  of  a  great  fortune, 
ami  that  money,  and  the  importance  it  gained  for 
him,  were  so  novel  as  to  have  turned  his  head  ;  some 
said  he  was  the  liltle-creat  man  of  a  small  town, 
where  his  consequential  airs  were  mistaken  lor  marks 

33 


24 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


of  real  greatness ; — others  said  he  was  a  travelling 
doctor,  who  had  just  taken  out  a  new  patent : — while 
Others  took  him  lor  a  marvellously  wise  philosopher, 
who,  thinking  of  anything  rather  than  himself,  had 
acquired  this  ridiculous  carriage  in  sheer  absence  of 
mind  ; — and  others  again,  supposed  him  to  be  a  poet, 
inflated  with  the  success  of  a  new  poem. 

Achzib,  in  the  meantime,  thinking  he  had  done 
enough  for  the  present,  determined  to  have  an  inter- 
val of  rest.  He  accordingly  took  a  large  house,  fur- 
nished it  sumptuously,  and  began  in  reality  to  be 
looked  upon  as  somebody-  He  did  not,  it  is  true, 
hold  much  intercourse  with  the  citizens,  though  he 
was  a  most  munificent  patron  of  boxers,  wrestlers, 
and  all  kind  of  prize-fighters  and  gamblers.  He  oc- 
casionally went  on  'Change  too,  and  circulated  now 
and  then  some^purious  lie  or  other  ;  which,  derang- 
ing all  money  business,  while  it  made  the  lijrtunes 
of  a  few,  was  the  ruin  of  many.  He  had  considera- 
ble dealings  also  with  the  usurers;  and  keeping  a 
pack  of  hounds  and  a  noble  stud  of  horses,  found  oc- 
cupation enough  both  for  day  and  night.  To  diver- 
sify his  employments  he  dabbled  in  judicial  astrology, 
and  the  favourite  pursuits  of  the  old  alchemists.  He 
repeatedly  asserted  that  he  had  mixed  the  Elixir 
Vitae,  and  also  that  he  could  compound  the  Philoso- 
pher's-stone.  They  who  heard  this,  had  an  easy  way 
of  accounting  for  the  money  that  he  appeared  always 
to  have  at  command;  but  he  himself  well  knew  that 
every  stiver  was  drawn  from  the  bags  of  the  usurer, 
though  never  destined  to  find  their  way  back  again. 
The  life  Achzib  led,  was  much  to  his  mind  ;  he 
told  lies  with  the  most  truthful  face  in  the  world,  and 
cheated  in  so  gentlemanly  a  style,  that  he  might  per- 
haps have  maintained  this  life  much  longer,  had  he 
not  been  accidentally  tempted  to  his  fourth  trial. 

He  was  on  the  Prada,  or  place  of  public  resort,  and 
seeing  two  grave  persons  in  deep  discourse  together, 
and  who  seemed  unconscious  of  all  that  surrounded 
them,  he  took  a  seat  near,  hoping  to  hear  some  secret 
worth  knowing  or  telling.  Their  conversation,  how- 
ever, was  entirely  of  a  moral  or  religious  nature  ;  and 
Achzib  would  soon  have  been  weary  of  it,  had  they 
not  branched  off  to  the  subject  of  temi)tation,  and  the 
habits  of  mind  which  render  a  man  peculiarly  assail- 
able by  it. 

"For  instance,"  said  the  one,  "old  age,  if  beset  ^y 
temptation,  could  but  inadequately  resist  it,  for  the 
mind  becomes  enfeebled  with  the  body.  Youth  ma^ 
be  inexperienced  and  volatile;  middle  age  engrossed 
by  the  world  and  its  pursuits ;  but  is  it  not  the  noble 
enthusiasm  of  the  one,  and  the  severe  uprightness  of 
the  other  which  makes  them  often  superior  to  their 
trials;  and  which  of  these  docs  the  weakness  and 
despondency  of  old  age  posse.«s  ?" 

"  But,"  rejoined  the  otiier,  "  the  passions  have 
ceased  to  stimulate  in  old  age.  Ambition,  love,  and  I 
avarice,  are  the  temptations  of  earlier  lite.  Men  do  I 
not  become  suddenly  vicious  in  old  age,  for  the  habits  [ 
of  mind  and  body  in  men  becoui<;  part  and  parcel  of  j 
themselves;  and,  if  through  life  these  have  been  I 
regulated  by  principle,  I  say  not  religion,  they  will  ; 
preserve  age,  if  it  were  assailed   by  temptation,  as 


effectually  as  the  higher  motives  of  more  vigorous 
life." 

"  True,"  replied  the  first  speaker,  "  if  the  trial 
came  only  through  the  medium  of  the  passions;  but 
though  a  man  may  have  arrived  at  old  age  unpol- 
luted by  outward  sins,  yet  the  temper  of  his  mind 
may  be  the  very  opposite  of  virtue.  He  may  doubt 
the  goodness  of  God,  though  his  life  has  been  one 
series  of  mercies ;  he  may  be  obstinately  uncheered 
by  his  love,  and  unawakened  by  his  daily  Provi- 
dence. A  murmuring,  morbid  doubting  of  God's 
goodness  is  the  peculiar  weakness  of  such  a  mind  — 
and  the  human  being  who  can  have  passed  through 
life,  and  at  last  retains  such  a  spirit,  is  neither  guilt- 
less of  sin,  nor  unassailable  by  temptation." 

"  But  such  a  case,"  replied  the  other,  "  is  extremely 
rare.  Old  age  finds  a  natural  aliment  in  religion  ; 
and  as  its  ties  to  the  earth  are  sundered,  the  very 
necessities  of  its  nature  unite  it  more  closely  with 
heaven." 

"  Such  a  case,"  persisted  his  friend,  "  may  be  rare, 
but  alas,  it  is  not  beyond  the  range  of  human  experi- 
ence ;  and  the  peculiar  prayer  of  such  a  spirit  should 
be,  'lead  me  not  into  temptation!'" 

"Oh,  but,"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  holy  enthu- 
siasm, "God,  who  is  boundless  and  long-suffering  in 
mercy,  and  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb, 
will  keep  such  feeble  spirit  from  trial  beyond  his 
strength;  or  in  his  loving-kindness  will  extend  the 
hand  of  his  mercy  to  save  him,  even  as  the  sinking 
apostle  was  sustained  when  his  faith  failed  him  u]pon 
the  waters !" 

Achzib  rose  up  before  the  conclusion  of  this  last 
observation ;  taking  great  praise  to  himself  that  wise 
men,  such  as  he,  gathered  up  their  advantage  from 
even  the  casual  conversation  of  two  strangers. 


THE    OLD    MAN. 


PERSONS. 

OLD   MA\. 

MARGARET,    HIS    DAUGHTEU.  * 

UGGLI.N,    THE   SUITOR    OF    MARGARET. 
ACHZIB,   A   STRA.NGER. 

SCENE  I. 

A  umaU  house  just  without  the  gale  of  the  city  —  an 
old  and  much  enfeebled  parol i/lic,  silting  by  his  door 
in  the  sun. 

Old  Man.     Supported  by  Eternal  Truth, 
Nature  is  in  perpetual  youth; 
As  at  the  first,  her  flovvei-s  unfold. 

And  her  fruits  ripen  in  the  sun. 

And  the  rich  year  its  course  doth  run ; 
For  nature  never  groweth  old  I 
A  thousand  generations  back 

Yon  glorious  sun  looked  not  more  bright, 
Nor  kept  the  moon  her  silent  track 

More  truly  through  tlie  realms  of  night! 
34 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


Oh,  nature  never  groweth  old, 

Tell  me,  —  I  fain  would  go. 

The  Eternal  arm  doth  her  uphold! 

For  I  am  wearied  with  a  heavy  woe! 

She  droopeth  not,  dnth  not  decay; 

The  beautiful  have  left  me  all  alone; 

Is  beautiful  as  on  the  day 

The  true,  llie  tender,  from  my  path  are  gone! 

When  the  strong  morning-stars  poured  out 

Oh  guide  me  with  thy  hand. 

Their  hymn  of  triumph  at  the  birth, 

If  thou  dost  know  that  land. 

Of  the  young,  undeclining  earth. 

For  I  am  burihencd  with  oppressive  care. 

And  all  the  sons  of  God  did  shout 

And  I  am  weak  and  fearful  with  despair! 

In  their  immortal  joy  to  see 

Where  is  it?  tell  me  where? 

It  bound  into  immensity! 

Thou  that  art  kind  and  gentle,  tell  me  where? 

But  man,  for  whom  the  earth  was  made, 

A  feeble  worm,  doth  dmop  and  fade! 

Friend,  thou  must  trust  in  Him  who  trod  before 

Those  fleecy  clouds,  like  hills  of  heaven, 

The  desolate  paths  of  life  ; 

To  them  is  constant  beauty  given  ; 

Must  bear  in  meekness  as  he  meekly  bore 

This  little  flower  which  at  my  feet 

Sorrow,  and  pain,  and  strife ! 

Springs  up,  is  beautiful  and  sweet  — 

Think  how  the  son  of  God 

A  thousand  years,  and  this  poor  flower 

These  thorny  paths  hath  trod  ; 

Will  be  the  same  as  at  this  hour! 

Think  how  he  longed  to  go. 

But  man,  who  as  a  lord  is  placed 

Yet  tarried  out  for  thee  the  appointed  woe: 

Amid  creation,  what  is  he  ? 

Think  of  his  weariness  in  places  dim. 

A  thing  whose  beauty  is  defaced 

When  no  man  comforted  nor  cared  for  him ! 

Bv  age,  by  toil,  by  miserj'! 

Think  of  ihe  blood-like  sweat. 

Wherefore  that  proud  intelligence; 

With  which  his  brow  was  wet. 

That  discontented,  reasoning  sense 

Yet  how  he  prayed,  unaided  and  alone. 

Which  keeps  him  restless,  and  doth  send 

In  that  great  agony,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !" 

His  struggling  thought  through  depth  and  height  ; 

Friend,  do  not  thou  despair. 

Which  makes  him  strive  to  comprehend 

Christ  from  his  heaven  of  heavens  will  hear  thy 

The  Eternal  and  the  Infinite  ? 

prayer ! 

Wherefore  this  immaterial  being 

Old  Man.    My  daughter,  thou   hast  brought  me 

Which  with  the  body  is  at  strife ; 

back. 

This  povierful  pulse  of  inward  lile, 

For  I  have  erred ;  my  soul  is  weak, 

Which  ever  feeling,  hearing,  seeing. 

It  ever  leaves  the  righteous  track. 

Finds  nothing  that  can  satisfy  ? 

Some  dangerous,  darker  path  to  seek ! 

Better  methinks,  the  eagle's  wing. 

God  pardon  me  if  I  have  sinned ! 

Which  bears  it  where  its  soul  would  spring. 

But  my  impatient  soul  doth  long 

Up  to  the  illimitable  sky  I 

To  leave  this  weary  flesh  behind. 

Better  the  desert-creature's  might. 

And  be  once  more  the  young,  the  strong ! 

That  makes  its  life  a  strong  delight. 

And  when  I  see,  untired,  unspent. 

Than  this  unquiet  bosom-guest 

How  nature  keeps  her  lovelmess, 

That  fdls  man's  being  with  unrest ! 

Like  some  strong  life  omnipotent. 

Time  was,  my  life  was  bright  as  theirs ; 

I  do  abhor  my  feebleness ; 

Time  was,  my  spirit  had  no  cloud  — 

And  marvel  whence  it  is  man's  frame. 

But  age  the  buoyant  frame  has  bowed. 

That  shrines  a  spirit  strong  and  bold. 

And  gloomed  my  soul  with  many  cares! 

Which  hath  a  proud,  immortal  aim. 

Oh  youth,  how  I  look  back  to  thee, 

Becomes  so  bowed  and  fieebly  old ; 

As  to  an  Eden  I  have  lost; 

Why  he  kee|)s  not  his  manhood's  strength 

Thy  beauty  ever  haunteth  me 

Maturely  stately,  filled  with  grace. 

As  an  unquiet,  lovely  ghost, 

And  rich  in  knowledge,  till  at  length 

Which  in  my  arms  I  would  enfold. 

He  goes  to  his  appointed  place ; 

But  thou  elud'st  my  feeble  hold ! 

Can  God  delight  or  beauty  see 

But  hark!  my  daughter  singeth  now! 

In  age's  dark  infirmity? 

Sweet  words  are  ever  on  her  tongue, 

Take,  take  me  hence  !  1  am  grown  weary ! 

And  a  glad  kindness  lights  her  brow: 

Life  is  a  prison,  dark  and  dreary! 

No  wonder  is  it,  she  is  young ! 

Oh  that  my  soul  could  soar  away 

[The  sound  of  a  wheel  is  heard  within, 

Up  to  the  imperishable  day. 
And  drink  at  ever-living  rills. 

and  a  voice  singing  : 

And  cast  behind  this  weary  clay, 

There  is  a  land  where  beauty  cannot  fade, 

This  life  of  never-ending  ills! 

Nor  sorrow  dim  the  eye ; 

Where  true-love  shall  not  droop  nor  be  dismayed, 

But  who  comes  here  ?     1  know  him  not. 

And  none  shall  ever  die! 

Or  if  I  did,  I  have  f()rgot ; 

\Vhere  is  that  land,  oh  where? 

My  senses  are  so  feeble  grown. 

For  I  would  hasten  there  ! 

I  know  not  now  whom  I  have  known! 

35 


26 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Enter  a  stranger. 

Strang.  Friend,  I  would  take  a  seat  by  you  awhile, 
I'm  weary  with  the  travel  of  to-day. 

Old  Man.     What,  are  you  weary  with  the  jour- 
neying 
Of  one  short  day  ?     Are  you  not  hale  and  strong? 
Rlethinks  you  scarcely  are  past  middle  life  — 
When  I  was  your  age,  I  was  never  weary ! 

Strang.    I  do  believe  you,  friend  :  I  can  see  traces 
Of  vigour  that  has  been;  and  I  have  heard 
Of  your  herculean  strength,  long  years  ago. 

Old  Man.     Ay  sir,  I  have  been  young,  but  now 
am  old ! 

Strang.     There   was   no  wrestler  like  you,  no 
strong  swimmer 
Could  breast  the  billows  with  you  ;  you  could  run 
Up  to  the  mountain  summit  like  the  goat, 
Bounding  from  crag  to  crag  —  you  followed  then 
The  shepherd's  healthful  calling,  and  were  knov^n 
Both  near  and  far,  as  a  bold  mountaineer. 

Old  Man.    You  had  not  knowledge  of  me  in  my 
youth  ? 

Strang.    No,  but  I  oft  have  heard  you  spoken  of. 
As  so  excelling  in  athletic  sports. 
Men  made  a  proverb  of  you  ;  afterward, 
You  served  your  country  in  its  bloody  wars, 
And  seconding  your  valour  by  your  arm. 
Did  miracles  of  bravery. 

Old  Man.  All  is  over! 

Old  age  has  crippled  me.     I  am  sunk  down 
Into  the  feeble,  wretched  thing  you  see  I 
Why  was  I  not  cut  down  in  that  strong  prime  ? 
I  loathe  this  weary  wasting,  day  by  day  — 
I  am  a  load  on  others  as  myself! 

Strang.     Age,  my  good  friend,  is  dark,  dark  and 
unlovely : 
'Tis  no  new  truth  discovered  yesterday! 

Old  Man.    I  see  the  young  men  glorying  in  their 
strength  ; 
I  see  the  maidens  in  their  graceful  beauty, 
And  my  soul  dies  within  me  at  the  thought 
That  they  must  fade,  and  wither,  and  bow  down. 
Like  me,  beneath  the  burthen  of  old  age  ! 

Strang.     It  is  a  gloomy  lot  that  man  is  born  to ! 
God  deals  not  kindly  in  afflicting  thus ; 
There  can  be  no  equivalent  for  age  ; 
Would  not  the  monarch,  stricken  by  the  weight 
Of  fourscore  years  and  I  heir  infirmities, 
Buy  youth  from  the  poor  peasant  at  the  price 
Of  twenty  kingdoms  ?    Life  should  have  been  given 
Methinks,  exempt  from  miserable  decay  ,• 
Enough  that  we  must  lay  it  down  at  last. — 
But  you  are  silent,  friend  !     Have  I  not  struck 
Into  the  very  current  of  your  thoughts  ? 

Old  Man.    I  know  not  if  such  thoughts  be  wise 
and  good  ;  — 
My  flesh  is  weak,  and  dolh  so  warp  my  spirit. 
That  I  have  murmured  thus; — but  d'od  is  wise! 
I  know  that  he  afflicts  us  for  our  good. 
And  this  I  know,  that  my  Redeemer  liveth  ; 
And  though  the  worm  this  body  shall  devour. 
Mine  eyes  shall  yet  behold  Ilim  when  this  mortal 


Shall  have  put  on  its  immortality! 

Lord,  I  believe  —  help  thou  mine  unbelief! 

Strang.     Why,  what  an  inconsistency  is  man  ! 
This  moment  you  were  murmuring  —  now  you  take 
Another  kind  of  language,  altogether  ! 

Old  Man.    I  told  you  I  was  weak !    I  do  abhor 
Old  age,  which  so  enfeebles  and  chains  down 
My  spirit  to  this  miserable  matter. 
But  I  doubt  not  that  God  is  strong  to  save ; 
And  ii'  I  keep  my  trust  in  him  unbroken, 
He,  after  death,  will  crown  me  as  a  star. 
With  an  imperishable  youth  and  glory  ! 
But  I  am  weak,  and  age  doth  wake  in  me 
A  spirit  of  imjiatience  which  is  sin  ! 

Strang.    This  fearful  spirit  of  despondency 
Which  w  hispers  "this  is  sin,  —  and  this  —  and  this !" 
Is  part  of  the  infirmity  of  age  ; 
Does  not  the  young  man,  vigorous  in  his  body. 
Think,  speak,  and  act  without  such  qualms  of  fear  ? 
You,  in  the  free  exuberance  of  youth 
Went  on  rejoicing,  like  a  creature  filled 
With  immortality  of  strength  and  beauty; 
But  as  the  body,  so  the  spirit  weakens. 
And  thus  becomes  a  feeble,  timid  thing! 

Old  Man.     I  know  it!  —  I  have  known  it  all  too 
long! 

Strang.    Seven  years  you  've  been  in  this  most  sad 
condition 

Old  Man.    I  have  —  and  I  was  threescore  years 
and  ten 
When  this  infirmity  first  fell  upon  me. 

Strang.     It  is  n  great  age,  seventy  years  and  seven; 
And  seven  years  more  you  may  remaiil  on  earth  ! 

Old  Man.     Oh,  Heaven  lorbid,  that  I  for  seven 
years  more 
Should  drag  on  this  poor  body  !  — yet  my  life 
Is  crowned  with  mercies  still ! 

Strang.  How  so,  my  friend  ? 

I  did  suppose  you  had  no  mercies  left, 
I  thought  that  they  and  youth  all  went  together. 

Old  Man.   I  have  a  child, — the  child  of  my  old  age. 
My  sons  went  to  the  dust  in  their  bright  youth — 
Daughters  I  had  —  but  they  too  were,  and  are  not! 
But  God  was  pleased  to  spare  unto  my  age 
This  youngest  born  —  this  dutiful,  dear  child, 
Who  dolh  so  tend  my  miserable  decay, 
Winning  a  decent  livelihood  by  toil ! 

Strang.     I  've  seen  her,  she  is  fair  to  look  upon: 
'Tis  much  she  haih  not  left  you  for  a  husband ! 

Old  Man.    Oh,   you   know   not  my  daughter,  to 
speak  thus ! 
Is  she  not  dutiful  ?  —  Slie  hath  put  ofiT 
Year  after  year,  the  day  of  her  espousals. 
That  she  might  tend  on  my  decrepitude  ! 

Strang.     I  do  bethink  me  now  —  she  is  betrothed 
To  the  young  pastor  of  a  mountain  people ; 
I  've  heard  it  spoken  of —  I've  seen  him  too; 
He  is  a  pale  and  melancholy  man, 
Who  reads  his  Bil)le,  and  makes  gloomy  hymns  — 
Your  daughter  often  .sings  them  to  her  wheel. 

Old  Man.    Ah,  me!   his  crossed   affection  clouds 
his  spirit. 
And  doth  impair  his  health,  not  over  strong! 

36 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


27 


And  thus  I  know  that  while  ray  life  endures 
1  must  divide  two  loving,  tender  hearts ! 
IJut  if  you  heard  hira  pouring  forth  his  faith. 
His  happy,  Christian  faith,  in  burning  words, 
And  saw  his  cheerful  life,  you  would  not  say 
He  was  a  melancholy  man  ! 

Strang.  Weil,  well, 

I  do  not  doubt  the  man  is  good  and  kind. 
And  in  your  presence  wears  a  happy  face. 
But  I  hflve  seen  him  in  his  mountain-valley, 
When  the  dark  fit  is  on  him,  sad  enough ! 

Old  Man.    God  help  me  !    I  have  sundered  them 
too  long ! 

Strang.     True,  it  must  ever  wound  a  generous 
nature 
To  know  it  is  a  bar  to  others'  bliss !  — 
But  see,  the  evening  cometh  down  apace. 
I  must  depart  —  but  if  you  will  permit  me, 
Since  I  have  business  which  within  the  city 
Will  keep  me  for  a  season,  I  will  come 
And  have  some  profitable  talk  with  you  ; 
For  with  old  age  is  wisdom  —  and  instruction 
With  length  of  days  ; —  thus  said  the  wise  of  yore. 

Old  Man.   Come  you,  and  welcome ; — I  but  rarely 
see 
The  face  of  any  one,  for  few  prefer 
The  converse  of  the  old  —  they  say  forsooth, 
His  faculties  are  darkened  with  his  years  ; 
What  boots  it  talking  to  so  old  a  man  ! 

Strang.     Good   night,  my  venerable  friend,  —  be 
sure 
I  hold  it  as  a  privilege  to  talk 
\\'iih  an  experienced,  ancient  man  like  you. 

[He  goes. 

Old  Man.    A  proper  cordial  spirit !  a  prime  spirit ! 
He  must  have  aged  parents  whom  he  serves 
With  dutiful  respect,  and  my  grey  hairs 
Are  reverenced  for  their  sakes  !  So  was  youth  taught 
When  I  was  young  ;  we  scoffed  not  at  the  old, 
Nor  held  them  drivellers,  as  youth  does  now; 
This  generation  is  corrupt,  and  lax 
In  good  morality  ;  — saving  my  daughter 
And  Ugolin,  none  reverence  my  years. 
Alas,  the  thought  of  them  brings  bitter  pangs 
Across  my  soul  I  —  This  man  knows  Ugolin, 
And  saith  he  has  his  melancholy  hours  — 
Perchance  my  cheerful  daughter  has  hers  too!  — 
Too  long  I  've  sundered  them,  for  that  they  mourn: 
.  What  do  I  know,  but  'neath  this  show  of  duty 
They  wish  me  dead  I  —  Ah,  no!  it  is  not  so; 
Shame  on  myself  for  harbouring  such  a  thought ! 

MARGARET  COmeS  Old. 

Marg.  Father,  the  sun  is  sinking  'neath  the  boughs 
Of  yonder  lime  —  and  see,  the  gilded  dome 
Within  the  city  now  is  lighted  up; 
T  is  late,  my  father,  and  the  evening  air 
Will  chill  thy  frame!  —  Give   me  thy  hand,  dear 

father, 
And  lean  on  me,  I  will  supjiort  thee  in. 
Old  Man.    JVay,  't  is  not  chill !  these  summer  eves 

are  warm  ; 
Let  me  enjoy  the  sun  while  yet  I  can. 

4 


Thou  'rt  young — thou  'It  live  to  feel  it  many  years — 
Sit  down  beside  me,  child  ! 

Marg.  Thou  hadst  a  guest 

Holding  long  converse  with  thee.    I  was  glad, 
For  there  is  little  to  divert  thy  thougtiLs 
In  this  dull  place  —  no  horsemen  [lass  this  w'ay  ; 
And  since  the  road  was  cut  beneath  the  mountain, 
But  rarely  a  foot-traveller.     Whence  came  he  ? 
Was  lie  some  scholar  travelling  in  these  parts  — 
Or  came  he  from  the  city  ? 

Old  Man.  I  scarce  know  ; 

Something  he  said  of  dwelling  in  the  city, 
But  what,  I  have  forgot ;  my  memory  fails  me, 
I  am  a  weak  old  man  I     But  sing  to  me 
Some  comfortable  hymn  —  I  ever  loved 
Music  at  sunset  in  my  better  days. 

Margaret  sings 

Oh  Lord !  before  thy  glorious  face 
My  human  soul  I  will  abase; 

Nor  pride  myself  because  I  know 
The  wonders  of  the  earth  and  skies  I 
When  the  stars  set,  and  when  they  rise ; 

And  when  the  little  flower  doth  blow. 

And  seasons  come  and  go ! 

Oh,  how  can  man  himself  present 
Before   thee,  the  Omnipotent, 

The  Omnipresent  Deity, 
And  not  abhor  th0  daring  pride 
Which  his  poor  soul  had  magnified ; 

And  not  shrink  back,  appalled  to  see 

How  far  he  is  from  thee! 

Yet,  Source  of  love,  and  life  and  light. 
The  one  existence  —  Infinite ! 

Thou  dost  regard  thy  creature  man; 
With  mercies  dost  enrich  his  lot ! 
Hast  blessed  him  though  he  knew  it  not 

From  the  first  hour  his  life  began, 

To  its  remotest  span ! 

Oh  God !  I  will  not  praise  thee  most 

For  that  which  makes  man's  proudest  boast  — 

Power,  grandeur,  or  unshackled  will  — 
But  to  thy  goodness  will  I  raise 
My  most  triumphant  song  of  praise, 

And  cast  myself  in  every  ill 

Upon  thy  mercy  still ! 

Old  Man.     'T  is  a  sweet  hymn,  a  comfortable 
hymn  ! 
My  daughter,  God  is  good,  though  man  is  weak, 
And  doubteth  of  his  providence  I 

Marg.  He  is  — 

He  is  a  god  of  mercy  more  than  judgment !  — 
But  hark!  those  are  the  sounds  of  eventide; 
The  booming  of  the  beetle,  and  the  cry. 
Shrill  as  a  reed-pipe,  of  the  little  bat; 
And  the  low  city-hum,  like  swarming  bees; 
And  the  small  water-fall,  I  hear  them  now  : 
These  mark  the  closing  eve  :  now  come  within, 
I  have  your  supper  ready,  and  will  read 
To  you  awiiilc  in  some  religious  book. 

37 


28 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Old  Man.    Weil,  well — I  am  but  like  the  ancient 

servant 
Of  our  good  Lord,  I  do  put  forth  my  hand 
And  others  gird  and  lead  me  where  I  would  not ! 

[They  go  in. 


SCENE  ir. 

Night-fall — a  room  in  the  cottage.  In  the  far  part, 
the  old  Man's  bed,  with  the  curtains  drawn  round  it. 
—  Margaret  sits  within  a  screen  at  her  work ;  a 
small  lamp  is  burning  beside  her. 

Marg.    I  '11  sing  a  hymn,  it  oft  hath  cheered  his 
spirit 
In  its  disquietude  —  Oh  Lord  forgive  him, 
If  he  say  aught  injurious  of  thy  mercy  — 
He  is  a  weak,  old  man  !  {She  sings. 

Bowed  'neath  the  load  of  human  ill, 
Our  spirits  droop,  and  are  dismayed  ; 
Oh  Thou,  that  saidest  '  peace,  be  still,' 
To  the  wild  sea,  and  wast  obeyed, 
8peak  comfortable  words  of  peace. 
And  bid  the  spirit's  tumult  cease! 

We  ask  not  length  of  days,  nor  ease, 
Nor  gold  ;  but  for  thy  mercy's  sake. 
Give  us  thy  joy,  surpassinlt  these, 
Which  the  world  gives  not,  no/'  can  take; 
And  count  it  not  for  sin  that  we 
At  times  despond,  or  turn  from  thee ! 

Enter  ugolix,  softly. 

Ugo.    How  is  thy  father,  Margaret  ?  does  he  sleep  ? 

Marg.    Methinks  he  does ;  I  have  not  heard  him 
move 
For  half  an  hour. 

Ugo.  Thou  lookest  sad,  my  love. 

Hast  thought  my  tarrianoe  long  ?   I  would  have  sped 
To  thee  ere  sunset,  hut  I  stayed  to  comfort 
A  mother  in  affliction  ;  a  poor  neighbour; 
Wife  of  the  fisherman,  whose  son  hatli  fallen 
Into  the  lake,  and  was  brought  home  a  corpse! 
A  worthy  son,  the  comfort  of  the  house. 

Marg.     Alas,  poor  soul !  it  is  a  great  affliction ! 
Ah  Ugolin,  this  is  a  world  of  sorrow. 
And,  saving  for  the  hope  the  Christian  hears 
In  his  dear  faith,  a  dark  ajid  joyless  world ! 

Ugo.     It  is  not  oft  thy  spirit  is  o'ercast  — 
I  see  thee  ever  as  a  gentle  star. 
Shedding  kind,  cheering  influence ! 

Marg.  Of  late 

My  spirit  hath  grown  sadder,  and  I  ponder 
Upon  the  many  ilia  which  flesh  is  heir  to  ; 
Sickness  and  death  —  the  failing  off  of  fi-iends; 
Blightings  of  hope  ;  and  of  the  desolation 
Sin  brings  upon  the  heart  as  on  tiie  home  — 
And  hearing  now  of  this  poor  woman's  grief, 
And  of  her  brave  boy's  death,  my  soul  is  saddened  ; 
Besides,  my  father's  mood  doth  frighten  me ; 
Heaven  grant  his  soul's  impatience  be  not  sin! 


He  almost  curses  life,  so  does  he  long 
To  pass  away  in  death,  which  he  conceives 
The  [wrtal  of  immortal  youth  and  joy. 
Never  did  aged  man  abhor  his  years 
Like  my  poor  father !    'T  is,  I  must  believe, 
Only  the  weakness  of  a  feeble  spirit, 
Bowed  down  beneath  his  threescore  years  and  ten ! 
Ugn.     Margaret,  thou  hast  performed  a  daughter's 
part ; 
I  did  allow  thy  father's  claim  to  thee, —        • 
Now  list  to  mine.     Do  thou  make  him  my  father. 
And  let  him  dwell  with  us;  we'll  comfort  him  — 
Our  bliss  will  reconcile  him  to  his  life! 

Marg.    Alas,  thou  know'st  he  will  not  leave  this 
roof! 
Sorrow  and  love  have  bound  him  to  these  walls 
He  'd  die  if  we  remove  him  ;  and  thy  duties, 
As  the  good  pastor  of  a  worthy  flock, 
Bind  thee  unto  thy  mountains  I     Ugolin, 
Could  I  believe  this  weary  waiting  for  me  — 
This  seven  years'  tarriance  on  a  daughter's  duty, 
Fretted  thee  with  impatience,  I  would  yield 
Thee  back  thy  faith,  and  give  thee  liberty 
To  choose  elsewhere;  but  1  have  known  thee  well, 
Have  known  thy  constancy,  thy  acquiescence 
With  the  great  will  of  God,  howe'er  unpleasing 
To  our  poor  souls  ;  so  let  us  still  perform 
Our  separate  duties!  When  my  father  needs 
My  care  no  longer,  't  will  be  a  great  joy 
To  have  performed  my  duty  unto  him; 
And  all  the  good,  life  has  in  store  for  us, 
Will  come  with  tenfold  blessing! 

Ugo.  Dearest  love, 

I  thank  thee  for  the  justice  thou  hast  done  me  — 
But  let  me  have  my  will,  and  to  thy  father 
Speak  once  more  on  this  point !  If  he  refuse. 
As  he  before  has  done,  I  '11  say  no  more  ! 

Old  Man.     Margaret !  my  daughter  Margaret ! 

Marg.     [drawing  aside  the  curtains.]  Yes,  dear  fa- 
ther. 
What  dost  thou  need  ? 

Old  Man.  I  thought  I  heard  him  speak, 

Is  he  still  here  ? 

Marg.  lie  is,  shall  he  come  to  thee  ? 

Old  Man.    No,  no, — I  tell  thee  no!  dear  daughter 
no! 
I  saw  him  in  my  dro.im,  and  when  I  woke 
I  heard  him  speak  with  tliee:  let  him  go  hence! 

Marg.     Dear  father,  ihou   art  dreaming  still,  be 
sure ! 
Thou  art  not  speaking  of  good  Ugolin  — 
It  was  his  voice  thou  heard'st ! 

Old  Man.  Good  Ugolin ! 

Ay,  ay,  perchance  it  might  be  Ugolin ! 
I  was  in  dreams  —  1  thought  it  was  the  man 
^V'ho  did  converse  with  me  beside  the  door: 
It  was  a  dream  —  a  strange,  unpleasing  dream. 
But  go,  my  child,  —  it  only  was  a  dream. 
For  rarely  dost  thou  see  pcxjr  Ugolin; 
Yet  ere  thou  go,  suioothen  my  pillow  for  me  ! 

[Marsaret  adjusts  the  pillov),  and  draws 
the  curtains. 

38 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIOx\S. 


29 


Ugo.    Thy  father  is  not  well,  dear  Margaret, 
His  sleep  is  sore  disturbed. 

Marg.  'T  was  but  a  dream ; 

There  came  a  stranger  and  conversed  with  him 
An  hour  ere  sunset,  and  he  sees  so  rarely 
The  face  of  man,  that  it  becomes  a  terror 
To  him  in  sleep  ;  besides,  his  mind  was  biirthened 
Before  he  went  to  rest.  [A  hell  tolls  the  hour. 

I'go.  The  time  wears  on;  — 

I  must  not  tarry  longer,  or  the  hour 
Will  be  past  midnight  ere  I  reach  my  home. 
I  will  be  here  to-morrow  ere  the  sun  set. 
Sweet  rest  to  thee,  my  Margaret,  and  good  dreams. 
And  to  the  poor  old  man  I  [Ik  embraces  her. 

Marg.    Farewell,  good  Ugolin  I  [He  goes  out. 

[Margaret  fasteris  the  door ;  then,  after 
listening  a  few  minutes  by  her  father's 
bed,  she  retires  to  her  own  chamber. 


SCENE  III. 

Noon  of  the  next  day  —  the  saloon  of  a  house  in  the 
city,  opening  to  a  green  on  which  young  men  are 
engaged  in  athletic  sports — the  old  Man  sits  in  a 
large  chair  looking  on  ;  the  Stranger  staitds  beside 
him. 

Strang.    Nay,  naj',  you  know  it  was  with  your 
consent 
I  brought  you  here.    The  litter  was  so  easj'. 
The  day  so  warm,  the  gale  so  soft  and  low, 
You  did  yourself  confess  the  journey  pleasant  ; 
Confessed  that  a  new  life  refreshed  your  limbs  ; 
Yet  now  you  murmur,  and  uneasy  thoughts 
Disquiet  you ! 

Old  Man.      When  the  poor  flesh  is  weak. 
So  is  the  spirit. 

Strang.  True,  my  ancient  friend  I 

But  let  us  now  regard  the  youths  before  us  ; 
Behold  their  manly  forms,  their  graceful  limbs. 
Supple,  yet  full  of  force  Herculean. 
Look  at  their  short,  curled  hair  ;  their  features'  play ; 
Their  well-set,  noble  heads ;  their  shoulders  broad  ; 
Their  well-compacted  frames,  that  so  unite 
Beauty  and  strength  together  !     Such  is  youth. 

Old  Man.    I  once  was  such  as  they. 

Strang.  Look  at  that  boy, 

Throwing  the  classic  discus !  such  as  he 
The  old  Greek  sculptors  loved  ;  look  at  his  skill, 
How  far,  how  true  he  hurls  I 

Old  Man.  \Vhen  I  was  young 

I  threw  it  better  far !     Oh  for  the  years 
That  now  are  dist.anced  by  decrepitude  I 

Strang.    Look  at  the  slingers  yonder ;  how  they 
mark 
At  yon  small  target ! 

Old  Man.    [attempting  to  rise.]    Give  me  here  a 
sling; 
I  will  excel  them  all ! 

Strang,    [supporting  him.]   You  shall,  my  friend  ! 
[To  one  of  the  youths.]    Give  here  a  sling,  good  De- 
cius  ;  here  you  see 


A  master  of  the  art ;  make  way  for  him  I 

[The  Old  Man  takes  the  sling,  but  attempt- 
ing to  throw,  his  arm  drops  powerless. 
The  youths  turn  away  and  laugh. 
Old  Man.    Curse  on  this  arm !  am  I  a  laughing- 
stock ? 
Let  me  go  hence,  I  am  an  aged  fool ! 
Yet  that  I  might  but  only  shame  those  scoffers 
I  'd  yield  my  hope  in  heaven ! 

Strang,     [reconducting  him  to  his  seat.]   My  friend, 
you  shall ! 
Vain-glorious  fools !  to  laugh  the  old  to  scorn. 
I  told  you  I  was  skilled  in  medicines ; 
The  secret  virtues  of  all  plants  and  stones, 
And  earths  medicinal,  are  known  to  me  ; 
And  hence  1  have  concocted  a  strong  draught 
Of  wondrous  power  —  it  is  the  Elixir  Vitce, 
For  which  the  wise  of  every  age  have  sought. 

[He  preserits  a  small  flask. 
Drink  this,  my  friend,  and  vigorous  life  shall  run 
Throughout  your  i'rame  ;  you  shall  be  young  anon  ; 
You  shall  be  even  as  these  ;  and  more  than  these  I 
Old  Man.    Give  me  the   flask !    I  '11   shame   the 
insolent : 
I  will  outsling  these  mockers! 

[He  takes  it  eagerly,  then  pauses  as  if 
deliberating ;  smells  at  it,  and  looks  at 
it  between  his  eye  and  the  light. 
Strang.  Drink,  my  friend. 

Old  Man.     Said'st  thou  it  would  restore  my  van- 
ished youth  ? 
Strang.     Yes,  yes!    will   give   thee  youth,  and 
strength  and  beauty  — 
Will  give  thee  youth  which  is  imperishable! 

Old  Man.    And  I  shall  live,  enjoying  life  on  earth  ? 
Strang.    Yes,  wilt  enjoy  upon  this  glorious  earth 
All  that  the  young  desire! 

Old  Man.     [giving  it  back.]    I  '11  drink  it  not ! 
I  '11  none  of  it  —  it  is  an  evil  thing. 

Strang.     What,  to  be  such  as  these,  an  evil  thing! 
Did  they  not  laugh  at  thee,  and  mock  thine  age  ? 
Old  Man.     Ay,  what  is  youth  but  folly  ?     Now  I 
see 
The  sinfulness  of  my  unholy  wishes  : 
I  thank  thee,  God,  that  thou  hast  kept  my  soul 
From  this  great  snare  !  Oh,  take  me,  take  me  hence, 
A  feeble  man,  I  am  not  of  your  sort ! 
Strang,  [aside.]  A  curse  ujxjn  thee,  and  thy  feeble- 
ness.     [He  speaks  to  four  of  the  young  men. 
My  friend,  the  litter  will  be  hero  anon; 
These  will  conduct  lliee  saliply  to  thy  daughter: 
Give  me  thy  hand,  old  friend,  I  fain  would  serve  thee. 
Old  Man.    Let  me  go  home :  I  am  a  weak  old  man. 
[The  four  i/ouths  accompany  him  out. 
Strang.    A  weak  old  man !  a  weak  old  whining 
fool! 
If  pnin  and  hunger  could  have  made  him  mine, 
He  should  not  thus  have  left  me  :  but  I  know 
The  soul  is  only  strengthened  by  oppression. 
I  still  will  speak  him  (air —  I  will  flatter  him. 
And  stir  up  that  impatient  soul  of  his. 
Till  his  own  act  shall  make  him  mine  for  ever. 
Now  let  him  rest  awhile,  and  bask  i'  the  sun, 

39 


30 


HOVVITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  other  feebfe  things ,-  for  yet  seven  days 
I  '11  leave  him  to  himself,  — and  then,  old  man, 
We  '11  have  a  strife  for  it.  [He  goes  off. 


SCENE  IV. 

Rvening.  The  Old  Man  titling  in  his  chair  within 
his  own  door  —  he  appears  very  ill  —  his  daughter 
supports  him. 

Old  Man.    Oh  what  an  icy  pang  shoots  through 
my  frame ! 
God  help  the  feeble  who  do  suffer  thus  I 

Marg.     Some  woe  hath  fallen  on  thee  in  the  city  ; 
Tell  me,  and  wlio  that  stranger  was,  dear  father. 

Old  Man.  Oh,  ask  me  not  of  aught ;  I  am  afflicted — 
Body  and  mind,  I  am  afllicted  sore! 

Marg.     Call  upon  God,  my  father,  he  will  help 
thee.  [Ugolin  comes  up. 

Ugo.    My  good  old  friend,  how  does  it  fare  with 
you? 

Old  Man.    My  son,  I  am  afHicted — mind  and  body 
Are  suffering  now  together! 

Vgo.     [to  Marg.]  What  means  he  ? 

Marg.     I  do  not  know :  the  guest  of  yesterday 
Seduced  him  to  the  city  ;  and  perchance 
The  crowd,  the  noise,  the  newness  of  llie  scene 
Have  overcome  his  strength  ;  or  else  perchance 
He  saw  some  scene  of  riot  or  distress 
Which  thus  hath  wrought  upon  his  feebleness. 

Ugo.     Father,  shall  we  support  thee  to  thy  bed, 
And  read  to  thee,  and  comfort  thee  with  prayer? 

Old  Man      Ay,  let  me  to  my  bed,  that  I  may  die! 
[They  support  him  in. 


CENE  V. 

Midnight.     The  Old  Man  lying  on  his  bed  —  Ugdin 
and  Margaret  sit  beside  him  —  Margaret  reads. 

"For  this  corruptible  must  put  on  incorruption, 
and  this  mortal  must  put  on  immortalit}'; 

So  when  this  corruptible  shall  have  put  on  incor- 
ruption, and  this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immor- 
tality, 

Then  shall  be  brought  to  pass  the  saying  which  is 
written.  Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory. 

Oh  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  O  Crave,  where  is 
thy  victory  ? 

The  sting  of  death  is  sin,  and  the  strength  of  sin 
is  the  law. 

But  thanks  he  to  Cod,  who  giveth  us  the  victory 
through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

[tShe  closes  the  book. 

Old  Man.    The  sting  of  death  is  sin  I    and  over 
death  ; 
'T  is  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  gives  us  victory  I 
Thank  thee,  my  daughter;  there  is  holy  comfort 
In  those  few  words  — 

But  think'st  thou  Ugolin 
Will  visit  us  to-night?     I  fain  would  have 
His  prayers  before  I  die. 


Marg.  He  is  beside  thee; 

Father,  he  is  beside  thee,  even  now. 

Ugo.    My  father,  may  the  Cod  of  peace  be  with 
thee ! 

Old  Man.  [looking  earnestly  at  him.]   Yes,  thou  art 
here,  good  Ugolin  —  good  Ugolin! 
And  thou  art  good  :  dear  child,  give  me  thy  hand. 
My  children,  I  for  many  years  have  hung 
Like  a  dark  cloud  above  your  true  affection  ; 
But  I  shall  pass  away,  and  Heaven  will  crown 
Your  life  with  a  long  sunshine. 

Marg.  Dear,  dear  father. 

Take  not  a  thought  for  us ;  God  has  been  good ! 
Thy  life  has  been  our  blessing. 

Old  Man.  Yes,  my  child, 

How  truly  dost  thou  say  that  God  is  good. 
I  know  that  he  is  good  ;  but  my  weak  faith 
Has  fiiiled  my  latter  days.     I  have  repined 
That  siill  my  life  had  a  prolonged  dale. 
1  saw  not  mercy  in  my  length  of  years, 
And  I  have  sinned  perchance  a  deadly  sin ! 

Ugo.     Remember,  Cod  is  full  of  tender  mercy. 
And  knows  our  weakness,  nor  will  try  our  strength 
Beyond  what  it  can  bear. 

Old  Man.  Oh  for  a  sign 

That  I  might  be  accepted  ;  that  the  sin 
Of  my  repinings  had  been  blotted  out ! 
I  fear  to  die,  who  have  so  prayed  for  death  I 

Ugo.    Bethink  thee,  how  our  blessed   Lord  was 
tried, 
And  of  the  agony  wherein  he  prayed 
That  that  most  bitter  cup  might  pass  from  him  ! 
He  bore  those  pangs  for  thee,  and  by  his  stripes 
Thou  wilt  be  healed  I    Oh  put  thy  trust  in  him  ! 

Old  Man.    I  am  a  sinner!  save  me,  oh  my  God ! 

Ugo.    Amen! 

[The  old  man  turns  his  face  to  the  wall. 
— Margaret  and  Ugolin  kneel  down  and 
pray  silently. 


SCENE  VI. 

Several  days  afterwards — a  church-yard — a  body  has 
been  committed  to  the  grave;  the  mottrners  slatid 
round  —  the  stranger  comes  up  as  a  casual  observer' 
—  (he  minister  repeats  these  words. 

Min.  "Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty 
(iod  of  his  great  mercy  to  take  unto  himself  the  soul 
of  our  dear  brother  here  departed,  we  therefore  com- 
mit his  body  to  the  ground :  earth  to  earth ;  ashes 
to  ashes  ;  dust  to  dust:  in  the  sure  and  certain  hope 
of  the  resurrection  to  eternal  life,  through  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ.'' 

Strang,  [aside.]    Thus  is  it,  whether  it  be  saint  or 
sinner. 
All  are  alike  committed  to  the  grave. 
In  sure  and  certain  hope  of  resurrection 
To  life  eternal !     Well,  the  fools  at  least 
Are  charitable  in  this  farewell  rite. 

[He  looks  among  the  mourners 
Sure  that's  the  old  man's  daughter!  and  that  man 

40 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


31 


Is  pastor  Ugolin !    There  then  is  biiried 

My  liope  of  that  repining,  weary  soul ! 

Death  was  hefore-hami  with  me.     I  ne'er  dreamed 

Of  his  sands  running  out,  just  yet  at  least; 

Life  is  a  shppery  thing !     I  '11  deal  no  more 

With  any  mortal  who  is  turned  three-score ! 

[He  hastens  off. 
[The funeral  train  moves  away,  preceded 
by  choristers  chanting. 

"I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven,  saying  unto  me, 
write,  from  henceforth,  blessed  are  the  dead  who  die 
in  the  Lord ;  even  so  saith  the  sjiirit,  for  they  shall 
rest  from  their  labours." 


This  second  defeat  of  Achzib  was  like  a  blow  given 
by  an  unseen  hand;  it  was  an  event  altogether  out 
of  his  calculation,  lie  had  heard  how  the  spirit  of 
the  old  man,  in  its  momenLs  of  irritation,  poured  forth 
reproaches  and  murmurs  against  God,  which  would 
have  been  mortal  sin  had  the  heart  responded  to 
them.  But  his  spirit  resembled  water  in  its  dead 
calm,  corrupt  and  unsightly,  which  nevertheless 
when  agitated  by  the  tempest  overleaps  its  barriers, 
throws  off  its  impurities,  and  rushes  on  in  a  strong, 
bright  torrent.  His  discontent  and  his  impatience 
were  almost  meaningless  on  his  own  lips;  but  ad- 
dressed to  him  as  the  sentiments  of  another,  to  which 
he  was  required  to  assent,  he  started  from  their  sin- 
fulness, beholding,  as  it  were,  his  own  reflected 
image.  This  was  an  event  beyond  the  range  of 
Achzib's  idea  of  possibilities.  He  was  sceptical  to 
all  that  virtue  in  human  nature,  which  great  occa- 
sions bring  into  action,  though  it  n".y  have  lain  dor- 
mant for  half  a  life,  and  which  may  be  regarded  as 
a  store  in  reserve  for  extraordinary  emergency. 

The  old  man -seemed,  as  it  v.ere,  to  have  slipped 
from  his  grasp;  and,  half  angry  with  himself  for 
being  overcome  by  so  appareiuly  weak  an  opponent, 
he  turned  from  the  bunal-place  and  walked  on,  he 
hardly  knew  whither,  lor  many  hours.  At  length  he 
was  recalled  to  his  own  identity  by  coming  upon  a 
village  church-yard,  where  a  funeral  was  taking 
place.  The  dead  seemed  to  have  been  of  the  lower 
class  of  society,  if  you  might  judge  by  the  appearance 
of  the  coffin,  its  humble  appurtenances,  and  its  few 
attendants ;  but  there  was  a  something  about  its 
chief  and  only  mourner,  w  Inch  told  that  niistbrtune 
had  brought  her  thus  low.  Yet  was  her  whole  air 
melancholy  and  wretched  in  the  extreme ;  and  so 
harrowed  by  grief,  so  woe-.siricken,  so  wholly  self- 
abandoned,  that  no  one  could  see  her  for  a  moment 
without  knowing  that  it  was  her  son  who  had  heen 
committed  to  the  dust,  the  only  chdd  of  his  mother, 
and  she  a  widow. 

Achzib  remarked  this  to  an  observant  stranger  who 
8t<X)d  by. 

"You  are  right,"  he  replied,  "  they  bury  the  only 
child  of  a  widow;  a  son,  v\ho  ha\ing  died  before  his 
time,  will  cause  the  mother's  grey  hairs  to  descend 
with  sorrow  to  tlie  grave  ."' 
4*  F 


"  How,"  inquired  Achzib,  "  has  her  loss  been  so 
very  great  ?" 

"  Know  yon  not,"  rejoined  the  other,  "  that  a  mo- 
ther mourns  most,  suffers  most,  for  the  child  least 
worthy  of  her  love  ?  Man  knows  not  to  what  an 
extent  that  mother's  heart  has  suffered :  it  has  been 
wounded  unto  death,  and  yet  it  lives  on,  enduring  a 
life  more  painful  than  death,  a  life  quivering  with 
the  sting  of  outraged  love!" 

"  Was  he  not  young,"  inquired  Achzib;  "  how  then 
has  he  committed  -so  great  sin  ?" 

"  You  cannot  have  attentively  regarded  these 
things,"  re|)lied  the  stranger,  "or  you  would  know 
that,  for  a  young  man,  the  most  perilous  of  all  con- 
ditions is  to  be  the  .son  of  a  widow ;  for  losing  the 
authority,  the  counsel,  the  example  of  a  father,  he 
falls  into  numberless  temptations,  against  which  a 
mother  can  be  but  an  insufficient  defence.  Besides, 
young  men,  too  often  having  experienced  the  easy, 
irresolute,  uncertain  government  of  a  mother  in  their 
boyish  years,  cease  to  regard  lier  with  respect  as 
they  approach  manhood." 

"  But,"  said  Achzib,  recalling  to  mind  the  firm 
principle  and  devoted  affection  of  the  Poor  Scholar, 
"I  have  known  such  arriving  at  manhood,  armed  at 
all  points  against  temptation,  and  cherishing  in  their 
souls  the  most  ardent  love,  the  most  holy  reverence 
fiir  a  mother." 

"  God  forbid,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  that  I  should 
say  all  mothers  are  inadequate  to  the  government  of 
a  son,  or  all  sons  incapable  of  estimating,  and  grate- 
fully rewarding  the  unwearied  solicitude,  the  never- 
sleeping  affection  of  a  mother  ;  for  I  myself  know  a 
widow  who  has  trained  three  noble  sons  from  their 
fatherless  boyhood,  maintaining  her  own  authontv. 
and  nurturing  in  their  souls  every  virtuous  and  man- 
ly sentiment ;  and  who  now',  adorning  manhood,  are 
as  a  crown  of  glory  to  her  brow.  And  it  may  also 
be  received  as  a  truth,  that  love  and  reverence  for  a 
widowed  mother  will  be  as  much  a  preservation  from 
evil  as  the  authority  of  a  fiiiher  —  but  these  are  the 
exceptions  to  the  general  rule,  which  is  as  I  have 
said,  that  ihe  sons  of  widows  are  tlie  most  peculiarlv 
liable  to  temptation,  and  the  leasldefended  against  it." 

"  I  believe  you  to  be  right,"  replied  Achzib,  not  a 
little  pleased  with  the  hint,  which  had  inadvertently 
been  given  him.  "  I  believe  you  are  right  I  and  of 
all  temptations  to  which  a  young  man  so  circum- 
stanced is  exposed,  those  of  pleasure  would  be  the 
most  besetting,"  continued  he,  remembering  the  first 
sin  of  poor  Luberg. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  the  stranger  :  "  the  timid,  ener- 
vating system  of  female  government,  gives  the  heart 
a  bias  towards  i)leasurc,  without  strengthening  it  for 
resistance,  or  even  enabling  it  to  discriminate  be- 
tween good  and  evil.  This  is  the  snare  into  which 
such  generally  fall  ;  and  there  is  hardly  a  sin  more 
sorrowfully  degrading,  or  one  which  holds  its  victim 
more  irreclaimably :  he  is  as  one  self-conducted  to 
sacrifice;  a  captive,  who  rivets  on  his  own  fetters 
while  he  groans  fijr  freedom:  for  the  indulgence  of 
those  vices  miscalled  pleasure,  while  thev  deaden  the 
will,  leavequiveringly  alive  the  scn.sc  of  degradation. 

41 


32 


IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  has  the  poor  youth,  wlio  is  now  gone  down  to 
the  dust,  looked  with  streaming  eyes  upon  pure  and 
noble  beings,  whom  though  he  still  worshipped,  he 
had  not  the  power  to  imitate,  and  from  whose  society 
he  was  cast  as  a  fallen  angel  from  heaven  !  How, 
to  obliviate  the  maddening  sense  of  his  o\\  n  degraded 
condition,  has  he  plunged  into  excesses  which  he  ab- 
horred !  Alas,  the  spirit,  writhing  under  tlie  com- 
punctuous  sense  of  evil,  and  the  hopelessness  of  good, 
is  a  sight  upon  which  the  angels  of  God  might  drop 
tears  of  pily  !" 

Achzib  was  satisfied  with  wiiat  he  had  heard ; 
therefore,  bidding  his  companion  good  day,  he  re- 
turned to  the  cily.  He  had,  however,  a  superstitious 
repugnance  to  making  another  trial  in  the  scene  of 
his  late  defeat ;  he  therefore  removed  to  a  city  where 
all  was  new  to  him,  and  very  soon  commenced  his 
fifth  essay,  according  to  the  hints  thrown  out  by  the 
stranger  of  ttie  church-yard. 


RAYMOxND. 


PERSONS. 

RAYMOND. 

ACHZIB,    A    .STRANGER,  AFTERWARDS    BARTOLIN  A 

MAN    OF    PLEASURE. 
MADAME    BERTHIER,    THE    MOTHER    OF  RAYMOND. 
THE    PASTOR,    HIS   GUARDIAN. 
ADELINE,  THE    PASTOR's    DAUGHTER,    BETROTHED 

TO    RAYMOND. 
CLARA,    A    YOUNG    LADY    OF    THE    CITY. 
MADAME    VAUMAR,    HER    MOTHER. 
COUNT    SIEMAR,    THE    LOVER    OF    CLARA. 
SEVERAL   SUBORDIN.\TE    CHARACTERS. 

Time  occupied,  upwards  of  three  years. 


ACT  I.  — SCENE  I. 

A  summer  morning — Raymond  silting  under  a  large 
tree  in  the  fields  —  a  small  village,  half  hid  among 
wood,  is  seen  in  the  distance. 

Raymond.     How  full  of  joy  is  life!   All  things  are 
made 
For  one  great  scheme  of  bliss  —  all  things  are  good, 
As  at  the  first  when  (iod  (jronounced  ihem  so  : 
The  broad  sun  pouring  down  upon  ihe  earlh 
His  bright  elFulgence  ;  every  lighted  dew-drop 
Which  glitters  with  the  diamond  s  many  rays; 
These  flowers  which  gem  the  coronal  of  earth  ; 
Those  larks,  the  soaring  minstrels  of  the  sky  ; 
Clear  waters  leaping  like  a  glad  e.xistence; 
Forests  and  distant  hills,  and  low  green  valleys, 
And  feeding  flocks,  and  little  hamlet-homes, 
All,  all  are  good — all,  all  are  beautiful  I 
J^xistence  is  a  joy !     I  walk,  1  leap 
In  that  exuberant  consciousness  of  life 
AVhich  nerves  my  limbx  and  makes  all  action  pleasure. 
The  vigour  of  strong  life  is  to  my  frame 
As  pinions  to  the  eagle  :  and  my  soul 
Is  as  a  winged  angel,  soaring  up  1 


j  In  its  full  joy  unto  the  heaven  of  heaf ens ; 
Thank  God  for  life,  and  for  the  spirit  which  gives 
The  fulness  of  enjoyment  unto  life  ! 

j  All  that  the  soul  desires  of  good  and  fair 

Will  I  [xjssess;  knowledge  that  elevates 

And  that  refines  ;  and  high  philosophy, 
i  Which  wakes  the  god-like  principle  in  man  ; 
j  And  in  the  founts  of  sacred  poesy 
j  I  will  baptise  my  spirit,  and  drink  deep 
i  Of  its  pure,  living  waters  ;  and  sweet  music 

Shall  minister  to  me,  like  heavenly  spirits 
!  Calling  me  upwards  to  sublimer  worlds  ! 
j  All  that  is  beautiful  in  art  and  nature  — 
I  Fair  forms  in  sculptured  marble,  and  the  works 

Of  the  immortal  masters,  will  I  study  ; 

And  so  imbue  my  spirit  with  a  sense 

Of  grace  and  majesty,  till  it  shall  grow 

Like  that  which  it  perceives !    To  me  far  lands, 

Immortal  flir  their  ancient  histories. 

Shall  be  fimiiliar  places:  I  will  seek 

The  Spirit  of  greatness  where  the  great  have  dwelt, 

And  left  behind  eternal  memories ! 

Am  I  not  young,  and  filled  with  high  resolves? 
And  like  the  sea  my  will  shall  be  supreme  ; 
Man  shall  not  set  it  barriers,  nor  shall  say 
"Thus  far,  but  yet  no  farther  !"  I  will  on  I 
Glory  and  pleasure  at  the  goal  I  see, 
And  I  will  win  Ihem  both;  pleasure,  which  crowns 
Glory  with  its  most  radiant  diadem  — 
Pleasure,  that  springs  from  the  proud  consciousness 
Of  high  achievement,  purchased  at  a  price 
None  but  the  great  would  dare  to  pay  for  it! 

Ere  long,  dear  n.'ither,  thou  shalt  see  thy  son 

Among  the  honourable  of  the  earth. 

I  know  not  how  renown  shall  be  achieved  ; 

But  that  it  shall  is  my  most  solemn  purpose. 

And  this  is  my  first  earnest  of  success  — 

That  without  power,  heaven  gives  not  the  desire ! 

Yes,  yes  my  mother,  I  will  crown  thy  age 

With  such  transcendent  glory  of  my  deeds, 

That  thou  shalt  praise  God  for  one  chiefesl  blessing — 

Thy  son,  thy  dutiltil,  illustrious  son! 

I  will  not  bow  unto  Ihe  common  things 
Men  make  their  idols  —  I  will  stand  apart 
From  common  men  —  my  sensual  appetite 
Shall  be  subservient  to  my  loftier  soul  — 
I  will  be  great  and  wise,  and  rise  supreme 
Above  my  kind,  by  dominance  of  mind  ! 

But  who  comes  here  ?    He  halh  the  look  of  one 
Who  hath  seen  foreign  travel,  or  hath  dwelt 
Much  among  men,  such  ever  have  that  air 
Of  easy  gaiety.  —  The  walk  through  life 
Without  impediment;  my  country  breeding. 
Makes  me  embarrassed  in  a  stranger's  presence — • 
But  I  will  up  and  meet  him.  and  perchance 
Improve  this  meeting  to  a  better  knowledge. 

\}Ie  rises,  and  meets  a  stranger,  ii'ho  is 
advancing  over  the  fields  towards  him. 
42 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


33 


Raym.  Gotxl  morrow,  sir! 

You  honour  glorious  Nature,  coming  out 
Into  the  fields  upon  a  morn  like  this  I 

Stran:;.  Your  greeting  I  return  with  cordial  thanks. 
And  you  too  have  done  well  to  leave  your  books 
To  steal  an  hour  for  morning  recreation. 

Kai/in.     One  hour  of  a  (iiir  morning  such  as  this 
Wdl  not  suflice  me :  I  shall  give  the  day 
To  one  long  pleasure.     'Tis  a  festival 
My  mother  lionours  with  great  ceremony. 
Even  the  birth-day  of  myself,  your  servant. 

StraJig.     I  do  esteem  myself  most  fortunate 
To  meet  you  on  a  morning  so  propitious! 
For  your  frank  greeting,  and  your  kind  respect 
Have  kindled  in  my  soul  a  friend's  regard 
In  your  life's  interest,  and  I  gladly  wish 
To  your  long  years,  health,  wealth,  and  happiness  ! 
Raym.    To  you,  a  stranger,  I  owe  many  thanks  ; 
And,  as  my  quest  this  morning  was  for  pleasure, 
And  time  is  of  no  count,  let  me  walk  with  you  ; 
I  can  conduct  you  to  our  fairest  scenes. 
And  to  some  nooks  of  such  sequestered  beauty, 
As  dryads  might  have  haunted  in  old  times  — 
These  are  my  native  scenes,  I  know  them  all  — 
Go  you  unto  the  village  ? 

Strang.  I,  like  you. 

Seek  only  pleasure  on  this  sunny  morning. 
I  left  the  city  three  days  since,  to  spend 
An  interval  of  business  in  the  country, 
And  chance  directed  me  unto  yon  village, 
^Vhere  I  shall  yet  abide  a  day  or  two. 

Raym.     'Tis  a  sweet,  quiet  hamlet,  buried  deep 
Within  its  wooded  gardens  !     I  am  bound 
Thither  this  evening,  to  its  excellent  pastor. 
The  kind  and  faithful  guatdian  of  my  youth. 
Since  my  good  father's  death, — but  now  whose  trust 
Expires  upon  this  day. 

Strang.  Ha!  one-and-twenty  — 

It  is  an  age  of  happiness  —  the  boy 
Has  not  assumed  the  sternness  of  the  man  ," 
Heavy  experience  does  not  weigh  down  pleasure. 
You  are  embarking,  even  now,  young  man, 
Upon  a  glorious  sea  ;  spread  wide  your  sails  ; 
Catch  every  breath  of  heaven,  and  run  down  joy ; 
Make  her  your  own  before  the  tempest  comes  ! 

Raym.     You  are  not  a  gm:  c  councillor,  who  bids 
The  inexperienced  watch,  and  watch  and  wait, 
Ever  distrusting  — still  expecting  evil ! 
Strang.     Wisdom  is  wisest  which  is  bought  from 
proof 
Try  all  things,  prove  them,  make  your  virtue  sure 
Upon  the  rock  of  wise  experience  ! 
Up,  and  partake  of  pleasure  w  hile  you  may ; 
.\  time  will  come,  of  ieebleness  and  care, 
When  she  will  fly  from  you,  howe'er  you  woo  her ! 

Raym.     My  youth  is  vowed  to  sludv;  therein  lies 
My  pleasure :  —  knowledge,  and  the  high  reward 
Of  an  ennobled  mind,  these  are  alone 
The  aim  for  which  I  strive  I 

Strang.  A  noble  strift! 

But  knowledge  of  manhood  will  serve  you  more 
Than  closet-study  of  hook-learning  can. 
Raym.    As  yet,  I  would  not  dare  to  trust  myself 


Into  the  world.    I  know  that  youth  is  weak, 

And  may  be  lured  so  easily  aside ! 

I  have  a  mother,  sir,  a  widowed  mother; 

I  am  her  only  child-  I  would  not  leave  her; 

My  life  is  vowed  t6  make  her  bless  her  son. 

Strang.    Give  me  thy  hand,  young  man,  I  honour 
thee! 
A  virtue  such  as  thine  may  face  temptation ; 
Like  gold,  it  will  come  purer  from  the  fire! 

Raym.  Kind  sir,  you  do  commend  me  all  too  much. 
But  we  are  now  even  at  my  mother's  gate  — 
You  must  walk  in,  she  will  rejoice  to  welcome 
One  that  has  kindly  conversed  with  her  son. 

Strang.  A  fair  and  stately  mansion,  with  old  woods 
Girded  around — an  honourable  assurance 
That  thy  good  father  was  a  careful  man, 
And  left  to  thee  a  patrimony  clear! 

Raym.  'Tis  a  fair  place  ;  and  let  me  make  you,  sir. 
Further  acquainted  with  it,  and  my  mother. 
She  has  the  kindest  smiles  for  friendly  greeting! 

Strang.    No,  my  young  friend,  I  must  decline  that 
pleasure  — 
A  household  festival  is  never  mended 
By  presence  of  a  stranger  —  for  all  mothers 
Esteem  such  days  solemn  and  sacred  seasons  — 
So  now  farewell ! 

Raym.  Kind  sir,  farewell  to  you  ! 

I  '11  pledge  our  friendship  in  a  generous  cup. 

[He  parts  from  him. 

Strang.  He  will  not  cheat  me  like  the  widow's  son 
In  the  frieze-gow  n  sitting  among  his  books  ! 
This  is  a  scholar  of  another  sort ! 
And  spite  his  talk  of  virtue  and  high  doings. 
He  's  mine,  poor  self-deluding  boy,  he  's  mine ! 
But  had  I  faced  his  mother,  she  had  spied 
The  cloven  l(>ot  beneath  my  saintlicst  guise  — 
She  is  a  woman  v\ho  has  tried  the  world, 
And  found  it  a  deceit;  therefore  she  keeps 
Her  gentle  Raymond  like  a  (Jorydon, 
Watching  his  silly  sheep  among  the  field.-;. 
Fortd  mother,  make  a  festival !  thy  son 
Hath  eaten  the  f()rbidden  fruit  this  day  ! 
And  drink  unto  our  further  friendship,  Raymond, 
For  all  that  it  can  give,  thou  shalt  enjoy  — 
Beauty  and  gold  ;  whaie'er  the  world  calls  pleasure ; 
But  thou  must  pay  the  stated  price  thereof! 
Now  fare  thee  well !  I  '11  meet  thee  this  same  eve 
Before  the  pastor  and  thy  wisest  mother 
Do  arm  thee  with  suspicious  wariness  ! 

[He  goes  off. 


SCENE  H. 

Evening — the  west  tinsed  vith  the  fading  doitds  of  a 
gorgeous  siini'et,  the  full-moon  shining  high  in  the 
heavens  —  Rai/mond  and  Adeline  standing  together 
on  a  garden  terrace,  before  the  open  window  of  the 
house. 

Raym.  How  like  a  fair  face  shining  out  of  heaven, 
Yon  glorious  moon  ap|)ears !  sweet  Adeline 
All  things  [  look  upon  are  beautiful  — 
Even  as  I  felt  this  morning,  feel  I  now ; 

43 


34 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  mere  perception  of  a  vital  power. 
Is  strong  enjoyment ;  every  breath  I  draw, 
Is  like  the  quafiing  an  inspiring  draught 
Of  some  old  vintage,  which,  to  every  pulse 
Doth  send  a  bounding  joy  !  old  Jove  felt  thus, 
Draining  the  nectar  from  the  cup  of  Hebe  I 

Add.     Raymond,  be  sure  he  was  some  alchemist 
You  met  this  morning,  who  hath  pondered  out 
The  wonderful  elixir,  and  hath  given 
To  you  a  drop  thereof!    Did  you  not  taste, 
Or  smell  from  a  most  curious,  antique  flask, 
Less  than  my  little  finger,  that  he  showed  you  ? 
Depend  upon  it,  Raymond,  you  're  immortal! 
Now  say,  have  you  not  drank  the  Elixir  V'itaj  ? 

Raym.     jNay,  Adeline,  my  soul  ran  o'er  with  joy 
Before  I  met  that  stranger. 

Adel.  'T  was  because 

You  now  can  call  yourself  your  own  sage  master. 
We  shall  not  see  you,  Raymond,  as  we  used  — 
You  are  full-grown,  and  not  of  nonage  now ; 
You  will  not  come  to  study  with  my  father 
Those  old  Greek  poets  ;  I  must  read  myself; 
You  will  not  be  my  lexicon  again ! 

Raym.  Sweet  Adeline,  I  shall  come  more  than  ever. 
But  you  forget,  I  have  your  father's  .leave 
To  lay  those  old  Greek  poets  by,  and  read 
Another  book,  whereto,  my  own  dear  love, 
You  must  yourself  be  my  sweet  lexicon ! 

[He  kisses  her  cheek. 

Adel.  Oh  fie !  my  father  should  not  give  you  leave 
To  put  your  studies  by,  for  well  I  know 
You  are  a-weary  of  them,  and  of  us  I 

Raym.    Hast  thou  not  been  mine  angel  for  these 
years  — 
Oh  ever  since  I  was  a  little  child? 
But  now  much  more  than  ever! 

Adel.  But  this  scheme 

Of  going  to  the  city,  I  like  not  — 
Why  would  you  leave  us  ?  you  can  study  here. 
My  father  studies  in  this  quiet  place  ; 
He  ever  is  distracted  in  the  city. 

Raym.  'T  was  a  mere  vision !  I  but  thought  of  it. 

Adel.    Well,  think  of  it  no  more  ! 

Raym.  Now,  let  us  in ; 

And  ere  I  say  good  night,  dear  Adeline, 
Let  us  have  some  sweet  music  — sing  that  hymn. 
So  full  of  aw'ful  sorrow,  that  I  love. 
Give  me  sad  music  when  my  heart  is  lightest  I 

[They  go  in. 
[Adeline  is  heard  singuiir  to  her 
instrument. 

Father,  from  heaven  look  down, 

Sorrow  doth  cover  us  ; 

Great  waves  pass  over  us ; 
The  heavy  waters  of  a  stormy  sea ! 

Our  hope  is  but  in  thee  — 

Save  us,  oh  father,  save ! 

Night  hath  come  down  on  us  I 

Our  visages  are  pale; 

Our  drooping  spirits  fail ; 
We  do  confess  our  sin !   Forgive,  forgive ! 


Oh  say  that  we  shall  live ; 

Though  we  have  sinned,  yet  save ! 

Alas,  the  day  is  done ! 

God  has  abandoned  us ! 

Oh  sea,  roll  over  us  — 
Cover  us  mountains,  ere  the  Judge  appear! 

He  will  not,  will  not  hear  — 
He  will  not,  will  not  save! 


ACT  II.  —  SCENE  I. 

Twelve  months  afterwards  —  a  chamber  in  a  magnifi- 
cent house  in  the  city. 

Bartolin.    [alone.]    So  far  and  all  is  well,  for  my 
good  Raymond, 
Though  a  self-willed,  is  still  a  hopeful  scholar: 
True,  I  have  had  to  war  with  passion-starts. 
And  strong  out-breakings  of  his  natural  love 
Towards  that  tender,  long-enduring  mother; 
But  now  her  anger,  and  her  stern  upbraidings 
Will  do  the  work  1  had  found  difficult ; 
The  severing  of  the  latest  bonds  of  duty  — 
Nor  shall  there  lack  me  means  to  effect  disunion ; 
Black  rumours,  based  on  truth,  shall  reach  her  ear — 
His  thriftle.ss  charges  ;  his  luxurious  life  ; 
His  friends  the  dissolutest  in  the  city; 
His  disregard  of  stated  sacraments  ; 
Tiie  lawless  prodigal  he  is  become, — 
All  this  shall  reach  her  by  a  thousand  ways. 
She  will  contrast  the  present  with  the  past, 
And  note  the  work  of  twelve  months  on  the  boy, 
Boastful  of  virtue ;  see  the  end  of  all 
That  proud  ambition,  which  did  pluine  itself 
Upon  a  glorious  eyrie  'mong  mankind  ! 
The  mother's  heart  is  keenly  sensitive, 
And,  when  it  hath  been  wrung,  and  wronged  likeher's, 
Doth  take  a  tone  so  vehement  in  sorrow. 
That  it  may  pass  lor  acrimonious  hate. — 
Thus  stands  the  case  at  present! 

With  the  tide 
Of  headlong  pleasure  we  go  sailing  on. 
Filling  the  echoing  air  with  loud  carousal. 
She  sits  within  her  solitary  home, 
Eating  her  heart  with  miserable  thoughts  ; 
Affections  blighted  ;  hopes  that  are  o'ercast. 
And  prayers  that  have  no  answ'er.  Wretched  mother. 
Thy  prodigal  will  ne'er  return  to  thee ! 

But  hark  i  there  is  the  voice  of  merriment  — 
Raymond  is  loudest  at  the  festive  board  ; 
Raymond  is  swiftest  in  the  race  f<)r  ruin ; 
Wildest  in  riot ;  greediest  of  ap))lause  ; 
Most  daring  in  the  insolent  outbreaks 
Of  passion  against  custom  ;  first  in  all  things  ; 
Goodliest  in  person;  most  refined  in  manners  ; 
Witty  and  gracious;  smiling  like  an  angel, 
Yet  growing  daily  blacker,  like  a  fiend! 
Oh  most  accomplished  sinner,  thou  art  mine! 

But  hark  again !  their  merriment  grows  louder  ; 
Hence  will  i,  and  partake  their  revelry. 

[He  goes  out. 
44 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


35 


SCENE  II. 

A  lofty  saloon,  in  u/iich  Raymond  and  Ids  guests  sit 
round  a  table  furnished  with  the  choicest  wines. 

Raym.  [filling  kis  glass.]  This  is  my  birth-night, 

friends,  make  merry  all ! 
Guests.     Healili  ami  long  life  unto  ournoble  host! 
liayin.     My  friends,  I  thank  ye,  —  now  devote  the 
night 
To  one  long  revel,  —  drown  all  care  in  wine! 

[They  all  drink. 
Why  are  you  silent,  friends  ?  let  us  have  song ! 
1st.  Gen.  [singing:  — 

Down,  down  with  the  sorrows 

And  troubles  of  earth  I 
For  what  is  our  life  made. 

But  drinking  and  mirth! 
Drink  and  be  glad,  sirs, 

Laugh  and  be  gay ; 
Keep  sober  to-morrow, 

But  drink  to-day! 

Love's  a  deceiver. 

He  '11  cheat  if  he  can  ; 
Sweet  innocent  woman 

Is  wiser  than  man ! 
Trust  her  not,  trust  her  not, 

She  will  deceive ! 
Who  wins  her  may  gather 

The  sea  in  a  sieve ! 

Laying  up  money 

Is  labour  and  care  ; 
All  you  have  toiled  for 

Is  spent  by  the  heir! 
Knowledge  is  wearisome, 

Save  when  the  wise 
Study  whole  volumes 

In  beautiful  eyes ! 

So,  down  with  the  sorrows 

And  troubles  of  earth ! 
For  what  was  our  life  made 

But  drinking  and  mirth! 
Then  drink  and  be  glad,  sirs. 

Laugh  and  be  gay ; 
Keep  sober  to-morrow, 

But  drink  to-day ! 

Raym.     A  jovial  song,  and  full  of  sage  advice! 
Friends,  do  as  ye  are  told,  drink  ye  to-day  ! 

[He  Jills  his  glass  ;  the  guests  all  do  the 
same. 
2d.  Gen.     Now,  by  your  leave,  I  '11  give  you  an 
old  song, 
I  heard  a  soldier  singing  on  the  rampart 
Just  as  a  bullet  struck  him. 
All.  Let  us  have  it ! 

[He  sings. 
She  stood  before  our  Lady's  shrine, 

And  offered  gems  and  gold  ; 

A  stately  woman,  pale  and  sad, 

Before  her  time  grown  old. 


And  softly,  softly  murmured  she 

A  prayer  so  sad  and  low, 
And  hid  her  face  with  both  her  hands, 

That  none  her  grief  miglit  know. 

That  woman's  prayer,  unheard  by  man. 

Went  up  to  CJod  on  high, 
Like  an  archangel's  trumpet- voice, 

That  shakes  the  earth  and  sky. 

"  Give  back  my  wandft'er  unto  me. 

Mine  erring  child  restore !" 
But  the  hills  of  heaven  they  answered  her, 

"  He  's  lost  for  evermore  I" 

"Give  back,"  she  cried,  "  mine  only  one, 

Have  1  not  sorrowed  sore !" 
But  the  depths  of  hell  made  answer  low, 

"He'sour's  for  evermore!" 

Riiym.  Sir,  you  have  cast  a  gloom  upon  our  mirth. 
Drink,  friends,  and  let  us  drown  the  memory 
Of  this  strange  song  in  wine. 

3d  Gen.  [Jlourishing  his  glass  and  singing  :  — 

Where  art  thou,  Nerisse  the  bright ! 

With  thy  jewels  wreathed  about  thee, 
Like  the  starry  queen  of  night  — 

Love  himself  would  die  without  thee  ! 

Sweet  Nerisse !  thou  art  so  fair ; 

Art  so  dowered  with  queenly  graces. 
That  in  heaven,  if  thou  wert  there, 

Goddesses  would  veil  their  faces ! 

Enter  servant  —  to  Raymond. 

There  is  a  lady,  sir,  doth  crave  admittance. 

Raym.  Dost  know  her  ?  If  she  be  the  dancing  girl 
Who  was  here  yesternight,  let  her  come  in. 

Serv.    I  do  not  know  her,  sir.    She  is  close  veiled. 
Gen.     Let  her  come  in,  Nerisse  wore  a  veil ! 

[Enter  Madame  Berliner,  throwing  hack 
her  veil. 
Mad.  B.  Peace  with  your  idle  jests  ! — I  am  not  one 
Come  to  partake  your  sinful  revelries  ! 
Raym.     [endeavouring  to  put  her  back.]    .Shame  on 

you,  Madame  Berthier,  —  't  is  unseemly  ! 
Mad.  B.  I  will  not  be  thrust  back !  What  are  these 
men 
That  they  should  part  the  mother  and  her  son  ! 
Guests,     [to  each  other.]     It  is  his  mother,  —  it  is 

Madame  Berthier  I 
Raym.  Come  with  me,  mother, — let  me  speak  with 
thee! 

[They  go  out. 


SCENE  III. 

A  small  apart in€7it  —  Enter  Mad.\.me  Berthier  anrf 
Kavmond. 
Raym.    It  was  not  warrantable  e'en  in  a  mother 
Thus  to  intrude  on  her  son's  privacy  ! 

Mad.  B.  And  this  from  thee,  thou  hope  of  my  lone 
heart! 

45 


36 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ungracious  son,  is  this  thy  love  and  duty ! 

They  do  not  call  me  now  a  happy  mother  — 

No,  no,  they  need  not  —  I  have  now  no  son ! 

Would  I  had  followed  thee  unto  the  grave 

In  the  kind  innocence  of  thy  young  boyhood, — 

Then  I  had  wept  for  thee  —  then  had  1  said 

When  sorrow  came,  "  Oh  if  my  boy  had  lived, 

He  would  have  been  my  comfort  I"  [Weeps. 

Raym.  Nay,  be  calm. 

And  hear  me  speak  to  thee  I    Have  I  not  borne 
Bitter  invective  with  unwearying  patience; 
Hast  thou  not  heaped  reproach  uixm  reproach. 
Upbraiding  on  upbraiding,  till  I  hid 
Myself  behind  stern  silence  lor  repose  ? 

Mad.  B.     Raymond,  thou  wast  my  sun  —  my  only 
child, 
My  life's  life,  and  the  glory  of  my  age  — 
The  dearest  creature  on  the  earth  to  me  — 
Was  I  to  see  thee  perish  and  be  still  ? 
Was  I  to  see  thy  soul  upon  the  brink 
Of  black  perdition,  and  not  cry  "  beware !" 
Oh  cruel,  pitiless  unto  thyself, 
Unjust  luito  thy  mother! 

Raym.  Thou  'rt  unjust 

To  me  by  these  unmerited  reproaches  ! 
Because  I  sought  to  live  among  mankind, 
And  with  Ihe  gay  be  gay  — and  with  the  young 
Live  in  light-hearted  joy,  must  I,  perforce, 
Be  a  lost  profligate? 

Mad.  B.  Alas,  my  son, 

Thou  dost  deceive  thyself     This  is  not  joy, 
This  giddy  rioting  !  and  call'st  thou  life, 
This  daily  wasting  of  thy  manhood's  strength  ? 
How  art  thou  self  deceived  !  how  art  thou  changed— 
Changed  mournfully  without,  as  changed  within ! 
Thy  cheek  has  lost  its  beautiful  hue  of  youth. 
Thine  eye  its  brilliant  cheerfulness !    Would  God 
That  I  could  give  my  life  a  sacrifice, 
And  so  redeem  the^e,  my  poor,  erring  son 

Raym.  Alas,  my  mother,  I  have  done  thee  wrong; 
Forgive  me  I  and  may  Heaven  forgive  me  too ! 

Mad.  B.    My  son,  my  dear,  dear  son,  thou  wilt  re- 
turn — 
Thou  wilt  make  glad  once  more  thy  father's  place — 
Wilt  not  let  shame  and  ruin  cover  us ! 

[She  embraces  him  and  weeps. 

Raym.    Now  mother  rest  awhile,   thou  need'st 
repose ; 
These  rooms  are  still,  and  I  will  send  attendants 
Who  will  regard  thy  comfort,  ere  thou  go 
Back  to  thy  home. 

Mad.  B.  I  go  not  back  without  thee ! 

I  will  not  leave  ihee  in  the  cruel  power 
Of  him  that  has  no  mercy —  ihat  vile  man. 
That  heartless  man,  —  the  dissolute  Rartolin  ! 

Raym.     Thou  may'st  reproach  me,  but  my  friends 
thou  must  not! 

Mad.  B.    Thy  friend!  call  him  iliy  foe,  thy  cruel 
foe! 

Raym.    My  mother,  let  our  parting  be  in  peace  — 
Thy  over-anxious  heart  makes  thee  intemperate  I 
I  go  not  hence,  the  city  is  my  home  — 
Now  fare  thee  well! 


Mad.  B.  Thou  blind,  deluded  man, 

Thou  cruel  son  of  a  heart-broken  mother ! 
Oh  Raymond,  Raymond,  I  came  here  in  sorrow. 
And  thou  wilt  send  me  hence  more  sorrowful  I 
What  shall  avail  me  ?    I  will  kneel  to  thee  — 
I  do  implore  thee  to  be  merciful 
To  thine  abused  soul  —  my  son,  my  son, 
I  bathe  thy  feet  with  tears,  and  my  white  hair 
Bow  to  the  dust!  return,  my  child,  return  — 
My  prodigal,  return  to  God,  and  me  ! 

[She  sinks  insensible  to  the  floor.    Ray- 
mond, very  much  moved,  raises  her  and 
supports  her  to  the  coiich. 
Enter  bartolin. 
Bar.  The  guests  much  marvel  at  your  long  delay: 
Their  mirth  is  silenced  until  your  return. 

Raym.    Let  it  be  silenced !  let  them  ail  begone  ! 
To-night  I  shall  return  not  to  the  table  ! 

[Exit  Bartolin. 
Mad.  B.  [faintly  rising.]    My  son,  I  have  beheld 
thee  ;  and  my  heart 
Bleeds  with  a  cureless  sorrow.     I  will  hence  ; 
What  do  I  here  in  this  strange  house  of  mirth  ? 
I  will" go  back  unto  my  lonely  place  ! 

Raym.     Mother,   thou   shalt  not  leave  me  thiis! 
awhile 
Remain  thou  here  with  me,  an  honoured  guest 
Come,  I  will  lead  thee  to  a  fitter  chamber. 
Where  thou  shalt  calm  thy  soul  and  rest  thy  frame. 

Mad.  B.   Bless  thee,  my  son !  Oh  be  my  age's  stay. 
How  rich,  how  happy,  how  exceeding  blest 
A  dutiful,  dear  child  can  make  a  parent ! 

[They  go  out. 


SCENE  IV. 

Several  months  afterwards — evening — pleasure  gar- 
dens, adorned  with  fountains,  temples,  and  statues — 
parties  in  the  distance,  are  seen  through  the  ope7iing.% 
of  trees,  dancing  on  the  smooth  green  turf — music  is 
heard,  and  handsomely  dressed  people  are  walki7ig 
about.  The  interior  of  a  Grecian  temple,  tchich 
commands  a  partial  view  of  the  gardens — Raymond 
reclines  on  a  couch,  Clara  sits  at  his  feet,  her  hair 
bound  with  a  wreath  of  rose  and  myrtle. 

Raym.    This  is  a  fairy  place!  none  are  seen  here 
Save  gallant  men,  and  women  beautiful ; 
One  might  believe  there  was  no  care  on  earth. 
Looking  on  man  through  vistas  such  as  these  ! 
Yon  green  turf  and  those  heavy-branched  trees, 
And  those  light-looted  forms,  with  twining  arms. 
Dancing  beside  that  fountain,  call  to  mind 
The  famous  gardens  of  old  Babylon. 

Clara.    They  are  delicious  gardens  !  but  most  fair 
To  me,  because  t  ever  meet  you  in  them ! 
I  do  not  see  the  people,  nor  the  linmtains, 
Nor  the  dark  trees,  nor  any  thing  but  you ! 

Raym.   Sweet  Clara,  love  makes  up  the  beautiful 
whole 
Of  thy  delightful  being!  thou  hast  never 
Known  what  it  is  to  carry  a  sad  heart 
Into  a  place  of  shining  revelry  ! 

46 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


37 


Clara.  Can  you  have  known  it  ?  you,  Ihe  nch,  the 
witty  — 
You,  that  they  ever  call  the  fortunate  ! 

Rat/m.  I  have,  my  fair  one !  But  come,  sing  to  me; 
I  am  like  Saul,  the  spirit  of  woe  is  on  me, 
And  thou  must  charm  it  hence  with  thy  sweet  songs. 

Clara.     Oh  that  I  were  a  Muse,  that  I  cuuld  put 
The  very  soul  of  music  into  words ! 

Raym.    Tliou  art  a  woman  —  thou  art  mine  own 
love, 
My  glorious  Clara,  brighter  than  a  Muse  ! 
Hebe  was  such  as  thou ;  I  marvel  not 
The  heart  of  Jove  sank  in  the  nectar-cup! 
But  sing,  my  fair  one,  let  me  hear  thy  voice ! 

There 's  a  cloud  on  thy  brow,  love, 

Oh  smile  it  away ! 
And  do  not  let  sorrow 

Depress  thee  to  day! 

Smile,  dearest  and  brightest! 

For  why  should'st  thou  wear. 
When  others  are  smiling, 

This  aspect  of  care  ? 
Thou  hast  sworn  that  my  love 

Is  a  balm  for  distress, 
If  it  blessed  thee  before, 

'Twill  now  doubly  bless! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  not 

So  true  as  I  deem. 
And  that  I  must  wake 

From  my  beautiful  dream  : 

But  thy  goodness  they  know  not 

Who  speak  thus  of  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  sworn,  and  I  know 

Thou  art  faithful  to  me  ! 

Raym.     [slartins  up.]     'T  is  he  !   't  is  he  !  I  know 

him  now  indeed  ! 
Clara.     Who,   Raymond  ?    speak  !    and   why   art 

thou  so  pale  ? 
Raym.     Dost  see  him,  Clara  I  him  in  the  black 
cloak. 
That  solemn-looking  man  ? 

Clara.  'Tis  but  a  pastor; 

I  saw  him,  when  we  entered,  gaze  on  us  — 
But  there  is  nothing  strange  in  such  a  thing. 
Though  they  look  grave,  they  are  most  pleasant  men. 
They  laugh  and  sing;  they  are  but  stern  outside  — 
We  know  a  many  very  worthy  pastors. 
Raym.    This   is  not  such  a  one  —  thou  know'st 
him  not  I 
Hither  he  has  not  come  for  revelry  — 
I  know  him  well ;  for  he  was  my  youth's  guardian! 
Clara.    You  need  not  fear  him,  he  is  not  so  now ! 
Come  Raymond,  let  us  leave  him  to  himself, 
He  's  moralizing  on  these  gaities  ; 
I  '11  warrant  you,  he  '11  make  a  sermon  of  them ! 

Raym.    Be  silent  girl  I  I  did  not  ask  thy  jests  — 
Rest  on  that  couch  till  I  return  to  thee. 

[He  goes  out. 


SCENE  V. 

An  alcove  in  a  sequestered  pari  of  the  garden. 
Enter  Ravmo.nd,  and  the  pastor. 

Rai/m.     Well,  sir  ? 

I'a.it.  And  having  seen,  I  do  depart. 

Bearing  ha.ck  with  hie  a  most  sad  conviction, 
Tiiat  thou  art  in  the  way  that  leads  to  death  ! 

Raym.    The  privilege  of  an  old  friend  allows 
You  to  speak  thus  —  nothjng  beside  would  give  it! 

Past.     I  should  regard  it  as  the  sacred  duty 
Of  my  high  odlce,  to  warn  any  man 
Of  his  soul's  danger  ;  and  think  not  that  thou. 
Who  hadst  a  son's  place  in  my  aged  heart, 
Shalt  pass  unwarned !    JNo,  Raymond,  I  conjure  thee 
Flee  from  destruction,  ere  it  be  too  late  ! 
I  charge  thee  not  with  sin, — be  thine  own  conscience 
Thy  judge,  as  thine  accuser!  Ah,  my  friend. 
Is  this  the  splendid  promise  of  thy  youth  ? 
Thy  blameless  life  —  thy  high  heroic  virtue; 
Thy  lofty  hopes  —  thy  dreams  of  fair  ambition  ; 
The  principles  thy  noble  mother  gave  thee  —  <■ 
And  thy  affection  for  that  injured  mother  ? 

Raym.    Who  is  there,  sir,  that  can  look  back  and 
say. 
In  nought  have  I  offended  ? 

Past.  None,  my  son ! 

All,  all  have  sinned  —  all,  all  have  fallen  short 
Of  the  full  measure  of  their  righteousness  I 
But  this  cannot  avail  thee  —  couldst  thou  plead 
Thus  in  the  awful  day,  before  thy  judge  ? 
Thou  must  abjure  all  sin  —  must  cleanse  thy  heart 
And  make  thy  life  pure,  ere  thou  canst  look  up 
With  any  hope  that  there  is  pardon  for  thee! 
More  joy  is  there  in  heaven  when  one  poor  sinner 
Returns  to  God,  than  over  many  just. 
Who  do  not  need  forgiveness!  Oh,  come  back. 
Come  back,  poor  prodigal,  to  thy  father's  arms! 
Come  back,  my  friend —  virtue  has  truer  joys 
Than  guilty  pleasure  ever  can  afford  thee  ! 

Raym.     My  more  than  father!    there  is  one  fair 
creature. 
Whose  virtue,  whose  dear  love  can  win  me  back  — 
Thy  daughter,  can  she  love  me  and  forgive  ? 

Pa.^f.    Alas,  alas  !  my  [wor  heart-broken  daughter  ! 
It  is  too  late  lor  this.     If  thou  hadst  loved 
That  maiden,  thou  hadst  ne'er  run  madly  on 
In  such  a  wild  career  of  vice  and  folly! 

Raym.    Thou  canst  not  fathom  man's  mysterious 
heart  — 
Thou  canst  not  comprehend  how  Adeline 
Has  been  a  shrined  saint  within  my  soul. 
Still  un|X)lluieil  by  all  baser  worship  — 
When  I  forget  {!od,  1  remember  her! 
Oh,  might  I  hope,  1  would  retrace  my  steps 
Through  burning  agonies! 

Past.  Poor  erring  man, 

It  is  too  late  for  hope  !  canst  thou  recall . 
The  bitter  woe  of  thy  mikind  desertion  ? 
Oh,  Raymond,  Raymond,  thou  know'st  not  the  pangs 

47 


38 


HOVVITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  that  sad  maiden's  heart :  how  she  grew  pale 
With  hope  that  was  a  mockery ;  how  she  pined 
For  the  companion  of"  her  lovely  youth, 
Till  certainty  of  thine  abandonment 
Made  love  despair ! 

Raym.  Oh,  let  me  win  her  back 

To  love  and  happiness ! 

Past.  She  is  betrothed 

Unto  another  bridegroom  —  one  more  true, 
More  sternly  true  than  thou  wert ! 

Raym.  Is  she  false  ? 

Hath  she  too  broken  her  vows  ? 

Past.  She  was  not  false ! 

Oh,  most  unkind,  come  thou  and  see  her  spousals  — 
Come  thou  and  see  the  drooping  bride  of  death! 
Methinks  it  would  recall  Ihee  from  thy  sin 
To  see  the  cruel  havoc  it  has  made ! 

Raym.     My  father,  on  my  knees  beside  her  bed 
I  will  abjure  my  sins  I     Give,  give  her  lo  me  — 
Even  from  death  will  I  redeem  my  bride  ! 

Past.     I  heard  a  gaudy  sinner  at  thy  side 
Singing  her  harlot  songs ! 

Raym.  Nay,  she  is  pure! 

But  I  have  sinned  —  I  do  confess  my  sin  — 
Fore  heaven  and  thee.    The  vows  I  made  to  her 
I  do  abjure,  and  my  old  faith  take  back! 

Past.    Thoughtless  young  man  !    If  thou  have  any 
vows, 
Hold  them  religiously ;  and  use  thy  power 
To  keep  that  maiden  free  of  sin  and  shame ! 
The  faith  thou  profferest  my  dying  daughter 
Cometh  too  late  —  alas!  alas  !  too  late  ! 

Raym.     Life  has  no  further  hope,  no  direr  pang  — 
My  sin  is  past  redemption  ! 

Past.  Raymond,  no! 

Poor  Adeline  forgives  thee,  so  will  God  ; 
But  thou  must  turn  from  sin !  Bethink  thee,  Raymond, 
Of  thy  heart-broken  mother ;  turn  thee  back 
Repentant  to  her  arms  —  a  mighty  debt 
It  is  thou  owest  her,  of  love  unpaid  ! 

Raym.    Oh  for  a  dark  oblivion  !    Oh  for  death  ! 
Oh  for  the  blackest,  lowest  depths  of  hell. 
So  I  might  win  forgetfulness ! 

Past.  Peace,  peace ! 

My  heart  bleeds  for  thee  !  Thou  hast  had  my  prayers, 
My  earnest  prayers  to  heaven,  and  yet  shall  have 
them ! 

Raym.     Thus  dost  thou  speak,  after  the  mighty  woe 
That  I  have  heaped  upon  thee  !     Is  this  love, 
Or  is  it  some  deep  curse,  disguised  as  love  ? 

Past.     My  Raymond,  it  is  thus  a  Christian  man 
Forgives  his  erring  brother.     And  thou,  thou 
Wast  as  a  first-born  child  unto  my  .soul ! 

Raym.  Let  me  begone !  I  am  so  bowed  with  shame — 
So  utterly  unworthy —  let  me  go! 

Past.     Yes,  let  us  go  ;  this  gaudy  place  of  sin 
Is  no  fit  shrine  for  humble  penitence ; 
6ome  then  with  me ! 

Raym.  Nay,  nay,  I  go  alone! 

I  have  heard  that  which  hath  unmanned  my  soul ; 
Give  me  but  time  —  I  'II  meet  thee  on  the  morrow ! 
{He  turns  hastily  away,  and  passes  among 
the  trees. 


Past.    Strengthen  him,  Oh  Lord!     The  present 
time  is  precious : 
Repentance  comes  too  late  that  comes  to-morrow ! 

[He  follows  him. 

SCENE  VI. 

The  house  of  Madame  Vaumar — a  noble  apartment — 
Madame  Vaumar  and  her  daughter  sitting  together. 

Mad.  V.    But  what  are  his  intentions  towards  you. 
Ay  ?  honourable  marriage  ? 

Clara.  Why  question  it  ? 

Have  we  not  had,  dear  mother,  proof  on  proof 
Of  his  unwavering  kindness  unto  us  ? 

Mad.  V.    Presents  and  money  he  has  ne'er  with- 
held— 
Of  these,  free-handed  men  are  ever  lavish ; 
With  these  they  buy  exemption  from  all  bonds ; 
'Tis  therefore  I  suspect  his  pure  intentions. 

Clara.  Suspect  him  .'    Oh,  I  should  as  soon  suspect 
The  sun  that  shines  at  noon-day  ! 

Mad.  V.  Nonsense,  child  ! 

Enter  servant. 

Serv.    Madam,  Methusaleh,  the  Jew  is  here, 
And  doth  require  to  see  you. 

Mad.  V.  Send  him  back ; 

Say  that  I  am  engaged,  and  cannot  see  him  — 
Or  tell  him,  rather,  that  I  am  abroad  ! 

Serv.    I  told  him  this,  but  it  would  not  suffice  him ; 
He  will  not  leave  the  house  unless  he  sees  you. 

Mad.  V.  Go  then  and  tell  him,  I  '11  be  down  anon. 
[Servant  goes  out. 
These  usurers  will  sure  dictate  the  terms 
Of  their  salvation  on  the  judgment  day  ! 
Money  he  wants,  and  money  I  have  none  — 
I  'd  meet  a  lion  rather  than  this  Jew ! 

Clara.    He  has  had  patience,  mother,  wondrous 
patience ! 

Mad.  V.  Pshaw,  silly  girl,  he'll  make  us  pay  for  it! 

Clara.     And  yet  we  go  on,  ever  spending  more  — 
Far  better  were  it  to  have  paid  this  Jew, 
Than  to  have  spent  a  thousand  crowns,  my  mother, 
For  one  night's  masquerade  ! 

Mad.  V.  You  simple  child. 

That  never  had  the  commonest  worldly  wisdom 
It  is  but  wasting  words  to  talk  with  you  ! 

Clara.    Well,  mother  dear,  you  have  enough  for 
both ! 

[Madame  Vaumar  goes  out. 

[After  a  pause,  Clara  rises  aiid  adjusts  her 
hair  before  a  mirror,  singing  the  while. 

Thy  love  may  be  rich  and  great, 

Mine  is  more  to  me ! 
Gold  it  is  gives  love  its  weight 

Unto  one  like  thee. 

My  love,  riding  to  the  fight. 
Wins  all  eyes  to  him ; 

Every  other  gallant  knight 

By  his  side  looks  dim. 
My  love  in  the  minstrel's  song 

Has  won  golden  fame  — 
48 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


39 


[She  sees,  through  the  mirror,  Raymond 
entering. 

Clara,    [nodding  to  him.]     Welcome,  thou  noble 
flower  of  ohivalrj'  — 
rhy  fame  was  well  nigh  sung  I     But  Raymond,  say, 
Shall  you  be  at  llie  miis<]uerade  to-nigtit '. 

Kaym.     No,  not  to-night. 

Clara.  Nay,  but  indeed  you  must ! 

The  great  Count  Siemar,  who  is  just  returned, 
And  sets  the  wondering  city  all  a-stir. 
Goes  there  to  night  I 

Kaym.  Well,  let  him  go, 

What  is  't  to  me  ? 

Clara.  All  women  say  the  Count 

Is  handsome,  wondrous  handsome  —  and  all  men 
That  he  is  brave  —  we  know  that  he  is  brave  ; 
Ills  warlike  deeds  bear  testimony  for  him. 

Kaym.    I  shall  not  go  ;  and  do  not  Ihou  go,  Clara ! 

Clara.     My  mother's  heart  is  bent  upon  my  going. 
And  upon  my  appearing  as  a  Ilouri ;  — 
1  like  it  not ;  far  rather  would  I  be 
A  peasant  of  Ionia,  in  the  dress 
You  did  admire  so  much. 

Raym.  Poor  foolery  this  ! 

I  pray  thee,  Clara,  go  not  I 

Clara.  I  would  swear 

That  you  were  masquerading  even  now  ; 
May  't  please  your  reverence  to  give  reasons  good 
For  this  new  faith  I 

But,  mercy  on  us,  Raymond, 
How  pale  you  are !  there  's  sorrow  in  your  eye  — 
What  has  distressed  you  ?  Have  you  seen  again 
That  gloomy  man  that  met  us  in  the  gardens  ? 

Raym.  No,  my  sweet  love ;  and  if  my  countenance 
Betokens  sorrow,  it  but  tells  a  tale 
Of  a  wild  agony  my  soul  passed  through 
In  a  strange  dream  last  night. 

Clara.  ■         Heed  not  a  dream ! 

Raym.     Alas,  alas  !  it  was  no  common  dream  — 
It  cleaves  unto  my  burning  soul,  even  now, 
Like  the  irrevocable  doom  of  God  ! 
It  told  me  that  we,  both  of  us,  were  damned  I 

Clara.    Good  heavens  !  't  is  horrible — most  horri- 
ble— 
And  you  do  look  so  stern  —  so  darkly  stem  ! 

Raym.  Not  stern,  but  sad,  and  sorrowfully  earnest. 
Heaven  is  my  witness,  sinner  as  I  am. 
With  what  sincere  conviction  1  conjure  thee 
To  flee  from  folly,  wherein  lieth  death  I 
Thou  tender  heart,  let  not  the  curse  come  down 
On  both  of  us  :  —  for  me  there  is  no  hope  ; 
Yet,  though  so  black  with  guilt,  I  still  revere 
The  virtuous  —  I  still  reverence  purity  — 
And,  for  the  unstained  goodness  of  thy  soul, 
»  Love  thee  far  better  than  thy  outward  charms ; 
And  were  I  but  a  worthy,  guiltless  man. 
How  would  I  take  thee  to  my  bounding  heart. 
And  bless  my  God  for  so  great  happiness  I 
But  thy  fate  shall  nofbe  allied  to  mine  — 
I  will  not  drag  thee  with  me  to  the  pit ! 

Clara.    If  thou  must  perish,  I  will  perish  with 
thee  — 
Suffer  with  thee  —  go  down  to  death  with  thee  I 
5  G 


Raym.    Thou  art  too  good,  too  noble  to  be  lost .' 

Clara.     But  let  me  know  thy  dream,  thy  awful 
dream. 

Raym.    I  dreamt  that  I  was  dead  —  and  that,  like 
Dives, 
I  W'oke  in  the  eternal  pit  of  sin  ! 
I  thought  I  had  been  judged  —  Oh,  what  a  sum 
Of  crime  was  there  against  me  I — crime  which  then 
I  saw  deformed,  and  hideous  in  the  light 
Of  God,  and  all  the  heavenly  company  ! 
I  tliought  my  mother  did  appear  in  heaven 
And  call  for  judgment  on  me  I — my  kind  mother, 
Whom  I  have  wronged,  and  brought  to  misery  ! 

Clara.    Oh  that  thy  mother  loved  me  !  Go  to  her, 
My  dearest  friend,  and  reconcile  her  to  thee  I 

Raym.    I  will,  I  will,  and  thou  shalt  comfort  her ! 
But  to  my  dream  —  Methought  that  I  did  hear 
Those  lips,  which  gave  the  thief  upon  the  cross 
Hope  and  redemption,  say  to  me  "  Depart — 
Depart,  thou  cursed,  to  eternal  fire  I" 
And,  by  a  power  I  did  not  dare  control, 
I  was  cast  down,  and  down,  and  ever  down 
Into  the  eternal  gulph,  yawning  and  black  ; 
Whose  depth  at  length  I  reached,  a  world  of  woe ! 
Where  sin  put  off  all  mask,  and  did  appear 
Monstrous  and  vile;  and  where  each  countenance 
Wore  the  expression  of  a  hopeless  pang  — 
Wailing  was  there,  and  gnashing  of  the  teeth, 
And  every  outward  sign  that  tokenelh  woe. 
"Abide  thou  here  !"  said  one,  w'hose  word  seemed 

fate, 
"Abide  thou  here  with  her  whom  thou  hast  drawn 
From  the  high  beauty  of  her  innocence !" 

Clara.     Ah,  gracious  God  !    't  is  hke  a  frightful 
warning. 

Raym.    'this  was  my  dream.     Not  indistinct  and 
vague 
Like  common  dreams,  but  bearing  the  impress 
Of  stern  reality.    There,  too,  I  saw, 
Like  one  rejoicing  o"er  a  sacrifice. 
Him  that  has  been  mine  evil  genius  ! 

Clara.    What,  Bartolin  ? 

Raym.  Methought  he  was  a  fiend, 

And  called  his  fellows  to  rejoice  o'er  me 
As  o'er  a  victim  I    I  abhor  that  man  — 
I  know  that  he  is  crafty,  base,  and  cold  — 
And  yet  he  hath  so  subtly  wove  himself 
Into  the  web  of  my  accursed  life. 
That  he  makes  up  a  fearful  part  of  it ! 

Clara.     Would  that  you  had  not  had  this  horrid 
dream ! 
And  yet,  dear  Raymond,  it  was  but  a  dream ! 

Raym.   Thus  do  we  ever  strive  to  put  back  truth : 
'T  was  but  a  dream,  we  say  —  I  tell  thee,  Clara, 
It  was  a  dream  that  doth  foreshow  my  doom  ! 

Enter  .madame  Vaumar,  in  great  agitation. 

Mad.  V.     Give  me   your  diamonds,  Clara,   they 
must  go 
To  satisfy  this  avaricious  Jew  : 

Clara.    My  diamonds!  those  that  Raymond  gave 
unto  me ! 

49 


40 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Mad.  V.    Ay,  girl !  this  Jew  would  have  thy  very 
heart's  blood  ! 
He  doth  demand  with  brutal  insolence  , 

The  payment  of  the  sum  already  due  — 
Or  pledge  of  jewels  equal  to  the  value  — 
Or  some  rich  friend  as  a  security  ! 

[She  IhroiL-s  herself  into  a  chair,  and 
wrings  her  hands. 
We  are  undone!  poor  Clara,  we  are  beggars  — 
In  the  hard  hands  of  a  usurious  Jew! 
Kaym.    Madam,  what  sum  requires  this  usurer  ? 
Mad.  V.     Far  more   than  we   can  raise !    thVee 
thousand  crowns  — 
But  Clara's  diamonds  will  be  pledge  sufficient  — 
Why  do  you  not  obey  me,  Clara  ?  letch  them ! 
Sir,  you  must  pardon  such  a  use  of  them. 
But  we  are  poor,  and  poverty  is  forced 
To  make  such  sacrifice  as  wealth  conceives  not. 
Raym.     Nay,  nay,  my  Clara,  you  shall  keep  your 
baubles ! 
The  debt  shall  be  discharged  —  where  is  the  man  ? 
Mad.  V.     No,  dearest  sir,  you  shall  not  thus  o'er- 
burthen 
Yourself  with  our  distresses! 

Ka'pn.  'Tis  my  pleasure! 

Three  thousand  crowns,  you  say,  is  his  demand  ? 
Mad.  V.    Three  thousand  crowns,  sir,  with  a  large 
arrear 
Of  shameful  interest. 
lia^in.  May  be  four  thousand  crowns  ? 

Mad.  V.     'T  will  be  that  sum,  at  least. 
Raym.  He  is  below  — 

1 11  see  him  and  discharge  the  debt  anon. 

Clara.     Alas,  sir,  you  will  surely  curse  the  day 
You  knew  us,  with  our  great  necessities  — 
We  are  so  much  your  debtors! 

Raym.  I  am  yours! 

But  now,  adieu!  madam,  to  you  good  day! 

[Hff  boivs,  and  goes  out. 
Clara.     iNIost  generous  man  !  most  noble,  godlike 
man ! 
Mother,  are  you  not  'whelmed  with  gratitude  ? 
And  yet  I  would  we  were  not  thus  indebted. 

Mad.  V.     'T  is  nothing,  child,  for  him  —  four  thou- 
sand crowns  — 
'T  would  go  in  some  wild  folly,  if  not  thus: 
And  if  he  love  you,  he  is  proud  to  serve  you  — 
If  not,  why  let  the  counterfeil  pay  dearly 
To  hide  his   baseness ! 

Clara.  You  may  reason  thus, 

I  cannot!  Oh,  he  is  a  godlike  man  ! 

Ma/l.  V.    Well,  child,  I  go  unto  the  promenade — 
You  must  walk  loo,  this  clear  fresh  air  will  heighten 
The  colour  on  your  cheek,  too  delicate  else  ; 
And  you  must  wear  your  brightest  looks  to-night ! 
Come,  come,  I  wait  lor  you. 

Clara.  I  shall  not  walk  — 

My  heart  is  weary  —  I  shall  to  my  chamber. 

[She  goes  out;  Madam  V.  follows  her. 


SCENE  VII. 

The  house  of  Raymond  —  he  and  Bartolin  sitting  at  a 
table,  with  papers  before  them. 

Raym.     And  say  you  there  's  no  residue  ? 
Bar.  No  —  none  ! 

Raym.    And  that  this  money  cannot  be  obtained  ? 
Bar.    1  say  again,  it  cannot! 
Raym.  Are  there  none 

Who  will  advance  this  money  on  my  bond  ? 
Bar.    Your  bond   is  nothing   without  means  to 
back  it  — 
It  cannot  be  obtained  ! 

Raym.  It  must !  it  shall ! 

Money  has  hitherto  been  plentiful  — 
Apply,  sir,  where  you  have  applied  before! 
Bar.   I  have  applied  ;  and  this  was  all  my  answer. 
[He  produces  a  small  sealed  packet. 
Raym.     Well,  sir,  and  what  is  this  ? 
Bar.  Nay,  break  the  seal ! 

Raym.  [opening  the  packet.]  What  things  are  these? 
Bar.  With  tears,  she  bade  me  say 

That  she  had  nought  else  left  —  her  wedding-ring. 
And  her  dead  husband's  Bible. 

Raym.  Oh,  my  mother! 

Thou  cruel,  godless  wretch;  hast  thou  been  draining 
From  that  heart-broken  mother,  her  poor  all ! 
Was  it  from  her  thou  got'st  the  easy  gold 
With  which  thou  sinn'dst, — and  leddest  me  to  sin! 

Bar.   Did  you  not  bid  me  get  you  gold ;  and  swore 
You  cared  not  whence,  nor  how  I 

Raym.  Thou  heartless  sinner  ; 

Thou  pander  to  iniquity !     May  heaven 
'Visit  this  mother's  sorrow  on  thy  head  ! 
When  came  this  message  to  thee  ? 
Bar.  Full  seven  days  since. 

Raym.    Full  seven  days  since !  and  yet  you  told 

me  not. 
Bar.     You  gave  me  not  the  chance !    Have  you 
not  shunned  jne  ? 
Have  you  not  flung  at  me  opprobrious  looks 
Whene'er  we  met,  and  passed,  as  if  I  were 
A  loathsome  leper  ? 

Raym.  Cause  I  hated  thee  — 

Because  I  know  thee !  and  I  fain  would  not 
Breathe  of  the  air  thy  presence  hath  polluted. 
Bar.     'T  were  better  that  we  parted  I 
Raym.  It  were  best. 

Bar.     I  thought  not  to   have  found  you,  sir,  un- 
grateful ! 
Raym.     I  do  not  owe  thee  gratitude,  but  curses! 
Bar.     We  have  had  many  happy  days  together, — 
We  have  had  jovial  nights.     I  would  not  part 
From  an  old  boon  companion,  with  a  grudge.  > 

When  this  hot  fit  is  by,  you  '11  need  my  service,         " 
.\nd  I  '11  attend  your  summons. 

Raym.  Hateful  reptile; 

Too  long  I  have  endured  thee.    Get  thee  hence. 
Bar.   [aside.]    I  will  return  these   insults  tenfold 
on  thee  — 
And  thou  shalt  find  the  reptile  has  his  fangs! 

[He  goes  out 
50 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


41 


Raym.  [after  a  pause,  ta'ung  up  the  ring.] 
Small  golden  circlet  —  pledge  of  holy  wedlock; 
How  have  my  motlier's  eyes  been  fixed  on  lliee ! 
In  joy,  at  lirsl  —  the  happy,  wealthy  bride 
Of  a  good  man!  —  and  then  in  that  great  sorrow 
Which  fell  ui^n  her  heart,  when  death  came  down 
And  left  her  in  her  early  widowhood  I 
Next,  came  the  o'erwhelming  agony  of  life  — 
Outraged  alfection ;  crushed  and  w ilhcrtd  hope ; 
The  blight  of  being  —  po\erly;  and  shame, 
Tor  a  lost,  guilty  son  I  —  how  turned  she  tlien 
Her  dimmed  eyes  upon  thee! 

Oh,  thou  mute  thing 
That  yet  reproaches!  with  a  tongue  of  fire ; 
I  hear  thy  admonition  I    I  will  lly 
To  her  and  save  her  I  [He  hastens  out. 


SCENE  vnr. 

A  meanly  furnished  garret  —  a  poor  woman  at  her 
work;  a  knock  is  heard  —  she  opens  the  door,  and 
Raymond  enters. 

Raym.     Lives  here  not  Madam  Berthier,  my  good 
woman  ? 

Worn.     Alas,  sir,  no  !  —  she  died  a  week  ago. 

Raym.     Died  —  woe's  me  I     Said   you  truly  she 
was  dead  ? 

Worn.    Yes,  sir,  she  died,  and  of  a  broken  heart, — 
I  knew  lier  heart  was  breaking  at  the  fu-st. 
They  who  have  had  much  sorrow  know  its  signs 
Howe'er  disguised  ;  and  I  have  had  my  share. 

Raym.    Good  woman,  let  me  take  this  seat,  I  'm 
faint. 

Wom.    Alas,  sir,  then  you  knew  poor  Madam  Ber- 
thier — 
Methought  she  had  no  friends,  and  none  that  loved 
her! 

Raym.    Died  she  within  this  room  ? 

Wom.  Upon  that  bed  — 

A  poor,  mean  bed :  yet  was  she  thankful  for 't. 

Raym.  Oh,  she  was  used  to  many  stately  comforts; 
And  she  died  there ! 

Wom.  Ay ;  now,  methinks,  I  see  her, 

With  her  thin  cla-sped  hands  and  sunken  eyes, 
Fraying  to  Heaven  to  bless  a  graceless  son. 
That  had  reduced  her  unto  poverty  ! 

Raym.     Alas,  alas  ;  he  was  a  cruel  son  ! 

Wom.  He  must  have  been  a  cruel,  wicked  man ; 
For  to  the  ver}'  last  he  did  distress  her 
With  unjust,  never-ending  claims  for  money. 
The  few  things  that  she  left  of  worn-out  garments 
Could  hardly  bury  her! 

Raym.  Poor  martyred  saint! 

The  curse  of  heaven  will  light  upon  her  son! 

Wom.    Good  sir,  it  would  have  melted  his  hard 
heart 
To  have  seen  her  die  !  Her  last  prayer  was  for  him — 
A  prayer  that  would  have  moved  a  heart  of  stone. 
She  always  called  him  her  poor  prodigal  — 
She  was  an  angel,  sir ;  a  meek,  good  angel ! 

[She  weeps. 


Raym.     [giving  a  fctn  g>old  pieces.] 
Take  these  ;  and  may  the  Almighty  Lord  of  mercy 
Bless  thee,  for  thy  compassion  to  this  woman ! 

How.     Heaven  bless  you,  sir,  for  I  have  seven 
small  children  — 
Seven  falherle.-s  lillle  ones!  ' 

Rnijm.  Alas  for  yon  ; 

And  I  pray  CJod,  that  of  the  seven,  there  be 
No  prodigal ! 

[He  hurries  out. 

Wo/n.  Ah,  't  is  some  man  of  sorrow  — 

Some  conscience-stricken  prodigal,  may  be  — 
Perchance  the  son  of  Madame  Bcrlhier! 
Perchance,  say  I?  —  I  A7i07;i  it  was  her  son. 
Christ  give  him  penitence  ;  for  a  mighty  sin 
Lies  on  his  soul  —  the  blood  of  that  good  mother  ! 


ACT  IIL  — SCENE  I. 

The  house  of  Madame  Vainnar — she  and  Clara  silling 
together. 

Mad.  V.    Thou  foolish  girl,  —  with  all  a  woman's 
weakness, 
But  not  a  woman's  pride  !     Why,  this  great  Count 
^\'ill  make  an  empress  of  thee  ! 

Clara.  Dearest  mother, 

It  is  in  vain  to  urge  —  I  will  not  see  him  ! 

Mad.  V.    Not  see  him !    He,  the  courtliest  gentle- 
man ; 
High  in  the  Prince's  favour  ;  one  that  keeps 
The  best  establishment  in  all  the  city  — 
Coaches  and  horses,  hounds  and  liveried  servants; 
Splendour  at  home,  magnificence  abroad. 
I  '11  lay  my  life  this  count  will  marry  thee  ! 

Clara.    It  moves  me  not — Indeed  1  could  not  wed 
him ; 
Although  1  know  the  honour  is  .so  great! 

Mad.  V.   Not  wed  him  \   Why  there  's  not  another 
woman 
But  thinks  it  heaven,  if  he  but  look  at  her. 

Clara.  Their  reasoning  is  not  mine  !  No,  mother,  no  I 
If  't  were  the  Prince,  I  would  not  break  my  faith  ! 
Hast  thou  forgot  the  never-ending  kindness; 
The  long-tried  zeal ;  the  goodness  of  jxjor  Raymond  ! 
There  was  a  time  when  thou  didst  smile  on  him ; 
Call  him  thy  friend  ;  and  say  that  it  was  heaven 
If  he  but  looked  on  us ! 

Mad.  V.  Thou  simple  child  ; 

Wilt  never  learn  the  wisdom  of  the  world ! 
Why,  he's  been  acting  the  wild  prodigal, 
And  now  has  spent  his  substance.     All  the  city 
Knows  he  is  penniless ! 

Clara.  Kind,  generous  heart ! 

For  us  he  spent  his  substance  ;  and  we  now, 
Like  common  worldlings,  owing  him  so  much, 
Foi-sake  him  in  his  need.     No,  mother,  no ; 
In  good  or  ill,  I  never  will  desert  him! 
My  heart  is  his,  and  so  shall  be  my  hand, 
If  e'er  I  wed  ! 

Mad.  V.         Thou  wed  a  ruined  man  — 
A  man,  for  whom  the  prison  doors  do  gape ! 

61 


42 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  marry  Raymond  !  when  Count  Siemar  woos. 
I  will  disown  Ihee,  Clara,  if  thou  do, — 
And  may  the  curse  of  poverty  cling  to  you, 
Like  cureless  leprosy ! 

Clara.  Hush,  dearest  mother! 

Surely  thou  dost  not  know  what  true  love  is ! 
To  shrine  within  the  heart's  core,  one  dear  image  ; 
To  think  of  it  all  day,  and  all  the  night  ; 
To  have  sweet  dreams  of  il .'  Thou  dost  not  know 
What 't  is  to  be  beloved  ;  to  see  the  soul 
Beaming  from  eyes  all  tenderness  and  truth  ! 

Mad.  V.  Wild,  ravins  fjolery  !  Tell  me  not  of  love, 
It  is  a  word  of  mere  conventional  use, 
That  passes  among  men  like  forged  coin. 
Current  at  first ;  till  time,  that  all  things  proves, 
Reveals  it  of  base  metal ! 

Clara.  You  forget 

How  Raymond  paid  the  Jew  —  and  how  since  then 
He  has  heaped  favours  on  us! 

Mad.  V.  Tell  me  not 

Of  favours  everlastingly,  and  gifis ! 
I  'm  weary  of  their  memory,  as  of  him. 
To-morrow  eve  Count  Siemar  will  be  here  ; 
And  I  command  thee,  meet  him  graciously  ; 
And  wear  thy  velvet  bodice  and  thy  diamonds  ! 

Clara.     I  'II  wear  my  diamonds  for  no  man  but 
Raymond  I 
But  if  thou  love  me,  dearest,  best  of  mothers, 
Urge  me  not  thus!  I  do  not  love  Count  Siemar  — 
My  heart  aches,  and  my  soul  is  full  of  sorrow  ! 

Mad.  V.  Let  go  my  hand  !  hast  thou  not  heard  my 
words ! 
Let  go  my  hand,  for  I  have  much  to  do. 
Thou  know'st  my  will ;  nor  shall  I  pardon  thee 
If  thou  dare  disobey  !  [She  goes  out. 

Clara.  'T  is  seven  days 

Since  I  beheld  his  face;  seven  weary  days  — 
And  calumny  since  then,  his  precious  name 
Hath  charactered  in  lies ;  and  turned  men's  hearts 
From  him  —  ay,  let  them  turn  ;  and  woman's  smile, 
IjCt  it  change  too  —  let  it  become  a  proverb, 
A  word  despised  and  loathed,  it  matters  not  — 
To  me,  he  still  is  Raymond  !     Shame  with  him 
I  would  prefer,  to  glory  with  another ; 
F,ven  were  he  richer,  nobler  than  Count  Siemar! 
But  let  me  hence,  and  in  my  silent  chamber 
JVerve  my  sick  heart  to  meet  the  morrow's  guest. 
If  so,  I  must  —  yet  will  I  not  deceive 
Count  Siemar  in  this  matter! 

[She  goes  out. 

SCExNE  If. 

Night  —  Raymond's  chamber,  lighted  by  a  lamp  ; 
Raymond,  in  a  loose  dressing-gown,  starling  frmn 
the  bed  on  which  he  had  thrown  nimself: 

The  furies  were  no  fiction !    Sad  Orestes 
Fled  not  from  land  to  land  from  a  vain  shadow ! 
They  are  no  fiction —  would  to  heaven  they  were ! 
No!  they  are  present  with  me,  night  and  day  — 
Spectres  of  days,  and  months,  and  years  misspent  ; 
Of  talents  wasted  —  hopes  which  I  have  murdered! 
Too  late  I  know  my  folly  —  peace  is  gone ; 


And  hope  and  self-esteem  ;  and  that  calm  joy, 

The  fruit  of  virtuous  days,  and  tranquil  nights ! 

My  friends,  the  early  and  the  kind,  are  lost ; 

My  cold  neglect  has  broken  a  mother's  heart, 

'Mid  shameful,  miserable  poverty.  — 

My  lawless  life  has  tarnished  a  good  name ; 

My  thriftless  cost  has  ruined  a  fair  fortune  — 

My  sinful  course  has  shattered  a  strong  frame ! 

Men,  that  I  should  have  scorned  in  my  pure  years, 

Are  now  my  sole  companions —  thus  I  'm  fallen  ! 

Oh,  that  I  were  again  a  happy  boy. 

Conning  my  book  beneath  the  orchard-trees. 

Without  a  care  from  morn  to  eventide  ! 

Where  are  those  lovely  visions  of  my  youth  — 

Fair  fame,  and  Adeline ;  and  sons,  and  daughters^ 

Growing  around  us  in  my  native  home  — 

Where  ?  with  the  things  that  were — my  peace  of  mind. 

My  innocence,  my  health  and  my  good  name ! 

[A  hell  tolls  the  first  hour  of  the  morning. 
Midnight  is  past  —  the  morning  hath  begun  ; 
My  doom  will  be,  one  night,  without  a  morning! 
Millions  on  millions  from  the  earth  have  passed 
Unto  the  eternal  day;  but  I  am  one 
Made  for  the  blackness  of  enduring  night; 
A  reprobate  !  cast  by  the  Eternal  Father 
From  his  great  scheme  of  pardon  ;  the  dear  blood 
Of  Christ  was  never  shed  for  rny  redempfion  ; 
And  if  I  should  bow  down  and  cry  for  mercy. 
My  cry  would  be  a  damning  blasphemy ! 

[He  paces  the  room  in  despair  ;  then  throws 
open  the  y-indow  and  looks  out. 
So  shone  the  moon,  so  looked  the  paly  stars 
In  the  gone  years  of  my  pure  innocence ! 
'T  is  even  so  !  —  and  this  is  my  birth-night! 
Alas,  alas,  and  where  is  that  kind  mother, 
That  made  of  old,  this  eve  a  festival  ? 
The  solemnest,  yet  the  happiest  of  the  year  I 
Of  old  it  passed  not  a  forgotten  time. 
Unnoted,  but  for  some  chance  circumstance! 
Of  old  I  had  a  memory  for  all  joy; 
And  read  my  Bible,  and  believed  that  Christ, 
Blessing  the  pure  in  heart,  had  blessed  even  me ; 
And  that  belief  brought  blessings,  like  the  visits 
Of  angels  entertained  unawares. 
Of  old  I  laid  me  down  to  rest  at  night, 
And  said  my  prayers,  and  put  my  trust  in  God ! 
Of  old  I  had  no  fears,  nor  black  remorse. 
That  sered  my  soul  and  withered  up  my  being; 
Love,  peace,  and  joy,  and  duty,  all  fulfilled, 
Made  every  day  a  joyful  festival! 
Why  died  I  not  in  that  good  time  of  grace  ; 
In  those  most  blessed  days  of  innocence. 
That  knew  not  sin,  and  therefore  knew  not  sorrow  ? 
[He  turns  slowly  away ;  and  seeing  his 
father's  Bible,  opens  it  and  reads. 
"  I  say  unto  you,  that  likewise  joy  shall  be  in  hea- 
ven over  one  sinner  that  repenteth,  more  than  over 
ninety  and  nine  just  persons,  who  need  no  repent- 
ance." 

[He  closes  the  book,  covers  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  weeps  bitterly.    A  loud 
knocking  is  heard  at  his  door,  and 
Bartolin  enters,  hurriedly. 
52 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


43 


Raym.     N'illain,  how  now  ! 

Bar.  No  time  is  this  for  wrath ! 

I  am  but  come  to  warn  you  against  danger. 
Hence  with  you  to  your  hiding-place !    One  hour 
From  now,  and  you  are  in  a  dungeon! 
The  myrmidons  of  law  have  gained  access 
Within  your  dcwrs,  and  now  approach  your  chamber, 
Armed  with  autliority  :  fly,  fly  lience  I 
Or,  better  stili,  with  me  —  give  me  your  hand; 
In  wrath  we  parted,  let  us  meet  as  friends ! 

Raym.     Begone  with  you  !  otTvvith  your  fawnings 
vile  ; 
I  loathe  them  as  your  counsel  — get  you  hence! 
Bar.     Even  as  you  list,  fair  sir ;  so  fare  ye  well ! 
[He  goes  out ;  a  tumult  is  heard  bdow — 
Raymo?id,  wrapping  himself  in  a  cloak, 
goes  out  by  a  private  door. 


SCENE  III. 

Tfie  interior  of  a  gaming  house — particx  of  gentlemen 
sfl  drinking  wine  in  various  jxirls  of  the  room,  others 
are  playing  at  dice  ;  Raymond,  pale  and  with  a  con- 
tracted brow,  playing  with  Count  Siemar ;  Bartolin 
stands  apart,  as  one  of  the  servants  of  the  establish- 
ment, (^serving  Raymond,  uho  has  played  all  the 
evening  with  ill-luck. 

Count  S.  [taking  up  money.]     Despair  not,  Sir  — 
Fortune's  a  fickle  goddess; 
The  next  turn  will  be  yours,  "faint  heart  ne'er  won:" 
You  know  what  says  the  proverb,  "gold  nor  ladies." 
Bar.  [aside.]    Most  sapient  Raymond;  bible-read- 
ing fool ! 
Is  this  the  end  of  your  religious  fervour? 

[He  hiuks  at  a  small  billet. 
Within  the  dainty  folds  of  this  smooth  paper 
Lie  words  which,  like  some  cabalistic  signs. 
Have  fear  and  death  in  them!  Ha,  ha  I  Count  Siemar; 
Thou  keepest  carelessly  a  lady's  secret. 
Else  hadst  thou  never  dropped  this  perfumed  paper! 
[Raymond  again  loses  the  game  ;  he  flings 
down  his  last  gold,  hurls  the  dice  upon 
the  floor,   and   starts   up  with  furious 
gestures. 
Ten  thousand  curses  iall  upon  all  play ! 
Ten  thousand  curses  on  the  duj)es  of  it ! 
I  am  a  ruined  man,  beyond  retrieve  — 
I  am  a  cursed,  ruined,  wretched  man !  [pours  out  wine. 
[Aside.]   Let  this  assist  my  pur[X)se — Ibol,  fool,  fijoll 
Most  senseless  fool !     But  let  me  drink,  and  die  ! 

[He  drinks — Bartolin  goes  out ;  Raymond 
throws  on  his  cloak  and  rushes  out  also. 


SCENE  IV.  I 

The  porch,  leading  into  the  street ;  enter  Raymond,  like 
one  beside  himself,  with  his  harul  on  his  dagger. 

Bartolin.  [presenting  the  billet.]  This  sir,  to  yours, 
but  to  none  otlier  hand  ; 
Thus  were  my  orders,  absolute — Clood  night ! 


Raym.  [reads.]  "  My  daughter  has  Consented  to 
be  yours ;  we  will  expect  you  afrthe  appointed  hour. 
Raymond  is  a  penniless  prodigal.    Adieu." 

[Turning  to  the  address 
"To  the  most  lionourable  Count  Siemar." 
And  thus  writes  Madame  Vaumar  to  Count  Siemar! 
And  this  is  C'lara's  liiitli !    Oh  most  accursed  — 
Oh  most  unkind,  perfidious  of  deceivers! 
Some  strange  mistake  has  given  to  me  the  billet 
Intended  for  my  rival.     But  'tis  well  — 
The  veil  at  length  is  torn  from  my  delusion ! 
I  am  a  penniless  prodigal !  ha,  ha! 
A  penniless  prodigal!  and  they  who  robbed  me, 
Make  this  the  plea  for  my  abandonment ! 
I  am  their  jest  no  doubt,  their  merriment! 
A  prodigal !     Count  Siemar  is  a  saint, 
And  shall  this  night  make  elsewhere  reckoning  — 
And  Madame  \aumar  shall  hear  news  to-night, 
Other  than  of  her  daughter's  marriage-day  ! 

[He  wraps  his  cloak  around  him,  and  walks 
sullenly  away. 


SCENE  V. 

Midnight  —  a  dark  and  lonely  street  in  the  suburbs; 
enter  count  siemar,  singing  in  a  low  voice. 

Come,  pledge  me  in  this  cup  of  wine, 

And  let  us  have  a  joyful  night. 
Thou  hast  my  heart,  thy  heart  is  mine  — 

Why  should  we  part  ere  morning  light! 
Come,  pledge  me  in  this  brimming  cup  — 

Raymond  [rm^hing  upon  him  with  his  dagger.] 
And  she  consented  to  be  yours  to-night! 
Yours,  traitor !  take  you  this — and  this — and  this. 
For  a  bride's  portion !  [He  stabs  him  many  times.] 
Count  S.  [drawing  his  weapon.]    Help!  'gainst  a 
murderer ! 
.-Vh,  villain  !  is  it  you  ? 

Help!  help!  or  'tis  too  late! 
[He  falls. 
Raym.  [striking  him  again.]    Ye  said  I  was  a  pro- 
digal !  ay,  ay  —  see  then 
I  '11  be  as  prodigal  of  thrusts  as  gold ! 

Count  S.  [faintly.]    Oh  heavens,  I  am  a  murdered 
man ;  and  none 
Are  near  to  help! 

For  Christ's  sake,  give  me  help ! 
God  pardon  me!  for  I  have  been  a  sinner! 

Watchmen,  [in  the  distance.]     We  hear  the  cry  — 
and  help  is  now  at  hand  ! 

[Raymond  sheaths  his  dagger,  and  passes 
off  in  an  opposite  direction. 
Watchmen.    The  voice  was  in  this  quarter;  and 
see  there 
Lies  the  poor  murdered — yonder  flies  the  murderer ! 
[Part  pursue  Raymond  ;  others  surround 
Count  Siemar. 
1st  TV.     Ah,  w  hat  a  horrid  pool  of  blood  is  here  ! 
2nd  W.    Run,  call  a  doctor  !  time  may  not  be  lost ! 
[3rd  Watchman  runs  off. 
1st  W.  [kneeling  down  by  the  Count.]  .\  doctor  will 
be  here  in  half  a  mniute  — 
o3 


44 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  the  meantime  give   us  your  name,  good  sir, 
And  we  will  call  ySdr  friends,  or  take  you  to  them. 
Counts,     [vert/fainth/.]    I  am  Count  Siemar  !  all 
the  city  knows  nie  — 
My  murderer  is  one  Berlhier,  a  base  man  I 
2nd  W.     What  does  he  sav  ? 
Isl  W.  It  is  the  great  Count  Siemar ! 

2nd  JV.    Oh,  woful  chance  ! 
1st  W.  The  prince  will  pay  us  richly 

For  help  we  give  —  let 's  bpar  him  to  the  palace  ! 

[They  allempt  to  raise  him. 
Count  S.   It  is  too  late— too  late  I  let  me  die  here ! 

[He  dies. 
1st  W.     If  you  have  any  message  for  the  living. 
Speak  it  within  my  ear,  most  noble  sir. 

[He  listens  for  some  time. 
He  's  dead  !  alas,  all 's  over  with  him  now  ! 
2nd  W.     Ah,  what  a  cruel  murder  — 

God  have  mercy 
Upon  his  soul ! 

Enter  3rd  watch.m.w  and  doctor. 

1st  W.  lie  is  stone-dead,  poor  soul ! 

2nd  W.    And  't  is  no  other  than  the  great  Count 

Siemar! 
Doctor,    [offer  examining  the  body.]     It  is  loo  late! 
there  is  no  life  within  him  — 
He  has  had  seven  wotmds  ;  the  least  were  mortal  ! 
Alas  poor  Count!     But  call  ye  the  police, 
And  let  the  base  assassin  be  pursued  ! 
And  this  deformed  body,  carry  ye 
Unto  the  palace. 

[They  raise  the  body,  and  all  move  off. 


SCENE  VI. 

Midnight  —  savage  glen  among  mountain^ —  thunder 
.  and  lightning,  with  furious  gusts  of  wind. 

Enter  Raymond,  in  a  monk's  habit. 

For  these  seven  days,  like  an  ill-omened  thing 

Skulking  in  dens,  and  lonesome  hideous  caves, 

I  have  sustained  my  life  with  roots  and  herbs. 

And  quenched  my  thirst  with  water  of  the  rock; 

Meet  sustenanceforavile  murderer ! 

Thus  wandered  Cain,  through  melancholy  years, 

A  fugitive  and  vagabond  !  I  too. 

Thrust  out  from  man,  and  the  kind  charities 

That  humanize,  hear  with  me  a  black  curse 

That  makes  my  being  an  enduring  death ! 

[The  lightning  sirihes  a  trte  before  him. 
Heath  is  a-nigh  me!  would  that  the  fierce  bolt. 
That  now  has  smitten  yon  branched,  vigorous  oak 
From  its  rock-f()rtress,  like  a  slender  reed. 
Crashing  and  shivering  to  the  vale  below, 
Had  smitten  me  in  its  stead,  and  in  a  moment 
Ended  my  woe!    The  undefined  future. 
Once  so  terrific  in  its  mvstery. 
Hath  not  more  terror  now  than  hath  the  present. 
In  its  o'ermaslering  consciousness  of  guilt ! 

[The  storm  rngis  more  fearfully ;  trees  are 
torn    up,  loose  crags  tumbled  into  the 


glen,  and  sounds  of  the  gathering  tem- 
pest are  lieard  in  all  the  hollows  of  the 
mountains. 
Even  like  this  outward  tempest  are  the  pangs 
Of  merciless  remorse  ;  but  to  the  one 
Succeeds  a  calm  —  no  calm  succeeds  the  other! 

At  nightfall  I  descried  a  lonely  hut. 
Scarcely  discernible  from  rocks  and  stones, 
But  for  its  roof  of  black  and  shaggy  furze, 
And  the  wind-scattered  smoke  that  showed  the  eye 
'T  was  human  habitation.     Here  about. 
Among  these  crags,  it  lay.     Another  flash 
Will  show  it  through  the  darkness  — 

Ah,  't  is  here ! 
Gloomy  and  lone,  a  place  of  guilt  it  seeras, 
Yet  will  I  enter,  for  I  wildly  long 
To  see  again  a  human  countenance  ! 

[He  htocks  at  the  door,  which  is  opened  by 
an  Old  Man. 
Raym.     Father,  I  crave  the  shelter  of  your  roof 
From  this  night's  storm  ! 
Old  Man.  Ay,  enter,  thou  art  welcome. 

[He  goes  in. 


SCENE  VII. 

The  interior  of  a  miserable  shed,  lighted  only  bi/  a 
small  wood-fire, — the  Old  Man  and  Raymond  sit  by 
the  fire. 

Old  Man.    Com'st  from  the  city  ? 
Raym.  Seven  days  since,  I  left  it. 

Old  Man.     Thou  heard'st  then  of  one  Berthier, 
how  he  murdered 
The  great  Count  Siemar  ? 

Raym.  Yes,  I  heard  of  it  — 

But  I  just  left  the  city  as  it  happened. 
Old  Man.    Thou  didst  not  hear  then,  how  from 
sanctuary 
He  made  escape,  in  habit  of  a  monk  ; 
Nor  of  the  damning  stain  he  has  affixed 
Unto  his  memory,  black  enough  without  it  ? 
Raym.  Good  father,  no  ;  what  is  't  ? — I  know  it  not ! 
Old  Man.     Why,  that  fair  thing,  who  risked  her 
life  for  his, 
As  she  had  done  her  good  name  heretofore, 
Was  found  next  morning  dead! 

Raym.  Dead  !  say'st  thou,  father  ? 

Old  Man.     Ay,  on  the  altar  stone,  which  of  her 
blood 
Will  ever  keep  the  stain  —  the  altar 
Where  he  found  sanctuary  —  and  in  the  city 
'T  is  thought  he  murdered  her  ! 

Raym.  That  did  he  not ! 

Old  Man     Art  of  his  council  then  ?    Perchance 
thou  know'st  him  — 
Perchance  did  furnish  that  poor  faithful  girl. 
With  means  of  his  deliverance? 
Raym.  [after  pacing  the  room  several  times,  and 
struggling  with  his  emotions. 
Father,  my  limbs  are  weary  —  let  me  rest 
I  pray  thee,  on  this  straw. 

54 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


45 


Old  Man.  Rest,  if  you  can  ! 

[The  Old  Man  lights  a  small  lamp,  and 
places  it  so  as  to  throw  the  light  on 
the  countenance  of  Raymond,  and  then 
sits  down  beside  him. 

Raym.     Father,  I  tliank  thee  for  thy  courtesy; 
But  thy  Ifunp's  light  I  need  not,  and  I  fain 
Would  slumber  unobserved. 

Old  ^[an.  A  monarch's  taste, 

Who  unobserved  would  hold  his  meditations! 

Raym.    Old  man,  a  mighty  sorrow  weighs  my  soul : 
Thou  hast  not  passed  thy  three-score  years  and  ten, 
Without  experience  of  some  human  pangs  — 
Respect  my  sorrow  then,  and  give  me  peace ! 

Old  Man.  Sorrow,  the  wise  have  said,  is  born  of  sin ; 
And  peace  lies  nowhere  but  within  the  grave. 

Raym.     Alas  !  thy  words  are  true. 

Old  ^ [an.  Can'st  not  repent?  — 

This  is  another  way  of  getting  peace. 
And  he  who  asketh  shall  receive,  't  is  said. 

Raym.  Some  sins  there  are,  repentance  cannot  cure ! 

Old  Man.     Yet  they  are  few — 't  is  a  long  catalogue 
Of  pardonable  sins.     The  dire  offences 
Scarce  number  seven — thus  the  sin 'gainst  know- 
ledge ;  — 
'Gainst  parents  disobedience,  which  shall  bring 
Their  grey  hairs  to  the  grave  with  bitter  sorrow;  — 
Luring  the  innocent  to  black  perdition;  — 
Denying  God,  whether  by  word  or  deed  ;  — 
And  lastly, doing  murder  —  these  are  deadly. 
But  who  of  them  is  guiltless,  need  not  fear  — 
And  these,  my  son,  thou  can'st  not  have  committed — 
Thou  art  too  young  for  such  black  sins  as  the.^e  ! 

Raym.  God  knows  my  sin  —  I  do  confess  to  none. 

Old  Man.    Thou  dost  belie  thy  habit — for  ye  teach 
That  a  great  virtue  lieth  in  confession. 

Raym.  Cease,  cease  to  trouble  me — leave  me  alone ! 

Old  Man.     From  me  far  be  it  to  disturb  thy  soul, 
I  will  withdraw. 

[He  goes  into  an  inner  room. 

Raym.  My  sins  are  those  he  named  — 

Mine  are  those  deadly  sins  —  there  is  no  pardon  — 
With  God  there  is  no  pardon  —  nor  wiih  man. 
And  she  dead  !  —  then  what  boots  it  to  live  on ! 
I  am  an  outcast  from  the  face  of  man  — 
Caves  are  my  hiding-places,  and  my  food 
The  miserable  product  of  a  soil 
Cursed  for  some  ancient  sin  !     Why  should  I  live? 
None  love  me  on  the  earth  —  my  crimes  have  made 
My  being  desolation,  ahd  brought  ruin 
Upon  the  faithfiilest  spirit !     Let  me  die  ! 

[He  lakes  a  small  phial  from  his  bosom. 
Misery  did  arm  me  thus  against  myself  — 
I  drink  to  death.     Death,  be  a  gracious  friend 
Unto  a  wretched  soul  that  flies  lo  thee  ! 

[He  drinks. 
Soul,  gird  thyself,  a  journey  lies  before  thee, 
From  which  no  human  voice  cdn  call  thee  back! 

[He  lies  down,  closes  his  eyes,  and  remains 
for  some  minutes  motionless.  Meantime 
the  Old  Man  comes  forth  as  Bartdin, 
and  stands  beside  him. 

Raym.  Oh,  hast  thou  found  me  here,  mine  enemy ! 


Bar.  Thou  sought'st  thyself  the  shelter  of  my  roof! 
Raym.  Lying  dissembler,  thou  hast  fooled  my  soul ! 
May  heaven  avenge  my  blackest  sins  upon  thee. 
Thou  tempter  unto  evil ! 

Death  is  with  me  — 
The  dimness  of  the  grave  doth  seize  on  me ! 

[lie  falls  back. 
[Aside,]  Mine  enemy  shall  not  behold  the  pangs 
That  rack  my  feeble  being.     I  will  die 
In  rigid,  groanless  silence  I 

Bar.  His  hair  is  white ; 

The  furrows  of  old  age  are  on  his  cheeks. 
And  yet  his  years  are  few  —  oh,  sin  and  sorrow. 
What  foes  are  ye  to  manly  strength  and  beauty  I  — 
See,  his  clenched  hands — his  rigid,  stone-like  brow^ 
His  grinding  jaws,  and  those  thick-starting  dews, 
Like  water-drops  ;  these  are  the  outward  signs 
Of  the  great  mortal  struggle  ! 

Raym.  [Opening  his  eyes,  which  have  a  glazed,  wild 
look,  and  speaki7ig  like  one  in  a  dream.] 
I  hear  their  mournful  voices!  my  heart  faints  — 
Alas,  alas,  I  am  undone  —  undone! 
Darkness  is  with  me,  but  mine  ears  are  open  ! 
Oh,  was  a  human  soul  of  so  great  worth 
That  angels  mourn  for  it  ?     My  God,  my  God  ! 
Hark  once  again  —  there  is  a  wail  in  heaven  ! 

[The  tempest  without  gaijis  strength,  and 
low  wailing  sounds  are  heard,  as  of 
spiritual  voices. 
Mourn,  mourn  celestial  spirits. 
Angels  of  God  w  ho  have  your  thrones  on  high  I 
O  cease  your  triumph,  bright-eyed  cherubim  ; 
Sons  of  the  morning,  let  your  light  be  dim  ; 
And  let  there  go  through  heaven  a  wailing  cry  ! 
One  that  was  meant  of  your  bright  host  to  be. 
Hath  fallen,  fallen  ! 
A  human  soul  hath  lost  its  heavenward  way, 
The  cruel  tempter  hath  received  his  prey  ! 
O  wretched  soul,  new-born  to  misery, 
How  art  thou  fallen ! 
Alas,  how  art  thou  fallen  ! 
[The  countenance  of  Raymond  becomes  more 
ghastly,  the  convulsions  of  death  succeed, 
and  he  expires  with  a  deep  groan.     Bar- 
tolin  walks  out  in  silence ;  and,  after  a 
pause,  the  hut  is  filed  with  a  strain  of  sad 
and  low  music,  as  if  accompanied  by  the 
following  words  : 

A  song  of  mourning  let  each  one  take  up  ! 

Take  tip  a  song  of  woe  — 
The  spirit  is  gone  forth  to  the  unknown. 

Yet  mightier  pangs  to  know ! 
Oh  thou,  that  wast  so  beautiful  in  youth. 

How  is  thy  beauty  dimmed! 

We  that  in  gladness  hymned 
The  kindness  of  thy  early  love  and  truth, 

Shall  we  not  mourn  for  thee. 

Lost  from  our  company. 
Oh  erring  human  soul  I 

Take  up  a  song  of  woe, 
A  song  of  mourning  let  each  one  begin ! 
The  spirit  is  gone  forth, 

55 


46 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Stained  with  mortal  sin! 
Oh  star,  shorn  of  thy  beams, 

How  is  thy  glory  gone, 
Since  from  the  living  streams 

Thou  burst,  a  shining  one  ! 
Oh  star,  shorn  of  thy  beams 
In  blackness  of  thick  darkness  wandering  now, 
Through  night  that  iias  no  day. 
Through  pani  that  has  no  stay  ; 
O'er  seas  that  have  no  shore, 
Wandering  ibr  evermore. 
Lost,  lost,  aft  thou ! 

Oh  spirit,  vext  with  fears,  by  tempests  tost. 
Oh  new-born  heir  of  unthought  misery  ! 

Long  shall  we  mourn  for  thee, 
From  our  bright  company. 
For  ever,  ever  lost ! 


The  cruel  nature  of  Achzib  was  unmoved  by  the 
moral  ruin  before  him ;  in  him  was  neither  pity  nor 
remorse. 

"As  the  tree  falleth,"  said  he,  "so  it  lieth ;  and 
there  is  no  repentance  in  the  grave  !"  While  he  thus 
spoke,  the  Pastor  entered.  "Grant  me  the  shelter  of 
thy  roof,"  said  he,  "  for  one  hour ;  and  when  the 
storm  hath  abated,  I  will  pursue  my  journey." 

"  Whither  dost  thou  journey  I"  inquired  Achzib. 

"  I  seek  a  lost  sheep  of  my  Father's  Ibid,"  replied 
the  old  man  sorrowfully. 

"Behold  !"  said  Achzib,  lifting  the  cloak  from  the 
face  of  the  dead,  "him  whom  thou  seekest — Ray- 
mond— who  tiath  even  now  committed  sell-murder!" 

"  My  son  !  my  son !"  exclaimed  the  pastor  falling 
upon  his  knees  beside  the  body.  "  .Alas,  my  son,  hast 
thou  gone  forth  to  the  eternal  judgment  with  this 
mortal  sin  upon  thy  soul  I"  and  he  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  wept  like  a  woman. 

"  This  man  must  have  been  dear  unto  thee  !"  said 
Achzib,  interrupting  the  Pastor's  sorrow. 

"  Oh!"  replied  he,  rising,  "  the  human  soul  is  very 
precious ;  and  this  man  was  dear  to  me,  even  as  a 
son!" 

"  He  hath  confessed  to  me  much  and  grievous  sin," 
said  Achzib. 

"  Alas,  he  was  a  sinner,  but  I  had  hoped  the  day 
of  grace  was  not  over :"  replied  the  Pastor, — "  he 
was  a  great  sinner,  yet  was  not  his  nature  evil  ;  re- 
morse Ibllowed  crime,  and  heart-stinging  repentance. 
God  had  not  wholly  abandoned  him,  and  he  who 
knows  how  we  are  templed,  knows  also  how  to  for- 
give !" 

"  Mefhinks,"  said  Achzib,  "thou  would'st  excuse 
the  sinner ;  thou  would'st  destroy  the  distinction  be- 
tween virtue  and  vice." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  replied  the  Pastor,  "  I  know  we  are 
all  sinners,  and  this  young  man  the  chiefest  of  them ; 
but  I  dare  not  limit  the  mercy  of  (Jod.  I  remember 
the  thief  on  the  cross  ;  the  publicans  and  sinners  of 
the  Gospel ;  and  I  hoped,  that  though  he  should  not 
have  found  pardon  from  the  justice  of  man,  he  might 


yet  have  found  pardon  with  heaven." — And  again 
the  aged  man  covered  his  face  and  wept. 

"  I  will  leave  thee  to  thy  meditations,"  said  Ach- 
zib, and  went  out.  'I'he  Pastor  combated  his  emo- 
tion, and  approached  the  dead  ;  he  lifted  the  already 
whitened  locks  from  the  young  man's  forehead. 
"Oh  my  son,  rny  son  !"  exclaimed  he,  irf  the  words 
of  the  royal  mourner,  "would  God,  I  had  died  for 
thee  !  '  Father,  which  art  in  heaven,'  "  said  the  old 
man,  falling  on  his  knee.s,  "  prayer  availeth  not  for 
the  dead  ;  thy  justice  hath  determined  what  is  meet : 
but  oh,  by  the  tears  our  Lord  shed  for  Lazarus ; 
by  the  bloody  sweat,  the  trembling  spirit,  and  the 
mortal  agony,  I  pray  thee,  if  it  be  jwssible,  pity  and 
fbrgive !  Oh,  let  the  blood  shed  on  Mount  Calvary 
avail  somewhat  —  let  the  prayer  for  the  murderers 
avail — 'Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do  I' 

"  If  there  was  good  in  him,  though  less  than  an 
atom,  remember  it — I  know  thou  wilt,  for  thou  art 
merciful;  and  even  in  the  midst  of  despair,  I  bless 
thee.  I  bless  thee,  for  the  remorse  which  lived  in 
the  heart  of  this  sinner — I  bless  thee,  for  the  suffering 
he  endured — the  poverty,  the  shame,  the  hunger,  the 
nakedness,  which  would  not  let  him  forget  thee  I — 
I  bless  thee,  that  thou  didst  not  leave  his  sin  unpun- 
ished in  this  world  I  These  grey  hairs,  this  defaced 
youth;  pain  of  body  and  anguish  of  mind,  —  these, 
oh  Father!  I  will  accept  as  tokens  of  mercy.  Thou 
knowest  the  strength  of  temptation,  thou  knowest 
the  weakness  of  human  nature.  Oh,  pity  and  for- 
give!" 

The  Pastor  rose  from  his  knees;  the  cold  grey 
light  of  the  morning  struggled  fiiintly  through  the 
small  window ;  but  Achzib  had  not  yet  returned. 
Without  waiting  for  his  coming,  the  Pastor  composed 
as  well  as  he  mighl,  the  rigidly  convulsed  limbs,  and 
prepared  the  body  for  interment.  Near  the  hut  he 
found  a  hollow  in  the  bosom  of  the  mountain,  scoped 
by  nature  as  if  for  a  grave ;  and  made  strong  by 
Christian  love,  thither  he  bore  the  dead.  Neman- 
witnessed  the  deed  :  and  the  departing  Pastor  ex- 
claimed, "I  leave  thee  to  man's  oblivion,  and  God's 
mercy." 

Achzib  was  once  more  among  men,  loolung  for  a 
victim.  He  heard  of  ware,  and  rumours  of  wars. 
He  heard  of  a  tyrannous  ruler,  and  an  oppressed 
people,  and  he  said,  "  1  will  go  there." 


PHILIP   OF   MAINE. 


PERSONS. 

FHILIP    OF    MAINE. 

THE    LORD    OF    MAl.N'E,    HIS    FATHER. 

ACHZIB,     A    STRANGER ;     AFTERWARDS     GASTON, 

THE   PATRIOT. 
THE   LORD  OF   KRONEERG. 
IDA   KRO.NBERG,   HIS  DAUGHTER. 

5G 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


47 


BERTHA,  HER  COUSIN. 

ARNOLD,  HENRY,  CONRAD,  AND  ROLAND,  LEAD- 
ERS OF  THE  TEOrLE. 

MOTHER  SCHWARTZ,  THE  FORGE-WOMAN;  JAN, 
HER  SON,  AND  HANS  CLEF,  LEADERS  OF  THE 
RABBLE. 

COUNTS  NICHOLAS,  SEGBERT,  AND  FABIAN.  AD- 
HERENTS OF  LORD  KRONBERG. 

SOLDIERS,  AND  OTHER  SUBORDINATE  CHARAC- 
TERS. 


ACT  I.  — SCENE  I. 

A  magnificent  room  in  the  Castle  of  Kronherg. 

Enter  the  lord  of  kronberg,  and  philip  or  maine. 

Lord  of  Kronherg.    Good,  good  I  you  seek  alliance 

with  my  house  ! 
Philip  of  Maijie.     I  do,  my  lord. 
Lord  of  K.  What  next,  fair  sir ! 

PhilofM.  The  honour 

Of  your  fair  daughter's  hand  I  ask,  nought  more. 
Lord  of  K.     Nought  to  maintain  her  on  I  no  mar- 
riage dower  — 
No  broad  lands,  as  a  daughter's  appanage  ? 

Phil,  of  M.    I  asked  her,  for  herself!    Broad  lands 
and  dower 
Came  not  within  my  count. 

Lord  of  K.  True,  true,  most  true ! 

The  heir  of  IMaine  doth  count  so  little  gold. 
He  wots  not  of  its  worth  !     A  wife,  young  man, 
Would  add  some  items  to  your  yearly  charges! 
Phil,  of  M.    Too  well  I  know  the  fortunes  of  our 
house 
Are  not,  what  once  they  were — scoff  not,  my  lord, 
An  emperor's  daughter  has  allied  with  us ; 
And  'tis  an  ancient,  honourable  house  : 
I  will  retrieve  its  fortunes !  good  my  lord. 
My  youth  is  in  its  prime  —  the  wars  are  open  — 
'T  was  by  the  strong  right  hand,  we  won  our  honours! 
Lord  of  K.     Wouldst  be  a  wooer,  ay  ?    wouldst 
woo  my  daughter  ? 
Art  worth  a  sword?  canst  draw  one?  canst  thou 

ride  ? 
Canst  hunt  ?  canst  hold  a  haw  k  ?  canst  read  ?  canst 

write  ? 
I  wot  not  of  a  roof  to  your  old  house, 
And  yet  thou'dst  woo  —  wouldst  take  a  wife,  for- 
sooth ! 
The  noble  Ida  Kronberg  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Phil,  of  M.     My  lord,  I  do  not  take  a  taunt  un- 
moved ; 
Nor  do  I  ask  a  favour  undeserved' — 
Were  your  fair  daughter,  ten  times  nobler  still, 
I  do  but  ask  my  equal ! 

Lord  of  K.  Upstart  fool ! 

Wouldst  match  thyself  with  me  ! 

Phil,  of  M.  Nor  have  I  asked 

This  honour  uninvited  !    Your  own  mouth 
Swore  to  vouchsafe  whate'er  my  tongue  should  crave, 
For  certain  trivial  service,  at  my  rating  ; 
At  yours,  —  for  loyalty  bevond  all  price! 
H 


Lord  of  K.    AVhat!  dost  thou  ask  my  daughter  as 
the  payment 
Of  such  poor  service,  as  a  peasant  lad 
Had  done  fur  half  a  guilder ! 

Phil,  of  M.  Good,  my  lord. 

If  you  ibrget  the  service,  so  do  I  — 
But  not  that  we  are  foes! 

Lord  of  K.  Audacious  rebel, 

M'ouldst  beard  me  to  my  face!  I  tell  thee,  traitor, 
I  have  mine  eyes  upon  thee,  and  thy  father  — 
I  know  wlierefore  ye  harbour  in  your  walls 
The  disaffected  rabble  —  why  thou  comest 
To  ask  alliance  with  me,  then  to  beard  me ! 

Phil,  of  M.     My  lord,  this  quarrel  was  not  of  my 

seeking. 
Lord  of  K.    Too  long  I  have  forborne  !   I  know 
your  views  — 
I  know  what  your  ambition  lusteth  after : 
Words  you  can  give,  where  words  weigh  more  than 

gold; 
Can  stir  up  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  people  ; 
Call  them  oppressed,  poor,  w  ronged,  and  injured  peo- 
ple ! 
Phil,  of  M.    I  came  not  now  as  pleader  of  their 
cause, 
Or,  to  your  face,  I  'd  tell  you,  you  're  a  tyrant! 
Think  but  of  those  poor  workers  in  the  loom. 
All  dying  in  your  streets,  who  might  have  earned 
A  decent  maintenance,  save  for  your  edict  — 
Listen  to  their  demands,  they  are  but  just ! 
Lord  of  K.    Wouldst  thou  dictate  this,  that,  and 
the  other  to  me  ?  — 
Demand  my  daughter  first,  then  rule  the  state  ? 
Phil,  of  M.  Who  're  they  that  cry  for  bread  morn- 
ing and  night, 
AVhom  you  refuse  a  morsel  ?    Your  poor  burghers. 
Whose  fathers  fought  for  you  !  They  are  not  stones, 
That  they  should  not  complain  ! 

Lord  of  K.  'T  is  such  as  you, 

With  busy  meddling,  that  disturb  their  souls  ! 
But  get  thee  hence  !  and  let  me  counsel  thee  — 
Go  marry  thee,  to  some  poor  plodder's  daughter 
Will  keep  your  house  in  order,  mend  thy  hose. 
And  patch  the  old  man's  doublet ! 

Phil,  of  M.  Name  him  not; 

That  noble,  good  old  lord,  or  by  the  gods, 
I  shall  forget  myself! 

Lord  of  K.  Hence  with  thee,  prating  fool ! 

Hence  with  thee,  ere  I  summon  one,  whose  trade 
Is  to  chastise  young  insolence  like  thine  ! 

Pkil.  of  M.  A  day  may  come,  when  we  will  count 
for  this  !  [He  goes  out. 

Lord  of  K.  And  this  is  he,  to  whom  the  people  look 
As  to  a  new  Messiah !     Heaven  and  earth  ! 
Am  I  to  stand  girt  round  with  armed  men. 
And  thus  be  threatened  ?  —  What  are  dungeons  for, 
But  to  confine  such  rebels!    Out  ui)on  me. 
To  let  such  meddlers  loose!  Marry  my  daughter! 
By  Jove,  I  '11  marry  him  to  the  strongest  chains 
Within  my  deepest  dungeon! 

Those  old  dues. 
Which  as  my  vassals  they  have  long  withstood, 
I  will  demand,  and  lay  strong  hold  on  them 

57 


48 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  forfeit  of  the  soil  I    Go  to,  I  '11  do  it ; 
And  come  what  will,  I  '11  crush  this  house  of  Maine ! 

[He  goes  out. 


SCENE  II. 

Ida's  apartment  —  Ida  and  Bertha  together  —  Bertha 
Jtas  a  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley  in  her  hand. 

Ida.  Nay,  blame  him  not!  Why  need  he  shun  to  ask 
My  hand  in  marriage  openly  ?     He  's  brave. 
My  father  knows  he  is ;  and  his  descent 
Is  noble  as  mine  own  ;  and  this  adventure 
Hath  given  such  fair  advantage  to  his  suit 
That  he  may  freely,  fearlessly  avow  it! 

Berth.     He  has  avowed,  and  is  a  fool  for's  pains! 
For  what  must  he  come  here  to  make  a  quarrel  — 
To  spoil  the  daintiest  romance  that  e'er 
Gladdened  the  dull  life  of  a  castled  lady! 
I  told  thee  how  't  would  be  —  I  knew  my  uncle 
Better  than  thou  or  he  did ! 

Ida.  But  he  swore 

That  he  should  have  his  asking,  be  't  what  'twould; 
And  that  their  ancient  hate  should  be  forgotten  :  — 
I  know  he  '11  not  gainsay  't ! 

Berth.  He  will !  he  has ! 

And  even  now  has  sworn  his  utter  ruin  — 
It  is  one  thing  to  jiromise  while  in  danger, 
But  a  far  different  to  fulfd  in  safety. 
There  is  a  gulph  of  hate,  wider  than  ever, 
That  sunders  you,  which  love  can  ne'er  o'erpass  ! 

Ida.     Nay,  Bertha,  nay,  Philip  will  ne'er  desert 
me! 

Berth.    Philip  hath  gone  from  hence  as  black  as 
night; 
I  never  saw  rage  look  more  terrible  — 
I  met  him  on  the  stair. 

Ida.  What  said  he  to  thee? 

Berth.    He  saw  me  not,  nor  spoke,  but  stalked  on, 
muttering ; 
And  while  his  eyes  flashed  fire,  he  flung  these  flowers 
Under  his  very  feet,  as  if  they  were 
The  reason  of  his  anger. 

Ida.  Not  those  flowers! 

Berth     Ay,  but  he  did,  as  if  their  touch  defiled 
him ! 

Ida.    Well,  then,  it  is  an  augury  of  ill ! 
Those  flowers  were  mine,  and  he  knew  how  I  loved 

them. 
I  think  I  never  lohl  thee  why  I  loved 
The  lily  of  the  valley. 
'.  Berth.  No,  sweet  cousin. 

Ida.     I'll  tell  tlice  now,  it  siiiteth  the  occasion. 
'Twixt  Maine  and  Kronbcrg  was  there  ever  feud  — 
Our  love  seemed  almost  an  unnatural  thing; 
Our  fiithers  haled,  like  their  sires  of  old  ; 
And  who  was  strongest,  trod  the  other  down, 
As  we  do  them.    Their  line  was  in  decay; 
The  ancient  state  had  fallen  from  their  house; 
Nought  but  its  name  remained  ;  my  father  saw  it. 
And  triumphed  m  ilieir  fall.     The  Lord  of  Maine 
Hated  ray  father  with  no  lesser  hate  ; 


And  each  decaying  vestige  of  his  greatness, 
Provoked  a  curse  upon  us.     Strange  it  was, 
Our  fathers  hating  thus,  our  mothers  loved, 
And  were  each  other's  dear,  though  secret  friend. 
And  yet  they  were  so  different ! 

My  sweet  mother 
Was  a  mild,  delicate  lady,  meek  and  timid  — 
She  had  hard  measure  dealt  her  by  her  husband  ; 
Alas,  that  I  should  say  't,  and  yet  't  was  so! 
She  had  no  friend  to  counsel  or  console  her. 
Save  Philip's  mother;  and  to  her  she  opened 
Her  inmost  bleeding  heart.     Oh,  how  I  loved 
The  Lady  of  Maine  for  weeping  with  my  mother!— 
She  was  a  Lutheran ;  a  grave,  stern  woman. 
Of  a  majestic  presence  ;  such  a  one 
As  would  have  kept  a  fortress  through  a  siege , 
And  died  ere  she  had  yielded!  —  I  can  see  her, 
In  her  black  velvet  robe,  and  hooded  coif. 
Silling  beside  my  mother,  and  out-pouring 
Her  elocjuent  consolations.    I  then  wondered 
What  they  could  mean  —  I  understood  them  after! 
And  I  remember,  from  my  earliest  childhood. 
Whene'er  my  father  went  unto  the  chase. 
We  paid  our  secret  visits  ;  —  he  ne'er  knew 
What  a  great  love  there  was  between  our  mothers. 
And  what  a  gloomy  place  was  that  of  Maine! 
Silent,  and  full  of  old,  decaying  things ; 
Old  pictures,  and  old  tarnished  furniture. 
And  I  remember  roaming  up  and  down 
Its  gloomy  halls  with  Philip,  then  a  boy  ; 
And  all  the  legends  old,  he  used  to  tell  me, 
Of  dames,  and  warrior-lords,  and  armed  ghosts, 
Live  in  my  memory  yet.     Ah,  'twas  unkind 
To  fling  these  flowers  away ! — But  I  've  not  told  thee 
Wherefore  I  love  those  flowers. 
Berth.  Well,  tell  me  now. 

Ida.  My  gentle  mother  died. 

And  I  was  a  bereaved  child  indeed  !  — 
The  Lady  of  Maine  came  never  to  our  house, 
E'en  in  my  mother's  life,  and  now  but  seldom 
It  was  my  chance  to  meet  her ;  yet  she  loved  me  ; 
And  when  we  met,  from  her  maternal  heart 
Poured  counsel  out,  and  blessing,  which  sustained 
My  orphaned  spirit  till  we  met  again. 
She  was  my  second  mother,  well  beloved! 
Philip  and*!  ne'er  met  for  several  years  ; 
Until  one  eve  as  I  was  wandering  out, 
lie  stood  before  me,  — not  the  merry  boy. 
But  the  tail,  earnest  man  — so  like  his  mother! 
Ah,  gentle  cousin,  a  little  moment's  space  ; 
The  glancing  of  an  eve  ;  one  s|X)ken  word, 
Decides  our  destiny  !     We  had  been  friends, 
Ij<jng-parled  friends,  and  with  warm  hearts  we  met  !^ 
He  brought  me  flowers  — flowers  of  that  very  kind, 
A  token  from  his  moiher,  who  e'en  then 
Lay  at  the  point  of  death  !  Sweel  flowers  are  they. 
Which  my  poor  mother  loved,  and  used  to  gather 
From  out  their  garden,  for  thev  grew  not  here. 
He  knew  wheft'lbre  I  loved  tlieni;  —  and  since  then 
They  have  been  flowers  that  sj-mbolled  love  betvveea 

us. 
Ah,  was  it  not  unkind  to  fling  them  hence  ? 
His  mother  died  —  and  we  two  wept  together; 

53 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


49 


But  oh,  what  bhss  grew  out  of  that  great  sorrow  I  — 
Meetings  at  morn,  at  noon,  at  eventide! 
What  precious  hopes  of  ending  that  old  hate 
By  our  new  love  I     My  father  knew  it  not  — 
Heaven  pardon  me  for  that  sweet  crime  of  love! 

Berth.    Why  risk  so  dear  a  stake  upon  one  throw  ? 

Ida.     My  father  knows  his  wurtii,  and  the  strong 
hold 
lie  has  upon  the  people  ;  't  were  unwise. 
In  these  bad  times,  to  make  a  foe  of  Philip. 

Birth.    Hark,  hark,  my  uncle  calleth  to  the  chase! 

Ida.     It  is  a  cheerful  voice,  I  '11  not  believe 
He  is  angered.  Bertha.     Let  us  go  I 

Berth,  [aside.]  The  deepest  waters  ever  are  the 
stillest!  [They  go  out. 


SCENE  III. 

A  desolate  room  in  the  Castle  of  Maine — the  Lord  of 
Maine  and  a  strajiger  partaking  refreshment. 

Lord  of  M.    Yes,  sir,  three   centuries   back  our 
house  held  sway 
As  princes  in  this  land  ;  lineally  descended 
From  the  good  Emperor  Albert :  —  Three  descents 
Give  us  an  emperor's  daughter.     My  grandsire. 
The  child  of  this  alliance,  was  accounted 
The  first  man  of  his  age :  in  council  great ; 
A  valiant  soldier,  and  a  statesman  wise. 

Strang.     That  was  the  celebrated  John  of  Maine. 

Lord  of  M.     The  same!   all  Europe  knew  him; 
every  state 
Had  feause  to  bless  him,  save  the  single  state 
Which  was  his  patrimony  ;  small  enough, 
And  yet  a  fair  domain,  though  all  too  small 
For  a  soul  large  as  his.     Hence  'twas  involved 
In  that  great  debt  which  dragged  it  to  the  earth, 
Like  the  wild  vine  which Vinds  itself  about 
Some  stately  forest-tree,  and  bows  it  down ; 
I'pon  whose  ruin  springs  a  monstrous  growth  — 
A  loathed,  fungus-growth,  poisonous  and  rank  ! 

Strang.  The  House  of  Kronberg,  didst  thou  plainly 
speak. 
Thou  'dst  liken  to  this  thing. 

Lord  of  M.  I  name  no  names !  — 

But  eat ;  — thou  'rt  freely  welcome !    This  poor  land 
Hath  many  weary  wanderers  who  lack  bread. 
Fat  then,  my  friend  ;  there  are  not  many  roofs 
That  dare  give  strangers  welcome  : — 't  is  coarse  fare. 
But  what  my  son  and  I,  and  our  poor  household 
Find  palatable. 

Strang.  Then,  thou  hast  a  son  ? 

Lord  of  M.    A  fair  young  man ;  some  two  and 
twenty  years 
May  be  his  age  ;  the  sole  child  of  my  life. 
A  fair  young  man,  the  hope  of  my  grey  hairs  ; 
I  've  trained  him  in  all  arts  that  fit  a  noble. 
Hawking  and  hunting,  and  his  weapon's  use  ; 
And  nature  has  endowed  him  like  a  prince  — 
I  'd  match  him  against  any  !     Here  he  comes  — 
Judge  for  thyself;  I  've  travelled  in  my  time, 
And  know  what  nobles  should  be. 


Enter  riiii.ir  :  he  throws  down  his  cap  without  noticing 
the  stranger. 

I  've  a  guest, 
Philip;  I  have  a  guest,  thou  see'si  him  not ! 

I'liil.     I  crave  your  pardon,  I  observed  him  not! 
Lord  of  M.  Where  hast  tliou  ridden  this  morning  ? 

—  to  the  chase  ? 
ritil.  Am  I  a  child  to  have  my  actions  questioned  ? 

Enter    IIII.DKDR.^.ND. 

Hild.  Alas,  my  lord,  the  horse  you  have  brought  in 
All  in  a  foaming  sweat,  trembling  each  joint. 
Has  dropped  down  dead  ; — it  has  been  over-ridden — 
And  'tis  our  only  horse  —  none  have  we  left; 
And  'twas  so  lean  ;  the  carcase  will  bring  nothing  ! 
Phil.    The  devil  take  the  horse ! 
Strang,  [aside.]  A  proper  youth ! 

r  faith,  he  does  the  old  man's  schooling  credit ! 
Lord  if  M.  [aside  to  Philip.]  'T  is  a  strange  mood 
is  on  thee  ;  all  unmeet 
For  stranger  eyes  to  witness !     Pray  bethink  thee. 
Thou  art  no  brawler  in  the  public  streets. 
Phil.     I  know  not  what  I  am! 
Lord  of  M.  [to  the  stranger.]  Pardon  me,  friend, 
And  hold  it  not  uncourteous,  if  I  crave 
Your  absence. 

Strang.  Ay,  my  lord,  it  is  unmeet 

A  dog  should  look  into  a  noble's  face 
If  his  shoe  pinch  ! 

Phil.  How!  dost  thou  prate  again? 

Strang,  [to  the  Lord  of  M]  You  did  propose  that 
I  should  judge  myself 
Of  your  son's  breeding  ;  'tis  a  proper  youtii ! 
I  'd  match  him  against  any  I  ha  I  ha  I  ha  ! 

Phil.  Out  w  ith  thee,  hound  I    Out,  or  thou  shall  be 

gagged  I 
Strang.     Farewell !    But  as  the  ghost  spoke  unto 
Brutus, 
I  'II  meet  with  thee  again  at  Phillippi ! 

[He  goes  out. 
Lord  of  M.    For  shame !  He  was  a  poor  man,  and 
a  stranger! 
Thou  hast  abashed  thy  father;  and  Cod  knows 
It  was  in  honest  pride  I  boasted  of  thee ! 

Phil.     I  thank  thee  not,  to  make  a  boast  of  me !      , 
Lord  of  M.     My  son,  I  cannot  understand  thy  hu- 
mour ! 
Phil.    Why  could'st  not  breed  me  up  as  poor  men 
are  ? 
Teach  me  to  cringe,  to  stoop,  and  humbly  beg? 
Why  could'st  not  put  a  hatchet  in  my  hand, 
And  train  my  will  to  use  it  ?    What  am  I  ! 
Koble  !  and  yet  who  may  not  match  with  nobles ! 
Lord  of  M.     What,  hast  thou  at  a  tournay  ridden 
again, 
And  been  insnlled  for  thy  poverty  — 
Again  been  jeered  at  for  a  faded  doublet  ? 
Phil.     i\o! 

Lord  of  M.   Then  pray  what  is  this  arrant  foolery  ? 

Phil.    If  thou  will  hear  it— hear  it!    I  have  been 

To  ask  Lord  Kronberg's  daughter's  hand  in  marriage! 

Lord  cfM     Thou   ask   the   Lord   of  Kronberg's 

daughter's  hand ! 

59 


50 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Good  heavens  preserve  me !  Went  and  bowed  thyself 
Unto  that  hateful  tyrant  —  asked  his  daughter! 
Phtl.  Well,  what  of  that  ?  Why  need'st  thou  chafe 
it  o'er 
As  if  'twere  strange  that  I  should  love  a  woman  ? 
Lord  of  M.    Were  there  no  women  in  the  world 
but  her  — 
That  thou  must  go  and  be  a  cringing  fool 
To  that  man  of  all  others  I 

Phil.  And  that  man 

Shall  bow  himself  to  me,  and  humbly  sue 
That  I  would  wed  his  daughter!  and  by  heaven 
I  will  not  wed  her  then !    I  '11  have  revenge  ! 

Lord  of  M.     Peace  with  these  hectoring  threats, 
thou  boasting  fool ! 
What  can  he  do  that  "s  poor  and  powerless  ? 
FhiL    Thou  should'st  have  made  me  base ;  have 
crushed  my  spirit, 
And  shaped  me  out  some  humbler  path  to  tread  ! 
Lord  of  M.    I  never  bade  thee  ask  a  wife  from 
Kronberg, 
And  bow  thyself  to  him,  that  he  might  spurn  thee ! 
Thou  hast  abased  thyself,  and  me  in  thee ; 
Thou  art  a  servile  dog,  and  I  could  beat  thee  ! 
Phil.     Stand  back,  old  man  !— I  'm  in  no  mood  of 
patience  — 
Stand  back,  my  father,  and  provoke  me  not ! 

[He  goes  out. 
Lord  of  M.    This  was  the   maddest  folly  e'er  I 
heard  of! 
He  ask  the  hand  of  haughty  Kronberg's  daughter! 
Show  to  that  hated  house  our  poverty! 
Present  himself  a  wooer  in  that  garb ! 
Ride  on  that  starveling  jade  to  ask  a  wife 
From  the  proud  line  of  Kronberg ! 

Enter  hildebraxd. 
Hild.  Good,  my  lord. 

Here  have  I  brought  the  poor  beast's  shoes.    They'll 

make 
A  little  towards  her  price.    May't  please  you,  sir, 
To  walk  to  the  court  yard  ? 

[He  goes  out. 
Lord  rf  M.  Ay,  the  poor  beast! 

-And  this  disaster  comes  of  that  fool's  wooing  ; 

[He  follows  Hildehrand. 


SCENE  IV. 

Several  days  afterwards — an  unfrequented  road  near 
the  city — Evening 

Enter  the  stranger,  dressed  in  the  costume  of  the 

country,  as  gaston  the  patriot. 
I  owe  him  payment  for  his  railing  words ! 
And  with  full  interest  will  I  pay  him  back 
Every  indignity!    He  shall  be  mine  — 
Body  and  soul,  in  life  and  death,  be  mine.' 
I  '11  work  him  to  my  purpose;  for  in  him 
Lie  elements  of  ruin  —  pride,  ambition. 
And  hatred  and  revenge,  glossed  o'er  or  hidden 
By  a  fair  show  of  patriotic  virtues  — 
The  very  man  to  be  the  people's  idol ! 


Enter  phiup. 
But  here  he  comes !  Welcome,  young  heir  of  Maine  ; 
My  musings  were  of  thee  ! 

Phil.  And  what  of  me  ? 

Art  thou  not  he  that  with  a  braggart's  threat 
Defied  me  heretofore  ? 

Gast.  Thy  father's  guest, 

I  owe  thee  grateful  thanks ;  but  unto  thee, 
The  patriot-saviour,  I  owe  humble  service! 

Phil.    I  am  not  used  to  service  —  none  I  need! 

Gast.  But  I  will  serve  thee  as  thou  wott'st  not  of— 
Give  thee  revenge  on  him  thy  soul  has  cursed ! 

Phil.    Did  I  not  call  thee  braggart  ?    Let  me  go! 

Gast.    Nay,  then  against  thy  will  I  '11  serve  thee — 
listen ! 
Like  thee,  I  've  sworn  a  patriot's  deep  revenge 
Upon  the  house  of  Kronberg —  wherefore  so, 
It  matters  not,  for  whom  has  he  not  wronged  ? 
And  't  is  not  I  alone  have  sworn  revenge. 
Nor  thou  and  I — nor  twenty  more  than  us  — 
But  twenty  times  a  thousand  in  this  league 
Are  banded  heart  and  hand! 

Phil,  [aside.]  Yet  in  despite 

Of  my  good  angel  I  must  listen  to  him  ! 

Gast.    Hear'st  thou  me  ? 

Phil.  I  do,  what  say'st  thou  farther? 

Gast.    Thou  hast  dwelt  in  these  sequestered  glens 
of  Maine, 
And  hast  not  known  that  the  great  earth  went  round ! 
Get  thee  among  the  people ;  to  the  herds 
In  the  remotest  dells,  and  hear  them  talk; 
They  are  more  of  men  than  thou ! 

Phil.  In  words,  perhaps. 

Gast.    Stand  by  the  vine-dressers  upon  the  hills. 
And  they  will  be  thy  teachers !    Ask  the  mothers, 
The  earliest  words  her  lisping  boy  shall  speak, 
And  she  will  tell  thee,  curses  on  the  oppressor ! 
If  these  arouse  thee  not.  g»  to  the  city. 
And  hear  the  meagre  workman  at  his  loom  — 
There  are  who  call  his  muttered  musings  treason! 

Phil.  All  this  I  know — I  know  they  curse  the  tyrant. 
And  they  have  need.    But  how  know'st  thou  they 

league 
Together  for  revolt  ? 

Gast.  I  am  of  them ! 

Have  bound  myself  with  them  —  have  sworn  with 

them. 
To  see  the  downfall  of  the  house  of  Kronberg  ! 
Hast  thou  a  heart  to  do  as  thou  hast  sworn. 
The  path  is  open  to  thee ;  fortune  offers 
A  golden  opportunity  ;  and  thou. 
If  ihou  art  the  generous  patriot  that  thou  seem'st. 
May'st  make  thy  name  as  great  as  that  of  Brutus  — 
Be  Father  and  Preserver  of  the  people ! 

Phil.     By  lawful  right,  the  lordship  is  our  ow'n. 

Gast.  The  people  love  you,  call  you  lord  already ! 

Phd.  Hark  ye,  my  friend,  can  you  gain  me  access 
To  these  caballing  spirits  in  the  city  ? 

Gast.  Most  joyfully !  Give  me  your  hand,  brave  sir- 
You  are  the  man  on  whom  all  hearts  are  set ! 

Phil.    Let  us  begone ! 

Gast.  No  moment  let  us  lose ! 

[They  go  off  together. 
60 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


51 


SCENE  V.  i 

A  large  vaulted  room,  lighted  b;/  an  iron  lamp  — 
ilaston,  Arnold,  Henri/,  Conrad,  and  three  soldiers, 
silling  round  a  table,  at  the  heail  of  which  is  a 
vacant  scat.  | 

Gust.    'T  is  good  to  see  you  here !   What  are  your 

tidings  ? 
Con.  i?even  hundred  men  with  mo,  true  as  the  ore 
We  dig  fh>ui  out  the  mines,  have  ta"cn  the  oath; 
Men  brawny  as  myself —  look  at  my  arms  ! 
We  are  not  babes  in  muscle ;  we  can  deal 
Blows  that  require  no  second  ! 

Clagt.  Are  ye  armed  ? 

Con.  The  half  of  us  are  armed  !  We  've  stinted  us 
Of  f()od — have  lived  like  dogs,  we  and  our  children, 
To  hoard  the  means  that  might  obtain  us  arms  ! 

liol.     Devoted  men  !     Antiquity  can  boast 
?io  truer  hearts  than  yours! 

Arn.  I  met,  last  night, 

In  the  deep  glen  of  Sarni,  fifteen  men. 
Sent  out  from  fifteen  districts  in  tiie  hills. 
To  swear  to  us  allegiance.     Ve  may  count 
Upon  five  hundred  men,  both  young  and  old, 
Serfs  of  the  soil,  who  have  been  trampled  on 
Till,  like  the  wounded  adder,  they  turn  round 
And  bite  the  foot  that  galls  them!    There  are  none 
Truer  than  these  siout  children  of  the  soil ! 
They'll  do  the  cause  good  service  ;  and  for  arras, 
Have  sworn  to  turn  the  sickle  and  the  scythe 
To  weapons,  that  shall  mow  a  harvest  down, 
Redder  and  richer  than  the  fields  afford  ! 
G'a.s^     ' T  IS  well !  who  now  is  spokesman  for  the 

army  ? 
Soldier.     All,  all  are  disaffected,  as  ye  know, 
And  murmur  for  their  long  arrears  of  pay ! 
And  all,  excepting  four  old  companies, 
Whom  Kronberg  by  his  partial  favour  won. 
And  over  whom  command  Segbert  and  Nicholas, 
Each  several  man  is  yours  ;  and  ye  may  count 
Upon  ten  thousand  good  and  trusty  swords, 
Wielded  by  hands  omnipotent  as  death. 

Rul.     Tis  the  ten  thousand  of  the  Grecian  story ! 
The  invincible  ten  thousand  ! 

Cast.  Brave,  bold  hearts ! 

Soldiers  of  freedom,  welcome  to  the  cause ! 
And  now  I  scarce  need  say,  that  in  the  city 
Five  thousand  more  are  leagued  unto  our  band, 
Each  with  his  arms,  which  as  his  household  gods 
^lake  his  hearth  Freedom's  altar! 

All  is  ready, 
Saving  the  most  important  part  of  all. 
The  appointment,  time  and  place,  and  naming  wisely 
A  general  leader  of  the  several  bands. 

The  door  suddenly  opens,  and  hans  clef,  an  artificer, 
rushes  in. 
Hans.     If  you  have  tears  within  your  eyes,  weep 
them  ; 
If  you  have  human  liearts,  let  them  drop  blood  — 
Oh  sirs,  I  've  seen  the  saddest,  saddest  sight ! 

Several  voices.   What  hast  thou  seen  ?   Say  quickly 
what  thou  mean'st! 
6 


Hans.    Tiiey  tore  him  from  his  house ;  liis  wife 
e'en  now 
Upon  her  bed  of  death  —  his  little  children 
Filling  ihe  air  with  their  most  piteous  voices! 
Gusl.     Whom  speak  ye  of? 

Hans.  He  had  been  here,  even  now, 

Rut  that  he  staid  lo  watch  his  dying  wile  ! 
They  heard  that  he  had  arms  —  they  searched  her 

bed  — 
They  cast  her  on  the  floor,  a  dying  woman  ; 
And  in  the  wretched  straw  whereon  she  lay 
They  found  his  arms !     Oh  sirs,  they  fijund  his  arms! 
Gast.     Pr'ythee  whose  arms  ? 

Huns.  I  told  ye,  my  poor  brother's  !  — 

I  '11  tell  ye  more  —  they  racked  him  on  the  wheel, 
And  he  a  feeble  man,  a  child  in  frame  — 
He  's  dead  !  I  saw  him  die,  with  mine  own  eyes! 
All.    Betrayed  he  aught  ? 

Huns.  How  dare  ye  ask  me  that ! 

Oh  [  could  tear  out  every  tongue  that  asks 
If  Wilhelm  were  a  traitor! 
Henry.  Poor,  brave  man! 

Huns.     Why  sit  ye   here,  looking  like  senseless 
stones  ? 
Oh !  had  ye  seen  that  dying  woman's  face  ; 
Had  ye  but  heard  those  little  children's  wail  ; 
Had  ye  but  seen  that  steadfast  patriot  die  — 
Ye  would  have  sworn,  by  heaven,  and  earth,  and  hell, 
To  be  their  good  avengers  — 

All.  We  do  swear! 

Gast.     Ye  swear— by  heaven,  and  earth,  and  hell, 
ye  swear 
To  bring  down  tenfold  vengeance  for  the  blood 
Of  this  brave  man;  and  for  his  children's  tears; 
And  for  the  groan  of  his  poor  dying  wife  — 
Ye  swear  ? 
All.  We  do'. 

Gas/.  So  help  ye  gods  and  men. 

As  ye  do  keep  your  oath! 
All.  Amen,  amen! 

Hans.     You  have  not  bound  yourself! 
Gast.  I  "ill  do  more 

Than  utter  empty  words!  will  give  you  him 
Who  shall  accomplish  for  you  your  revenge! 

[He  goes  out,  and  returns  leading  in 
Philip  of  Maine. 
Know  ye  this  man,  my  friends  ? 

All.  We  know  him  well. 

We  love  him  well  I  'T  is  the  good  heir  of  Maine  ! 
Gast.  Ye  know  that  they  of  right  possess  the  land. 
Rol.    The  little  children  know 't!— thus  says  the 
legend, 

"  Gold  and  gain,  sun  and  rain. 
Came  with  Maine;  and  will  again!" 

Cast.  Ye  know  how  they  have  suffered,  like  your- 
selves — 
Their  deadliest  foe  is  the  cold  tyrant  Kronberg! 
Henry.   Ay,  they  have  suffered  sore — and  this  good 

lord  — 
Con.    He  saved  my  agejd  father  from  the  gallows ! 
Henry.    'T  was  he,  that  in  my  iiuarrcl  drew  his 
sword  — 

CI 


52 


HOWITT'S  POJETICAL  WORKS. 


When  I  defied  that  infamous  collector 
To  cross  my  threshold — 't  is  a  well  known  story  ! 
Am.     'T  was  he  that  fed,  and  clothed,  and  kept  in 

shelter  — 
Phil.     Peace  !  peace !   I  came  not  here  to  crave 
your  thanks. 
This  was  but  common  service  —  I  'U  do  more, 
I  will  make  one  with  you  in  your  great  cause ! 
Henry.     God  bless  you  I  you  were  ever  the  poor 

man's  friend  I 
All.  Success  will  then  be  sure  !  God  save  you,  sir. 
Phil.    Bear  friends  and  honest,  I  am  one  with  you. 
Are  ye  poor  ?  so  am  I !  Are  ye  despised, 
And  trampled  on  ?  so  have  I  been  my  life  long ! 
Do  you  fare  hard  ?  so  have  I  fared  from  boyhood  ! 
Are  your  hands  hardened  with  your  daily  toil  ? 
Look  ye  at  mine !  are  these  a  noble's  hands, 
Fair  as  a  woman's,  decked  with  costly  jewels. 
Each  one  ol' which  would  feed  and  clothe  your  house- 
holds ? 
JVo  —  I  must  till  the  earth,  plough,  work  in  mines. 
Do  any  servile  labour  to  support  me 
And  my  good  aged  father,  and  receive 
With  humble  thanks  the  pittance  of  my  toil; 
So  are  we  fallen,  through  the  proud  oppressor 
That  fattens  on  our  blood  I     Shall  it  be  thus  — 
Thus  shall  we  toil,  and  groan  ! 

No,  no  !  my  friends, 
Thanks  to  brave  men  like  you,  we  will  be  free ! 
We  will  assert  our  human  dignity,  — 
Our  birth-right  as  free  men  !   Thank  you,  my  friends. 
That  you  have  thus  decreed ;  for  in  my  lone, 
And  solitary  home  I  made  my  vow  — 
The  downfall  of  the  tyrant!  yet  to  it 
There  was  no  witness,  save  the  heavens  above. 
Thinking  ujion  your  wrongs,  I  wept  alone  ; 
Alone  I  made  my  prayer,  when  gr.icious  Heaven, 
Compassionating  its  oppressed  children. 
Brought,  as  by  chance,  this  brave  man  in  my  way. 
Even  when  the  cursed  tyrant  had  oppressed  me 
Beyond  my  soul's  endurance.      Why,  do  ye  ask? 
Because  I  was  like  you  —  like  you,  brave  men, 
Because  I  was  a  poor  man  I    Koble  hearts, 
Will  ye  have  me  a  brother  ? 

All.  We  will,  we  will ! 

Gast.     And  my  beloved  sons,  I,  who  have  been 
To  tliis  good  cause  a  i'ather,  and  have  chosen 
This  young  man  for  my  son,  name  him  your  leader. 
Speak,  do  ye  like  the  choice  ? 

All.  We  do,  we  do ! 

Henry.   Not  for  our  oath's  sake  to  abide  thy  choice 
Shall  he  be  chose  !  'T  is  we  elect  him  leader  ! 
All.     We  do,  we  do!     'Tis  we  elect  him  leader! 
Ga.tt.     My  son,  these  men  are  brave,  true  men  and 
brave, 
Be  worthy  of  their  choice  !     Ye  righteous  hearts  — 
Ve  poor  men  who  are  crushed  —  ye  noble  spirits. 
Hungering  and  tliirsting  after  truth  and  justice, 
Look  on  this  man  !     He  will  be  as  a  god, — 
Maintain  your  upright  cause  and  crush  the  tyrant, 
.loin  hands,  and  lake  an  oath  of  (ealty  to  him! 

Phil.     Brethren,  ye  sliall  not  take  an  oath  to  mc 
Blindly,  and  without  knowing  what  ye  swear  for! 


It  is  for  the  down-hurling  of  the  tyrant  ; 
For  the  upholding  right  —  to  give  the  poor 
The  labour  of  his  hands.  —  It  is  to  open. 
And  to  dispense  from  coffers  ye  have  filled  ; 
To  feed  the  hungry  and  to  clothe  the  naked  — 
To  make  just  law  the  guardian  of  the  people; 
And  give  the  people  their  just  rights  as  men  ! 
It  is  for  this,  that  I  will  be  your  leader  — 
Are  ye  content  ? 

All.  A  thousand  times  content ! 

[They  join  hands. 

Gast.  Ye  swear,  as  the  deputed  agents  of  the  cause, 
To  serve  both  night  and  day  this  leal,  good  man, 
Philip  of  Maine,  whom  ye  have  chosen  leader! 

All.    So  heaven  support  us  as  wc  keep  the  oath ! 


ACT  II.  —  SCENE  I. 

Several  days  aftenmrds  —  a  small  apartment  in  the 
Castle  of  Maine  ;  the  Lord  of  Maine,  with  the  Bible 
before  him. 

And  all  these  things  he  suffered  for  our  sakes  — 

The  man  without  a  sin,  for  sinners'  sakes! 

Reviled  on,  and  he  answered  not  again ; 

Smitten,  and  he  smote  not,  though  had  he  willed  it, 

Myriads  of  angels  would  have  ta'en  his  part ! 

A  man  of  sorrows,  and  with  grief  acquainted, 

Yet  patient  as  the  lamb  before  its  shearers  ;  — 

And  this  the  Son  of  God  !  higher  than  all  power. 

Glory,  or  domination  of  the  earth! 

More  royal  than  a  king —  than  saints  more  holy, 

Though  born  among  the  lowly  of  the  world  — 

The  son  of  a  poor  carpenter  ;  the  friend 

Of  humble  fishermen,  and  simple  women  !  — 

What  matters  it  where  our  poor  lives  wear  out ; 

Whether  in  palaces  enrobed  in  purple. 

Or  lying  down  in  huts  on  wretched  straw, 

With  the  ashamed  outcasts  of  the  earth? 

What  matters  it  in  the  great  day  of  count? 

Saving  that  in  the  balance  of  the  oppressed, 

Then  will  be  made  a  reckoning  for  his  wrongs. 

Enough,  I  will  not  murmur  —  I  will  leave 

My  righteous  cause  in  the  great  Judge's  hands! 

En'er  mi.DEBRANn. 
Bringest  thou  any  tidings  of  my  son  '. 

Hdd.     My  lord,  as  I  was  standing  near  the  ford, 
One  muffled  in  his  cloak  passed  by  me  twice, 
Looking  into  my  face  as  if  to  cpiestion 
My  countenance:  "CJood  friend,"  said  I, 
"  VVhat  (lost  thou  need  of  me  ?"    "  Art  Hildcbrand  ?" 
He  asked.     "  And  if  I  were,  what  then  ?"  said  I. 
"I  've  tidings  fiir  thy  master,"  he  rejoined. 
And  fijrthwith  drew  this  writing  from  his  breast, 
And  bade  me  give  it  you. 
Lord  of  M.  Thanks,  my  good  servant 

[llildebrand  goes  out. 
Lord  of  M.  [reads.]    "  Have  not  a  fear  for  me,  I 
shall  he  heard  of 
Anon,  in  otherwise  than  heretofore  !" 
Thank  God,  he  's  free  !  It  is  not  as  I  feared, 

02 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


53 


That  he  had  fallen  into  cruel  hands  — 
My  son  is  safe  I     Now  welcome  evil  fortune, 
Since  it  will  crush  me  singly ! 

Enter  hildebrand  wilh  an  old  sword  drawn. 

mid.  Oh  my  niasitr, 

A  dozen  horsemen  now  are  at  the  gate ; 
They  bear  the  cognizance  of  Kronberg's  house. 
Lord  of  M.     Admit  tliem  ;  I  am  ready  I 
////(/.  No,  my  master. 

They  slia'il  not  take  you  thus  I  The  gates  are  barred, 
And  they  shall  beat  them  down  to  gain  admittance; 
And  they  shall  pass  my  body  to  win  yours ! 

[Ile/asleiis  the  door  and  windows,  and 
barricades  them  wilh  furniture. 
Lord  of  M.    These  are  but  poor  defences  ! 
Hild.  I  will  prove  them: 

VVhate'er  is  yours  shall  do  good  service  for  you  ! 
Lord  of  M.     But  spare  thyself,  good  Hildebrand  ! 
Hild.  RIy  lord, 

Have  I  been  in  your  service  seventy  years ; 
Eaten  of  your  bread,  and  drunken  of  your  cup ; 
Been  cherished  on  your  hearth  ;  been  called  your 

friend. 
But  to  desert  you  in  the  neediest  time  ? 

[A  loud  battering  is  heard  at  the  gates. 
Lord  of  M.     Nay  then,  I  'II  do  my  best. 

[He  arms  himself. 
Hild.  Oh  !  would,  my  lord, 

I  had  a  young  man's  vigour  in  my  arm  ; 
Would  I  were  such  as  when  by  Sarni's  stream 
I  stood  upon  the  eve  of  Childermas, 
And  saved  a  drowning  man  ! 

Lord  of  M.  The  lord  of  Kronberg  ! 

Ah,  Hildebrand  !  he  has  forgot  that  service. 

Hild.     My  lord,  he  soon  forgot  it!  Scarce  a  month 
After  that  night,  I  crossed  him  in  the  chase, 
And,  'cause  I  could  not  answer  to  his  question 
Of  "  which  way  went  the  boar  ?"  his  savage  hound 
Was  set  to  tear  my  flesh  !     In  vain  I  cried, 
"  I  am  poor  Hildebrand,  who  saved  your  life!" 
He  passed  me  with  a  curse !    Oh  for  the  strength 
T  wasted  on  the  eve  of  Childermas ! 

Lord  of  M.    The  ytoor  man  hath  his  evil  in  this  life. 
His  reckoning  in  the  next ! 

[71^6  gates  give  way  vnth  a  loud  crash. 
Hild.  Curse  that  old  wood  ! 

Now,  my  dear  master,  back,  this  is  my  place ! 

[He  stations  himself  at  the  door  ;  loud  voices 
and  heavy  footsteps  are  heard  without, 
which  then  pass  off  in  the  distance. 
Hild.     They've  lost  the  scent  I    Oh,  my  most  ex- 
cellent master. 
If  man's  good  deeds  have  any  worth  with  heaven. 
Then  should  these  sacred  walls  be  kept  from  ruin — 
Would  that  our  Lutheran  faith,  like  theirs  of  Rome, 
Gave  us  kind  saints  to  take  our  house's  quarrel ! 
Lord  of  ^f.      Peace,   peace,   good  friend,   I   hear 

approaching  voices. 
\sl  Voice,     [outside.]     Here  hides  the  ancient  fox  : 

come,  now  unearlh  him  I 
2nd  Voice.     This  is  the  only  habitable  comer  ! 


1,<.7  Voire.    Give's  here  the  straw  and  matches,  by 
mv  troth 
We  'II  sorve  them  as  the  hornet,  burn  (hem  out! 
Hdd.    The  dogs!  they  'II  burn  us  out ! 
Lord  of  M.      "  Hist,  Hildebrand  ! 

Hild.     Let's  issue  forth,  my  lord,  and  do  our  best! 
Lord  of  M.     Let  us  go  forth  ;  ours  is  a  righteous 
cause ! 
But  first,  my  aged  servant,  take  a  blessing 
From  ihine  old  master. 

Hild.  [kneeling.]  My  gracious  lord, 
May  every  power  in  heaven  defend  you  liirough  it! 
[The  flames  burst  into  the  rhamher.  Hilde- 
brand and  the  Ijjrd  of  Maine  rush  out 
with  drawn  swords  ;  the  men  close  upon 
them,  and  hear  off  the  I^ord  of  Elaine, 
leaving  Hildebrand  icounded  among  the 
burning  ruins- 


SCENE  H. 

Night  —  a  rocky  glen,  at  the  entrance  of  a  lonesome 
fnining  village — a  crou;d  of  men,  women  and  children 
collected  together — Philip  of  Maine  among  them, 
unnoticed  —  Mother  Schwartz  stands  forward  — 
meteors  and  northern  lights  are  seen  crossing  the  sky. 

Man.    These  signs  are  plain  enough ! 

Mother  S.  I  saw,  myself. 

Two  armies  from  the  north  and  south  o'  the  sky 
Come  up  like  hissing  dragons;  and  the  heavens 
The  while  were  red  as  blood  ! 

Man.  And  bloody  banners. 

And  fiery  swords  and  spears,  like  flickering  lightning. 
Are  thicker  set  than  stars ! 

Old  Man.  Wherefore  these  signs  ? 

I  'II  tell  ye  —  to  arouse  ye  to  repentance  ! 
Banners,  and  swords,  and  shields,  to  teach  that  ye 
Arc  soldiers  of  a  holy  militant  church  ; 
Rivers  of  blood,  to  show  the  blood  of  Christ ; 
Groanings  atid  awful  sighings,  to  recall 
The  death  on  the  cross  ;  and   moans   and   hissings 
•wM  — 

Mother  S.     Peace,  driveller,  hold  your  peace! 

27id  Man.  No,  no  ;  these  signs. 

These  awful,  fiery  signs,  have  other  meanings  — 
Tokens  of  wrath,  to  show  the  end  o'  the  world 
Is  now  at  hand ! 

Fhilip  of  M.     I  see  these  diverse  sights 
Of  comets  and  wild  meteors  in  the  air; 
And  streaming  fires,  which  from  the  northern  pole 
Cast  o'er  the  sky  this  wild  horri/ic  glare  ; 
But  what  of  these,  my  friends  ? 

These  things  are  tokens. 
Sent  to  the  great  and  powerful  of  the  earth 
To  shake  their  souls!    High  heaven  is  wroth  witli 
them ! 

Mother  S.    Thou  art  a  wise  man  !  I  do  read  these 
things 
As  thou.     But  hark!  here  comes  the  Innocent  — 
The  poor  dumb  innocent  that  now  doth  speak  — 
Such  wonders  are  abroad  ! 

1st  Man.  lie  has  work  to  do! 

63 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WOUKS. 


lie  is  sent  (brlh  in  these  had,  awful  times 
For  some  great  meaning! 

Mother  S.  Nothing  has  been  done, 

Fearful  or  good,  which  he  has  not  foretold  — 
There  is  a  god  or  else  a  devil  in  him  I 

2nd  Man.     Hist,  hist  I  he  comes,  and  soon  he  will 
begin ! 
'T  is  thus  he  rocks  his  body  to  and  fro. 
When  the  fit's  on  him. 

[T/ie  crowd  gives  war/,  and  the  Innocent 
enters,  tossing  his   arms  wildly,  and 
speaking. 
Look,  they  're  coming  from  the  clouds  I 
Thousands,  thousands;  crowds  on  crowds! 
Banners  streaming  ;  bright  swords  flashing  — 
Onward,  onward  dashing,  crashing ! 
Lo,  they  meet !     The  weak  are  strong ! 
Right  is  mightier  now  than  wrong  — 
Drive  the  bloody  ploughshare  deep; 
Strike  the  sickle  in  and  reap  I 
Weapons  not  of  earth  tliey  wield  — 
'Tis  a  crimson  harvest-field! 
Warrior,  to  the  fight  away ! 
This  is  the  appointed  duy  ! 
Cowards,  do  ye  quake  with  fear? 
Up,  the  man  of  might  is  here  ! 
Where  is  he  ?  the  man  of  might  ? 
Give  him  —  give  him  to  my  sight  I 
I  have  seen  him  in  my  sleep  — 
Heard  him  in  the  silence  deep  — 
Now  I  know  by  signs  of  fear 
That  the  man  of  might  is  here ! 
Hence !  ye  hide  him  from  my  view  — 

[He  parts  the  crowd,  and  looks  round  him. 
Where  art  thou,  O  warrior  true  ? 
Ha  !  I  see  thee  !  thou  art  he  ! 
Get  thee  hence  to  victory. 

[He  falls  fiack  insensible,  at  Philip's  feet. 

Many  voices.     What  wonder 's  this  ? 

Mother  S.  Thou  art  the  man  he  aimed  at. 

Others.     Say,  who  art  thou  ? 

Philip.  Philip  of  Maine,  I  am. 

All.  Philip  of  Maine  !  our  leader.  Philip  of  Maine! 

Mother  S.     Whom  Heaven  has  sanctioned  by  this 
miracle ! 

All.    It  has,  it  has! 

Mother  S.  Hurrah  for  Philip  of  Maine  ! 

All.    Hurrah  for  Philip  of  Maine  ! 

Enter  ja.\  Schwartz  arid  many  forgemen,  in  great 
haste. 

Jan.  S.    How !  stand  ye  here,  and  do  not  see  the 
burning  ? 

Many  voices.     Where,  where  ? 

Jan.  S.  h\  the  east  —  behold  ye  not  the  light 

Crimson  as  blood  ?  'T  is  the  old  house  of  Maine  ! 
That  is  a-burning ! 

Philip.  What,  the  Castle  of  Maine  ! 

Jan.  S.     Ay,  and  the  ancient  lord  is  carried  ofT 
To  Kronberg's  dungeons  ;  and  a  price  is  set 
On  his  son's  head — they  say  that  Kronberg  fears  him ! 
Lord,  what  a  burning  'l  is  !  the  old  dry  timber 
Blazes  like  touchwood  I 


Philip.  Carried  to  the  dungeons  ! 

Jan.  S.     And  the  grand  cedar  floors   smell   like 
frankincense  — 
I  'II  warrant  them  they  cost  a  world  o'  money  ! 
Philip.    This  shall  but  kindle  fiercer,  bloodier  ven- 
geance I 
Jan.  S.     And  poor  old  Hildebrand  has  been  dug 
out! 
He  fought  for  his  master,  and  was  sorely  wounded  ; 
The  burning  walls  fell  on  him  —  he  was  dead  — 
Mangled,  and  black  with  blood  and  masking  smoke. 
Philip.    There  shall  be  a  reckoning  for  that  old 
man's  life ! 

Enter  co.vrad,  and  other  miners. 

See  you  that  bloody  beacon  in  the  east  ? 

Conrad.     I  do  I     It  is  a  beacon  that  will  rouse 
Thousands  of  sleeping  hearts,  which,  but  lor  that 
Would  have  slept  on  !  The  forest  is  aroused  ; 
The  cry  is  "Vengeance,  and  the  Lord  of  Maine!" 

Mother  S.     And  tiiere  has  blood    been   shed  —  I 
know  there  has! 
I  can  smell  blond,  even  ns  the  raven  can  ! 

Conrad.   In  the  black  glen  we  have  left  seven  bo- 
dies — 
Bloodhounds  were  thev,  upon  our  leader's  scent ; 
Making  sure  count  of  Kronberg's  thousand  pieces  ! 

Philip.     Thanks   for  this    trusty  service,   gallant 
friends  I 

Many  voices.     We  owe  you  more  ! 

Mother  S.     [aside.]  I  Jove  the  smell  of  blood! 

Philip.     Now,  friends,  unto  your  homes  I  An  hour 
will  come 
When  I  shall  need  \our  bravest  energies  — 
Of  that  you  shall  have  warning ;  and  till  then, 
Farewell ! 

Many  loias.     Nay,  we  will  with  you,  even  now  ; 
Will  be  your  guard  ! 

Others.  And  we  will  to  the  burning. 

[They  all  disperse. 


SCENE  HI. 

Some  evenings  aflervards — three  men  silting  round  a 
fire  in  a  cave,  opening  upon  broken  ground. 

1st  Man.     It  is  a  general  out-break.     No  faint  im- 
pulse, 
Threatening  one  moment,  and  next  moment  quelled  ; 
Where'er  ye  go,  people  are  under  arms. 

2d  Man.     As  I,  this  morn,  stood   on   the  wooded 
heights, 
O'erlooking  the  wild  rocky  pass  of  Forges, 
Three  thousand  peasants,  armed  in  rustic  fashion, 
Shoulderuig  their  scythes,  their  reaping  hooks,  and 

fi)rks. 
Passed  onward  in  firm  file,  like  veteran  soldiers! 
That  will  be  done  anon,  will  find  no  healing, 
Save  in  the  tyrant's  blood. 

Is;  Man,  The  forest  mines 

Have  sent  their  thousands  forth  ;  in  dens  and  caves 
They  wait  the  appointed  signal. 

3d  Man.  Kronberg  sleeps, 

64 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


55 


The  wliile  Destruction  gathers  up  itself, 

To  erusli  him  with  its  concentrated  I'orce. 

But  Heaven  conlounds  wliom  it  forebodes  to  ruin ! — 

Philip  and  Gaston  'nealh  its  castle  gates, 

Within  the  very  hearing  of  the  soldiers 

That  man  the  walls,  call  on  them  to  arise, 

To  crush  the  heedless  tyrant,  and  be  free  ! 

2d  Man.     (laston  I  do  not  like.      These  strange 
adventurers 
Start  up  in  troublous  times,  as  crawling  things 
Spring  forth  from  iiilling  ruins  into  day. 
Philip  is  ours — we  know  him  root  and  branch; 
And  when  his  house  had  power,  the  limes  were  better; 
An  it  please  heaven  to  give  them  head  again, 
I  '11  help  him  heart  and  hand. 

1st  Man.  He  has  all  hearts, — 

And  hands  will  go  with  hearts — have  gone  already ! 
It  was  but  three  morns  since  I  saw  him  stand 
In  the  full  market-place,  and  raise  his  voice, 
Like  the  tremendous  angel  that  foretold 
The  end  of  time  ! 

2d  Man.  His  voice  is  like  a  trumpet ! 

Never  heard  I  so  rich,  so  full  a  voice  — 
I've  seen  men  moved  when  but  its  tones  were  heard. 

1st  Man.    Thus  was  it  then! — They  that  were 
cold  at  first, 
Or  fixedly  determined  'gainst  his  purpose, 
Kindled  to  hear  his  glowing  exhortation. 
Thousands  on  thousands  gatliered  round  about. 
Wedged  close,  like  a  thick  swarm  of  summer  bees; 
Till  tens  of  thousands  seemed  to  occupy 
A  space  as  many  hundreds  might  have  filled  ; 
And  then,  even  like  unto  a  living  body 
Swayed  by  the  great  pulsations  of  one  heart. 
They  moved  together  in  their  strong  excitements 
Of  joy  or  rage,  as  move  the  heavy  waves 
Of  a  deep,  rolling  sea  ! 

2d  Man.  He  will  be  great !  — 

And  were  he  sundered  from  that  foreign  patriot, 
As  all  good  men  desire,  might  bless  the  stale 
By  his  ascendance  o'er  the  tyrant's  fall. 

Isl  Man.     Trust  me,  a  mighty  engine  is  at  work. 
To  undermine  rock-rooted  tyranny, — 
And  I  bless  God  that  we  shall  be  free-men. 
As  did  each  tongue  of  those  assembled  thousands, 
Until  the  morning-heavens  gave  back  the  shout  — 
And  yet  each  man  returned  unto  his  home 
Without  impediment! 

2d  Man.  They  might  not  now, 

For  now  he  is  awake  ;  and  terrible 
Has  his  awakening  been  I    The  bloody  rack 
Doth  every  hour  its  work ;  and  armed  bands 
Scour  through  the  silenced  streets,  or  trample  down 
Whoever  dare  oppose  them  —  men  or  women. 
Or  httle  helpless  children  —  and  make  search 
In  the  house  of  each  suspected  citizen. 

1st  Man.    Poor  impotence  of  power! — where  one 
is  with  him, 
A  thousand  are  against  him  ! 

A  wild  crowd  of  people  come  up. 

People.  God  save  Philip! 

Hurrah  for  the  Deliverer!    Who's  for  Philip? 
6*  I 


\sl  Man.     What's  this  about  ? 

Man  of  Ike  crowd.  Philip  has  set  us  free  ! 

The  damned  collector  stripped  us,  dead  and  living: 
The  b(Kly  on  the  bier  —  the  new-made  bride  — 
The  bread  from  out  our  little  children's  hands  — 
We  were  the  wretchedest  people  'neath  the  sun ! 

Another  Man.     Philip  stepped  up,  and  seizing  the 
collector. 
Dealt  him  a  wound  in  's  body  that  cut  short 
His  pillaging! 

Another  Man.     And  ripping  up  his  bags, 
Poured  out  the  gold,  and  chucked  it  here  and  there 
Among  our  children.     "Take  it  all,"  said  he  ; 
And  gold  flew  wide,  like  yellow  leaves  in  autumn. 
We  '11  have  no  more  collectors!    God  save  Philip! 
Who  is  for  him  ?    We  '11  have  no  lord  but  Phihp! 

Enter  forgeman,  hurriedly. 

Forgeman.     Have  ye  not   heard  the  news  o'  th' 

victory  ? 
2d  Man.     What  victory  ? 

Forgeman.  Philip  has  got  the  day! 

A  battle  has  been  fought  i'  th'  field  of  Forges; 
And  Philip  marches  to  encamp  at  Sarni, 
At  the  head  of  twenty  thousand ! 
People.  God  save  Philip! 

Forgeman.    Who's  for  the  Conqueror  let  him  fol- 
low me ! 

[He  runs  forward. 

People.     We  '11  follow  —  that  we  will ! 

3d  Man.  Let 's  take  the  oath 

To  this  brave  leader  in  the  cause  of  freedom  ;  — 
Let's  to  the  camp  at  Sarni !    ' 

[They  all  follow. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  street  in  the  city. 

Enter  a  man,  crying  papers. 

Man.  Here  is  a  full  and  true  account  of  the  won- 
derful and  awful  prophecy  delivered  by  one  who  rose 
from  the  dead;  in  which  is  plainly  fiiretold  the  strange 
and  solemn  events  w  hich  are  coming  upon  the  earth ; 
to  which  is  added,  the  dovvniiil  of  pride,  and  a  clear 
explanation  of  the  terrible  and  portentous  signs  and 
tokens  in  the  sky,  written  by  the  learned  Dr.  Astrens: 
together  with  an  account  of  sundry  wonders  and 
mysterious  visitations  which  were  witnes.sed  in  many 
places  of  this  state.  All  which  are  explained  with 
reference  to  things  which  are  about  coming  to  pass. 
"He  that  runneth  may  read." 

Many  Voices.    Give  us  one!    Here 's  money,  give 
us  one ! 

[The  man  dislribules  his  papers,  and  then 
goes  forward. 

Another  man  rushes  in. 

Off  with  ye,  every  one  of  you  !  off,  off, 
A  troop  is  coming  down ! 

They  all  disappear. 
65 


50 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Soldiers  ride  through  the  street  with  xwords  drawn. 
After  a  short  lime  another  crowd  enters,  in  the  midst 
rf  which  is  the  innocent.  Mother  Schwartz 
and  Hans  Clef  stand  forward. 

Hans  Clef.     By  Jove,  ihere  'd  be  a  hubbub,  were 
he  heard 
In  yonder  castle . 

Mother  S.  Ay,  he  shall  be  heard,  — 

15y  every  power  of  vengeance  shall  be  heard! 
Now  hist  again  I 

Innocent.     Man  of  pride,  the  hour  is  near, 
Thou  shall  bow  thyself  in  fear; 
Thou  shalt  gnash  thy  teeth  in  rage ; 
Thou  shalt  curse  thy  drooping  age  — 
Thou  shalt  fall,  and  thou  shalt  die  I 

Mother  S.     We  know  of  whom  he  speaks  '. 
Hans  Clef.  He  is  convulsed!  — 

Ah  no,  he  speaks  again  I 

Innocent.     Cometh  night  upon  the  noon  ? 
Mighty,  art  thou  fallen  so  soon  ? 
Let  me  close  mine  eyes,  I  see 
Nought  but  coming  misery ! 
Hotly  rolls  the  crimson  flood  ! 
See  ye  not  these  streets  run  blood  ?  — 
Death  is  stalking  up  and  down 
Through  this  wailing,  midnight  town. 
Hark!  what  yells  are  in  the  air  — 
See  ye  not  the  red  fire's  glare  ? 
Midnight  flames  are  bursting  there  — 
What  comes  next?  despair!  despair! 
Woe !   woe  !  woe  !  —  The  day  is  done ; 
Mighty,  art  thou  fallen  so  soon  ? 

[He  sinhs  down  insensible. 
1st  Man.     Most  sorrowful !  most  strange ! 
Mothers.  'T  is  but  a  madman! 

2d  Man.     Dark  sayings  are  these  all ! 
Innocent,    [starting  np.]    They  are  here  ! 
their  hands ! 
Off!  I  brook  not  gyve.s  nor  bands! 
Down  the  silent,  echoing  street, 
Hark!  I  hear  their  coming  feet! 

[He  gives  a  spring  iipitard,  and  is  seized 
hy  soldiers- 
Mother  S.     Unhand  him,  cut-throats  ! 

[All  the  people  struggle  to  rescue  him  ;  he 
is  tDoitnded  and  home  off. 
Hans  Clef.    This  is  his  blood !     By  heaven  it  is 
his  blood  ! 

[He  dips  a  handkerchief  in  it,  which  he 
fastens  to  his  staff,  and  waves  over 
his  head. 
Mother  S.     Rally  around   the  standard !    To  the 
castle ! 
Follow,  and  let  us  rescue  him  I 

[They  all  hwrry  off. 


I  feel 


ACT  in.— SCENE  I. 

A  dungeon  in  the  Castle  of  Kronberg  —  the  Lord  of 
Maine  sitting  on  straw. 

Enter  Ida  Kronberc;,  with  fine  bread,  a  JIask  of  wine 
and  a  lamp. 


Lord  of  M.    What   messenger  of  mercy  may'st 
thou  be, 
That  daily  visitcsl  this  dreary  cell. 
And  ministerest  kind  comfort  to  my  need? 

Ida.     [placing  the  viands  before  him.]     Eat,  drink, 
my  lord,  for  you  will  need  refreshment ! 

Lord  of  M.    I   would   believe   thou   wert  some 
blessed  saint. 
Did  I  not  see  thy  weak  and  trembling  frame, 
And  hear  thy  voice  so  full  of  human  sorrow! 

Ida.     Eat,  drink,  old  man,  waste  not  the  time  in 
words !  — 
Meantime  I  will  compose  my  mind  to  speak 
That  which  requirelh  more  than  human  strength. 
My  lord,  you  have  a  son  ! 

Lord  of  M.    Heaven  grant  I   have!    yet  not  in 
bonds  like  me  — 
My  years  are  well  nigh  full  —  his  years  are  few, 
Say  not  he  is  in  bonds  I 

Ida.  Your  son  is  free  — 

Three  leagues  from  this  he  lielh  with  his  army ! 

Lord  of  M.    His  army  —  thou  mistak'st !    Thou 
canst  not  mean 
Philip  of  Maine ! 

Ida.  The  very  same,  I  mean ! 

And  now  he  lieth  on  the  plain  of  Sami 
With  a  confederate  host,  each  hour  increasing. 
Till  lens  of  thousands  are  its  smallest  number.  — 
Two-thirds  the  army,  and  all  mutinous  spirits; 
Miners  and  artizans,  herdmen  and  serfs, 
Nay,  the  whole  land,  if  rumour  speaketh  truly, 
Banded  together  for  our  house's  ruin! 

Lord  of  M.    Ha  !  is  it  so  ?   Scarce  forty  days  have 
passed 
Since  he  was  friendless  and  of  no  account ! 
But,  gracious  lady,  on;  thy  words  are  wondrous. 

Ida.     Like  the  fierce  torrent  of  a  mountain  river, 
Svvoln  by  the  night-thaw  of  a  winter's  snow. 
So  has  this  mutinous  faction  suddenly 
Sprung  inlo  being,  so  it  throalens  death  !  — 
Few  arc  the  burghere  who  have  not  thrown  off 
Their  old  allegiance  —  all  declare  for  Philip! 
The  ca.sile  is  blockaded.     In  our  walls 
The  few  leal  men  who  have  maintained  their  oslh 
Entered  last  night.    To-morrow,  it  is  rumoured, 
The  enemy  will  make  their  great  attack. 
Oh  !  'I  is  a  bloody  oath  that  they  have  sworn  — 
A  fearful,  bloody  oath ! 

Lord  of  M.  They  have  great  cause! 

Ida.     I  am  a  woman,  and  dare  not  attempt 
To  judge  these  weighty  matters. 

Lord  of  M.  But  proceed! 

Ida.     Here  is  all  preparation  for  defence. 
The  walls  are  manned  with  veterans  ;  arms  are  fur- 
nished ; 
Lord  Kronberg  swears  to  part  with  life,  ere  right. 
'T  will  be  a  bloody  contest!     My  poor  heart 
Droops  with  prophetic  feeling  of  great  woe  ! 

Lord  of  M.     What  would'st  thou  have  of  me  ? 

Ida.  Ah,  J  forget  — 

How  shall  r  tell  thee  that  ?  —  1  am  a  traitor! 

Lord  of  M.     A  traitor!  nay! 

Ida.  I  am  Lord  Kronberg's  daughter ! 

C() 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


57 


Lord  of  M.  Art  thou  Lord  Kronherg's  daughter  ? 

Ida.  Thou  must  hence  — 

Must  to  thy  son,  and  counsel  liini  to  temper 
\engeanee  with  mercy.     When  he  knows  thee  safe, 
Perchance  he  may  witlidraw.     And  more  than  this, 
Flee  for  thy  litis!     A  gibbet  is  erected. 
Thou '11  see  it  in  the  moonlight,  on  the  walls  ; 
There  'I  was  my  father's  orders  to  convey  thee, 
A  terror  to  the  foe,  when  day  should  break  ;  — 
And  woman  as  I  am,  weak,  timid  woman, 
I  dare  oppose  my  judgment  unto  his! 
He  shall  not  stain  his  name  —  a  noble  name, 
By  basely  taking  life  from  such  as  thou  — 
An  old  and  unoffending  nobleman! 
Hence  to  thy  son  !  and,  friend,  remember  this, 
Thou  hast  had  mercy,  and  be  thou  for  ns 
An  angel  of  sweet  mercy! 

Lord  of  M.  Gracious  lady. 

With  joy,  I  '11  do  thy  bidding  with  my  son ! 

Ida.     Now  follow  ! 

Lord  of  M.  [aside.]  No  marvel  't  is  he  loved  her  ! 
[She  unbars  the  door,  and  they  go  out  softly 
together. 


SCENE  n. 

Ida's  chamber —  Ida  arranging  flowers. 

It  was  a  gentle  notion  in  old  times. 

When  books  were  few,  and  ladies  could  not  read. 

To  give  to  flowers  sweet  names  —  sweet  names  that 

told 
As  much  as  a  whole  book  of  poetry. 
The  heart's-ease  ;  —  I  could  look  lor  half  a  day 
Upon  this  flower,  and  shape  in  fancy  out 
Full  twenty  different  tales  of  love  and  sorrow 
That  gave  this  gentle  name !  Would  I  could  find  in 't 
That  sovereign'st  balm  of  all ! 

Enter  bertha,  vtith  a  banner  in  her  hand. 

Bertha.  My  noble  cousin, 

Mounts  not  thy  blood  to  see  this  gallant  standard ! 
Many  a  brave  field  has  seen  this  crimson  banner  — 
A  field  of  noble  foes  —  then  waved  it  well! 
Alas  !  that  it  must  spread  its  silken  breadth 
To  yon  base  herd,  'gainst  whom  the  raven's  wing. 
Flapping  above  the  blasted  gibbet-tree. 
Had  been  a  fitter  banner! 

Ida.  They  are  men  — 

And  my  heart  tells  me,  sorely  injured  men  — 
Power  is  oppression ! 

Berlha.  Creatures  of  the  earth. 

Made  to  he  trodden  on  !     Poor  beasts  of  burden. 
Formed  for  submission;  and  they  now  rise  up 
And  ask  their  rights  as  men  —  faugh  !  look  at  them. 
They  are  but  brutes  !     Down  with  them  to  the  dust. 
And  make  them  eat  of  it ! 

Ida.  Nay,  getule  cousin. 

Their  cause  jras  just,  heaven  grant  they  shame  it  not ! 
Theirsole  demand  was  bread, bread  for  their  children — 
Was  't  more  than  right  ? — I  tell  thee,  dearest  Bertha, 
Power  is  a  dangerous  engine  in  man's  hand. 


My  noble  father  used  it  as  a  scourge. 

So  will  these  men  —  yet  while  I  shrink  with  dread, 

I  own  their  cause  was  just! 

Bertha.  Ida,  for  shame  ! 

Thou  would'sl  be  lady-leader  of  this  rabble  — 
Thou  would'st  be  wife  to  Philip!  —  Shame  on  thee 
Thus   should    not   speak    Lord    Krouberg's    noble 

daughter  — 
It  is  a  monstrous  sin  to  love  that  man ! 

Ida.  Thou  dost  misjudge  me — I  regard  their  cause 
Separate  from  him. 

Bertha.  I  'd  tear  my  wilful  heart 

From  out  my  breast,  if  it  were  such  a  traitor ! 

Ida.    I  am  Lord   Kronberg's  daughter;  and  our 
house 
Brooks  not  reproach. 

Enter  LORD  kronberg. 

Lord  of  K.  What  eager  words  are  these  ? 

Bertha.  Uncle,  behold  this  banner  !  'T  is  not  heavy ! 
Grant  me  to  hold  it  on  its  post  to-morrow, — 
I  will  not  flinch —  by  your  good  name,  I  will  not! 

Lord  of  K.    Nay,  nay,  my  pretty  niece,  thou  shalt 
not  risk 
Thy  life  before  the  weapons  of  those  caitifis!  — 
But  now,  my  Ida,  why  art  downcast  thus  ? 
Fear  not,  my  child,  to-morrow  thou  shalt  see 
The  lord  of  Kronberg  lord  in  his  own  land  ! 

[A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 
Who  knocks  there  ? 

Enter  seneschal. 

Sene.  He  's  'scaped,  my  lord  !  — 

He  is  not  in  the  dungeon  —  he  has  'scaped  ! 
Lord  of  K.     Escaped  !  Then  there  are  traitors  in 
these  walls  ! 
Try  on  the  rack  the  soldiers  who  were  taken 
In  act  to  fly  unto  the  enemy  ! 

Ida.     My  liither,  no !  —  these  men  are  innocent  — 
'T  was  I  who  gave  him  freedom  ! 

Lord  of  K.  Peace,  my  daughter! 

Thou  'rt  raving  !  Reriha,  take  her  to  her  chamber. 
Ida.    I  am  not  raving  —  I  am  calm  as  thou  !  — 
Father,  I  gave  that  old  man  liberty  — 
I  would  not  let  thy  noble  name  be  stained 
With  innocent  blood  ! 

Lord  (f  K.  If  thou  didst  dare  unlock 

That  dungeon  door,  my  curse  light  on  thee,  traitor! 
Ida.     Nay,  curse  me  not,  —  dear  fiither.  curse  me 

not  ! 
Lord  of  K.  Hence  with  her  to  the  dungeon  !  she's 

a  traiior ! 
Sene.     Mv  good  lord,  no!     She  is  your  child,  my 

lord  ! 
Bertha      [clasping  her  arms  around  her.]     OK,  off  I 
you  shall  not  lay  your  hands  upon  her. 

[N/ie  supports  her  into  an  inner  room. 
Lord  of  K.    Traitors  of  mine  own  blood  !    Fetch 
out  the  prisoners. 
And  hang  them  all  — and  that  wild  prating  idiot ! 
But  I  '11  trust  none  of  ye  !     I  'II  see  it  done ! 

[lie  goes  out  with  the  Seneschal. 
67 


58 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SCENE  III. 

iSeven  days  afterwards — the  same  apartment — Ida  re- 
clines on  a  couch. 

The  name  of  Ida  Kronberg  will  go  down 
As  of  a  rebel  traitor  —  as  one  leagued 
Against  her  father  in  the  desperate  strife 
Wherein,  perchance,  his  life  may  be  the  forfeit. 
Oh  Thou,  who  in  thy  righteous  hand  dost  hold 
The  lives  of  all  thy  creatures,  guard,  I  pray, 
My  father  through  the  conflict !     Be  his  shield. 
And  his  sufficient  help!     If  life  thou  needest, 
Take  my  poor  life,  a  sacrifice  for  his  — 
I  would  resign  my  breath  into  thy  hands  — 
My  cause  unto  thy  judgment  —  which  is  just! 

Enter  bertha,  and  count  fabian. 

Bertha.    Ha !   traitor,  did   he  say  ?    Believe  me 
Count, 
The  tumult  of  the  hour  hath  mazed  his  brain  — 
Daughter  he  meant,  his  most  beloved  daughter! 
Ida,  Count  Fabian  brings  us  heavy  news  — 
The  outer  walls  are  taken  —  and  the  attack 
Hath  now  commenced  upon  the  inner  fortress  ; 
But  my  most  noble  uncle,  full  of  kindness, 
Hath  sent  this  brave  young  Count  to  be  our  guard  ! 

Ida.     He  could  not  grant  a  trustier,  braver  friend  I 
Count,  in  the  good  greenwood   thou  'st  been   our 

guard  — 
Heaven  knows  if  we  shall  take  those  sports  again ! 

Fab.     I  murmured  when  I  heard  my  good  lord's 
orders, 
For  he  most  strangely  worded  his  command,  — 
Methought  he  spoke  of  gaoler  —  not  defender ! 

Bertha.     I  told   you,  Count,  my  uncle's   brain   is 
mazed. 
He  does  not  mean  that  she  and  I  are  traitors. 

Ida.    [aside.]    Oh,  most  unkind,  to  still  believe  me 
traitor  — 
To  shut  his  heart  in  such  a  time  as  this  I  — 
But  'tis  not  meet  Count  Fabian  see  me  weep  — 
Let  me  retire  into  the  inner  chamber ! 

Bertha.     I  will  go  with  thee. 

[They  go  into  the  inner  room. 

Fab.     She  's  a  noble  lady  ! 
Who  would  not  draw  his  sword  for  such  a  one  ? 
And  'tis  for  her,  they  say,  the  war  is  waged  — 
A  single-handed  man,  I  'd  face,  myself, 
A  hundred  foes  were  she  the  victor's  guerdon  ! 
Now  let  me  think  —  suppose  he  win  the  day, 
Suppose  he  force  the  castle,  and  take  prisoner 
Her  noble  sire  —  which  is  impossible  ! 
I  'd  sooner  die  than  she  should  be  his  prisoner  ;  — 
Bui  for  the  supposition's  sake  —  I  'd  fly 
To  every  court  in  Europe,  and  demand 
Help  for  the  noblest,  fairest,  best  of  ladies  ; 
And  Suabia's  duke  would  be  our  earliest  helper  — 
All  know  he  has  an  eye  upon  this  lordship ; 
And  is  beside,  a  gallant,  generous  soldier ! 

[A  loud  clamour  of  assatdt  and  defence  is 
heard. 


But  how  now  !  What  is  this  ?  Oh,  but  to  stand 
Upon  the  bulwarks !  Curse  these  four  strait  walls! 

[He  mounts  to  the  imndow. 
Ah  !  what  a  stirring  sight !     Yonder  is  Philip, 
Known  by  the  bloody  hand  upon  the  banner ; 
His  is  a  soldier's  bearing  —  would  to  Heaven 
It  was  a  gallant  cause  for  w-hich  he  strove ! 

Re-enter  bertha. 

Bertha.    Count  Fabian,  let  me  hear  thee  read  the 
signs 
Of  this  unhappy  morn  ! 

Fab.  I  scarce  can  see 

Aught  now;  the  force  is  drawn  beneath  the  walls — 
Yet  from  the  town  a  fresh  attack  is  made. 

Bertha.     'T  is  as  an  earthquake's  tumult ! 

Fab.  An  assault 

Made  from  the  tower  of  the  Cathedral  church. 

Bertha.  Are  the  good  saints  asleep,  that  this  should 
be? 

Fab.    Again  it  shakes  the  castle  as  't  would  fall ! 
Oh  that  I  were  without,  to  lake  my  part 
In  this  day's  struggle  ! 

[He  looks  out  again. 

All  is  quiet  here  — 
The  plain  of  Sarni  and  the  distant  camp, 
Without  a  living  form,  are  all  I  see  ; 
The  little  stream  is  running  on  in  sunshine ; 
The  breeze  is  stirring  'mong  the  chestnut  trees 
That  grow  adown  the  slope  !    How  strange  the  con- 
trast 
Between  the  calm  and  beautiful  repose 
Of  nature  and  the  unholy  strife  of  man  ! 

[The  sounds  of  assault  become  yet  louder 
with  shouts  of  triumph  intermixed. 
Bertha.     Heavens !  what  terrific  power  have  hu- 
man voices 
In  their  ferocious  triumph  thus  sent  forth  ! 

Fab.    'T  is  vain  to  look.   The  strife  is  close  within 
The  very  walls,  and  this  small  tower  gives  nought 
Save  quiet  fields,  and  the  green,  waving  tree-tops ! 
Bertha.     Yet,  yet  again  !  these  sounds  might  wake 

the  dead  ! 
Fab.    To  those  cooped  up,  the  strife  is  more  appal- 
ling 
Than  in  the  open  air,  amid  the  contest. 

Soldier,    [without.]    Let 's  forth.  Sir  Count,  the  as- 
sault comes  nearer  yet ! 
The  inner  walls  are  taken  ! 

Fab.  Curse  the  orders ! 

Pardon  me,  lady,  but  my  soul  is  chafed 
By  this  imprisonment ! 

Soldier.  They  need  our  help! 

Let  us  go  forth,  Sir  Count  I 

Fab.  Brave  soldiers,  no! 

You  do  defend  the  noble  Ida  Kronberg  ; 

[A  more  terrible  explosion  shakes  the  whole 
building ;  a  death-like  silence  ensues. 

Enter  Ida. 
My  father!    Is  he  safe? 

Enter  Count  Nicholas. 


Count  Nich. 


Hence!  hence  with  me! 

C8 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


59 


The  foe  hath  got  an  entrance !  hence  with  me 
Unto  the  strong  hold  in  the  topmost  tower ! 
Ida.     Say,  is  my  lather  safe  ? 
Count  Nich.  lie  is,  thank  God  ! 

[to  Fabian.]    Take  thou  thy  men,  and  on  the  turret 

stair 
Join  Segbert ;  he  hath  orders  for  the  rest. 

[Tliey  all  go  out. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  small  room  in  the  upper  lou>er. 

Enter  the  Lord  of   Kronberg,  Count  Nicholas 
and  Segbert. 

Seg.     My  lord,  the  foe  hath  got  entire  possession ! 
Nicholas.   By  that  old  passage  opening  to  the  river 
They  gained  an  entrance  ;  there  the  mine  was  sprung 
By  which  the  breach  was  made. 

Lord  of  K.  Curse  on  ye  all ! 

Why  left  you  it  unguarded  ? 

Se".  Good,  my  lord, 

You  did  declare  a  force  of  twenty  men 
Sufficient  for  the  post,  if  't  were  attempted  ; 
And  they  were  all  cut  down  unto  a  man  ! 

Lord  of  K.    It   was  your  post,  and  you  have  it 
deserted  ; 
."Xnd  but  that  'tis  an  hour  we  may  not  spare 
From  weightier  business,  you  should  die  for 't,  traitor ! 
Seg'.     [throwing  down  his  sword.]     For   five  and 
fifty  years  I  've  been  your  soldier, 
And  never  was  dishonoured  till  this  hour! 

Airh.   Nay,  my  good  lord  of  Kronberg,  't  is  unjust, 
'T  is  most  unjust,  my  lord  !     Segbert  is  true  ! 
This  is  no  time,  indeed,  my  lord,  it  is  not, 
Thus  to  affront  a  brave  and  loyal  soldier  ! 
Lord  of  K.     Ye  all  of  you  are  traitors  ! 
Aich.  My  dear  lord, 

Let  not  our  latest  hours  be  spent  in  strife  ! 
Count  Segbert,  take  thy  sword  I     Let  not  the  rabble 
Know  of  our  strife — Count  Segberl,  take  thy  sword! 
Seg.     [reluctantly  taking  it.]     I  am  dishonoured,  I 
am  called  a  traitor! 
Shame  on  myself!  —  I  am  a  veteran  soldier 
Seamed  o'er  with  scars,  and  yet  am  called  a  traitor ! 
Nich.    Thou  art  no  traitor,  Segbert ! 

My  Lord  Kronberg, 
What  is  your  will  we  answer  to  the  (ije  ? 
I^ord  of  K.    How  many  may  we  count  ? 
Nich.  Our  bravest  soldiers 

Lie  dead  within  the  breach — we  are  scant  a  hundred ! 
Lord  of  K.    Then  with  this  handful,  I '11  defend 
the  tower  — 
Will  see  them  die  of  famine,  ere  I  yield  it! 
Shame  on  ye,  would  ye  counsel  aught  beside? 
Nich.    I  know  no  belter  counsel  for  the  hour. 
Lord  of  K.    I  shall  return  no  answer  to  the  rebel. 
Now  each  unto  his  ywst ;  and  leave  no  outlet 
This  time  unwatched  —  but  I  will  forth  myself, 
And  keep  you  to  your  duties! 


SCENE  V. 

The  state-ajmrtmcnis  of  the  Castle  of  Kronberg  —  n 
disorderly  and  drunhn  ralihle,  hiuded  by  Mother 
Schwartz,  are  despoiling  them,  and  carrying  off 
booty. 

Enter  Vhilw,  with  a  small  company  of  solviers  who 
station  themselves  at  the  doors. 

Phil.     Plunderers  and  spoilers,  hence ! 

Mother  S.  Nay,  we  '11  not  budge ! 

Many  voice.'!.     We  will  not,   we  '11   have  spoil  as 

well  as  you ! 
Man.  You  might  have  lived  and  died  with  famish- 
ed rats 
Had  we  not  helped  you  ;  and  we'll  have  our  wages! 
Another.     We  shall  go  short,  unless  we  help  our- 
selves ! 
Phil.    Base  spoilers,  ye  shall  not  defiice  these  halls, 
Down  with  your  booty  ! 

[They  make  a  general  attempt  to  carry  off 
spoil ;  the  soldiers  drive  them  back. 
Phil.  Plunderers,  lay  it  down  — 

Ye  shall  not  hence,  save  ye  go  empty-handed  ! 
Ma7iy  voices.   We  will  not  out  then  !  we  will  tarry 
here  ! 
We  will  defend  our  own ! 
All.  We  will  defend  it! 

Man.     Curse  him  I  he  '11  say  't  is  his  ! 
Phil.  I  swear  't  is  mine ! 

Ye  are  a  herd  of  robbers,  seeking  outrage ! 
Down  with  your  spoil,  or,  by  my  soul,  these  swords 
Shall  be  unsheathed  on  you  I 

Mother  S.  Ay,  lord  it,  Philip ! 

Trample  upon  us !     Dare  to  draw  a  sword. 
And  thou  shalt  find  thine  equals,  that  thou  shall! 

Phil.  I  '11  strike  iliee  down  if  thou  defy  me  farther. 
Stand  back  —  and  hear  me  speak  ! 

Mother  S.  VVe  will  not  hear  thee! 

Thou'dst  be  a  tyrant —  be  another  Kronberg ! 

[Theif  make  afresh  attempt  to  carry  off 
their  spoil ;   the   soldiers  oppose  them  ; 
a  violent  contest  ensues,  and  many  are 
wounded. 
Mother  S.  [aside.]    Let  us  appear  to  yield.    There 
is  a  force 
Outside  will  take  our  part!    We  'II  have  revenge  ! 
Man.    Give  us  free  egress,  Philip,  and  we'll  yield  I 
Phil,  [aside.]  Curse  on  them,  Willi  thoir  everlasting 
Phdip ! 
Soldiers,  give  place,  and  see  that  all  go  hence  ; 
And  yet  go  empty-handed  ! 
I  [He  withdraws  into  an  inner  room. 

1      Many  voices.    Hang  him  !  we  'II  have  a  reckoning 
j  with  him  yet ! 

WoTuan.  [taking  a  body]     My  son,  my  son!  he's 

dead ! 
Soldiers.        Out  with  ye  !    Out ! 
I  [The  people  are  forced  out,  uttering  threats 

and  curves. 

I  Re-enter  Pill  MP. 

One  enemy  is  cru.shed,  or  well  nigh  crushed. 


[They  all  go  out.    Cooped  in  a  little  tower,  and  scarce  a  hundred  — 

69 


60 


HOVVITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Meantime  another  rises,  like  the  head 

Of  the  gigantic  Hydra  —  tlie  fierce  people, 

Greedy  of  plunder,  fickle  and  rapacious; 

'Tis  the  strong  arm  must  crush  them  as  they  rise  ; 

Must  hurl  them  down  to  their  subservient  place. 

And  keep  them  there ;  as  rude  and  rough  materials, 

Unsightly  and  unworthy,  form  the  basement 

Of  kingly  edifices  —  now  I  see 

Wherefore  the  great  must  keep  the  low  subjected. 

Enter  gastox. 

Gast.    Dost  fold  thine  arms  as  thou  might's!  take 
thine  ease  ? 
Thou  art  nut  lord  of  this  dominion  yet ! 

Phil.     Speak  plain,  what  is  thy  meaning  ? 

Gast.  The  rude  concourse, 

Whom  Ihon  hast  driven  from  the  gates  e'en  now, 
Strengthened  with  a  gigantic  force,  return, 
And  claim  access,  mad  with  some  fancied  wrong. 
Thou  art  no  longer  "  noble,  gracious  Philip ;" 
But  "  tyrant,"  "  bloody  and  injurious  tyrant!" 

Phil.     I  'II  cut  them  into  mouthfnis  for  the  dogs ! 

Gast.     Thou  madman  .'    These  are  they  who  gave 
thee  power  I 

Phil.   Wouldst  give  the  fair  reward  of  seven  days' 
strife 
To  them  for  plunder? 

Gast.  Give  them  for  plunder  those 

Who  have  adhered  to  Kronberg  —  not  a  few; 
And  all  rich  merchants  who  as  princes  lived, — 
Fear  not  but  they  will  fight  like  angry  eagles 
For  their  nest-eggs ;  thus  wilt  thou  arm  thy  foes 
Against  each  other,  and  be  rid  of  both  — 
The  merchants'  names  are  here,  their  houses  marked. 

Phil.     A  goodly  list !  and  only  pity  't  is 
To  give  from  our  own  hands  such  noble  spoil. 

Gast.     There  are  a  thousand  ways  to  get  it  back ! 

Phil.     An  excellent   friend!    Thou   hast  untired 
resources ! 
Let 's  have  it  done. 

Gast.  Listen,  yet  one  word  more. 

The  mine  that  gave  to  us  an  entrance  here. 
Hath  shook  the  dungeons  —  they  are  insecure; 
A  plot  is  formed  among  the  prisoners. 
Many  of  whom  are  soldiers,  to  break  Ibrlh, 
Surprise  thee  in  the  night  —  retake  the  castle, 
And  give  thee  up  to  Kronberg ! 

Phil.  Ha!  is't  so? 

Is  danger  then  so  nigh  ?     But  hear  me,  friend  — 
There  is  a  gaoler  stronger  than  stone  walls  — 
Canst  thou  not  manage  it? 

Gast.  Dost  thou  mean  death  ? 

Murder  so  many  men  ? 

Phil.  Wilt  swear  'tis  true? 

Gast.     Upon  my  life,  't  is  true ! 

Phil.  Then  I'll  not  dally! 

See  thou  to  it — make  sure  of  them  ere  midnight; 
But  let  it  only  be  'twixt  thee  and  me! 
Meantime  I  'II  forth,  and  pacily  these  wolves. 

[He  goes  out. 

Gast.    There  is  an  easy  conscience  !    On  my  troth 
Not  even  myself  coulil  do  the  thing  more  coolly! 
This  human  nature  is  a  curious  problem  — 


He  who  one  day  sheds  tears  with  crj'ing  children, 

Bespeaks  the  next  a  wholesale  butchery  ; 

And  yet,  the  bloody  wretch,  he  knows  the  shame  on  t. 

"  Let  it  be  only  betwixt  thee  and  me  !" 

Nay,  nay,  I  '11  give  the  credulous  whisper  forth! 

[He  goes  out. 


ACT  IV.  — SCENE  L 

Midnight — hanqucting-room  in  the  Castle  of  Kronberg 
— table  spread — soldiers  and  attendants  pass  in  and 
out,  bearing  wine  and  viands. 

1st  Sol.   Full  twenty  different  wines  have  all  been 
broached  — 
The  rarest  wines  of  France  and  Germany  — 
It  is  a  royal  board  ! 

2d  Sol.  The  spits  are  turning: 

There  is  a  savoury  smell  throughout  the  house  ! 

3d  Sol.    Think  you  they  '11  scent  the  viands  up 
aloft  ? 

4th  Sol.   If  they  get  that,  it  will  be  all  they  '11  get; 
They  'd  do  us  reverence  for  the  bones,  I  'm  thinking! 

3d  Sol.  And  then  the  prisoners  in  those  darksome 
dungeons  — 
I  pity  them,  poor  souls,  for  most  are  soldiers  — 
Who  'II  have  the  feeding  of  them  ? 

2d  Sol.  Troth  !  they  '11  go 

One  night  without  their  suppers  ! 

Attendant.  They  will  taste 

Nor  morning  meal,  nor  evening  any  more  — 
They  're  dead  ere  this  ! 

1st  Sol.  What,  every  prisoner  — 

Soldiers  and  all  ? 

Attend.  Ay,  every  one  of  them  ! 

But  what  of  that  ?    The  dungeon  only  knows 
What  wrongs  are  done  within  its  dreary  walls  ! 

1st  Sol.    Ay,  ay,  these  things  may  all  be  right  and 
proper, 
But  they  do  chill  the  blood  within  one's  veins;  — 
i  love  an  enemy  in  open  fight. 
And,  easy-conscienced,  could  cut  down  a  hundred; 
But  't  is  not  part  of  noble  soldiership 
To  stab  i'  the  dark  ;  and  put  the  subtle  poison 
In  meats  and  drinks  !     Who  gave  the  order  for 't  ? 

Attend.  Philip — our  good  lord  Philip — who  but  he? 

3d  Sol.     If  but  a  hair  of  any  soldier's  head 
Have  come  to  harm,  by  Him,  who  is  in  heaven, 
I  will  fiirswear  the  service  of  this  Philip 
As  a  blood-thirsty  tyrant,  worse  than  Kronberg! 

ilh  Sol.     If  it  be  so,  I  will  return  on  th'  morrow* 
To  my  first  soldier-oath  ! 

2<l  Sol.  And  so  will  I  ? 

Atleiid.    Tush,  tush  !  you  all  are  fools  ! 

2d  Attend,  [running  in.]         .\\\,  all  give  place, — 
Here  come   the  lords  o'  th'  night ; 

Enter  men,  bearing  dishes. 

Now  to  your  boards . 
This  is  the  topmost  table,  and  my  lord 
Hath  ordered  every  man  his  belly  full. 
This  is  above  the  salt  —  all  ye  must  lower, — 

70 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


61 


Ye  have  your  trenchers  elsewhere  —  but  for  viands 

Not  one  whit  worse  than  these! 

[T/ie  soldiers  go  out,  talkiu"  earneslhj  to- 
gether—  the  attendants  busy  themselves 
in  arranging  the  table. 

Enter  piiii.ip,  gaston,  and  a  great  companij. 

Phil.     Be  seated  all  —  and  let  us  try,  my  friends, 
The  cheer  of  this  good  night ! 

Ho!  give  us  wine  — 
Fill  every  golden  goblet  to  the  brim, 
And  drink,  my  friends ! 

Gast.  God  save  Duke  Philip! 

Enter  officer  haslili/. 

I  am  much  grieved  to  trouble  the  great  joy 

Of  such  an  hour  —  but  mine  's  a  pressing  errand. 

PhiL     Speak  to  the  purpose,  can'st  not  ? 

Officer.  My  good  lord. 

The  burghers  clamour  at  the  gates  for  help 
Against  those  lawless  thousands  that  desjwil, 
By  indiscriminate  plunder,  every  house ! 

Phil.  Damnation  on  them  !    Bid  the  burghers  fight 
For  their  own  hearths  and  homes ! 

Officer.  I  will,  my  lord  ! 

Gast.  [taking  up  a  ciip.]    Drink  to  the  universal 
sentiment  — 
Long  life,  and  long  success  unto  Duke  Philip! 

Enter  the  old  LORD  of  maixe. 

Lord  of  M.     Sitt'st  thou,  ray  son,  thus  banqueting 
at  ease 
AVTien  blood  is  pouring  like  an  undammed  river  ; 
And  lawless  rapine  through  the  midnight  city 
Rages  like  hell  let  loose  ?    For  two  long  hours, 
Has  burgher  after  burgher  called  on  thee 
With  piteous  cries  and  groans ! 

Phil.  Peace,  peace,  my  lord, 

One  is  dispatched  even  now  will  see  lo  it. 

Lord  of  M.     It  is  thy  cause,  my  son!     Up,  arm 
thyself; 
All  is  one  scene  of  tumult,  blood,  and  frenzy  — 
The  burghers,  for  their  wives  and  daughters,  pray 
More  than  their  wealth!     Thy  fortune  will  be  lost 
If  thou  hold  back !     Shame  on  this  drunken  riot. 
When  all  that 's  dear  to  manhood  calls  thee  out ! 

Enter  soldier. 

Soldier.    My  lord,  the  burghers  bring  their  wives 
and  daughters 
Here  for  protection.    They  demand  your  presence — 
The  city  is  on  fire  in  every  quarter  I 

Phd.    Confusion  seize  them  !     I  shall  not  go  forth 
And  do  their  bidding,  as  they  choose  to  dictate ! 
Lord  of  M.    Then  I  will  buckle  harness  on,  and 
forth !  — 
What  gentlemen  will  up,  and  come  with  me  ? 

Many  officers.     We  will   to  horse  with  you,  and 

quell  this  tumult! 
Gasl.    [a.iide.]    If  that  old  man  go  forth,  he  ruins 
all! 
Stay,  brave  old  sir,  we  will  not  tax  your  arm 
Against  these  scurvy  ruflians  !    I  myself 


Will  bo  lieutenant-general  on  this  night  — 
Sit  every  gentleman,  1  '11  do 'I  myself. 
Lord  of  M.    This  is  more  grace  than  I  had  looked 
for  from  thee  ; 
Thou  art  not  ofien  ready  for  good  deeds  ! 

Phil.     Sit  every  one  ;  't  is  but  a  petty  tumult, 
Which  he  will  quell  with  half  a  score  ol'  soldiers! 
[T/iei/  seat  themselves. 
Gast.     [aside.]     Now  this  is  right !  I  '11  out,  and 
set  the  city 
In  such  a  bloody  tumuli  as  shall  make 
This  time  be  chronicled  "  the  night  of  terror!" 

[He  goes  out. 


SCENE  II. 

A  small  room  of  the  upper  tower — the  Lord  of  Kron- 
lerg  alone. 

Lord  of  K.    ^\■hen  great  misfortune   threats  a 
noble  house, 
'T  is  a  great  sacrifice  that  must  be  made 
For  its  retrieve  —  and  't  is  the  part  of  greatness 
Misfortune  to  defy  by  nobly  yielding  ! 
Should  I  deny  nobility  to  Philip, 
It  were  a  lie  —  the  blood  that  warms  his  veins 
I'lows  from  a  regal  source.     There  are  who  say 
This  land  by  right  is  his —  I  yield  not  that  — 
But  as  my  daughter's  dower,  I  may  confer 
Revereion  of  its  rule  on  whoso  weds  her. 
Suppose  it  Philip  ;  I  get  added  power,  — 
Dominion  o'er  the  factious  mullitude 
Estranged  from  me,  but  firm  allies  of  his.  — 
It  may  be  that  my  daughter  may  object 
To  this  rough  wooing —  but  a  truce  to  that; 
I  can  enforce  obedience  !  — and  in  sooth 
Philip  would  not  displease  a  woman's  eye. 
But  here  she  comes  —  though  little  like  a  bride. 

Enter  IDA. 
My  daughter,  banish  iheso  dejected  looks  ! 

Ida.     Welcome  misfortune,  if  it  give  me  back 
Thy  love,  my  dearest  father ! 

Lord  of  K.  Some  harsh  words 

I  spoke  to  thee  at  parting,  I  remember  — 
Forgive  thy  father,  Ida  ;  he  was  wroth. 
More  with  the  woo  that  pressed  him,  than  with  thee  ! 

Ida.     Nay,  ask  not  my  forgiveness! 

Lord  of  K.  Thou,  dear  child, 

Sweet  image  of  thy  mother,  the  most  true. 
The  patientest,  the  fiiirest  of  all  women  — 
Thou  art  my  only  hope ! 

Ida.  Hope,  father !    Hast  thou  hope  ? 

Lord  of  K.     Yes,  Ida  ;  hope  in  thee,  who  can'st 
retrieve 
The  fortunes  of  our  house,  and  give  again 
Power  to  my  hand,  and  peace  unto  the  state ! 

Ida.    /do  thus  much,  who  am  a  feeble  woman  ! 

Lord  of  K.     Thou   dost  not  know,  thou  little 
trembling  fool, 
That  this  land  is  in  anarchy  for  thee  — 
That 't  is  for  thee  so  many  brave  men  sleep 
In  the  cold  arms  of  death  ! 

71 


62 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ida.  My  father,  no !  — 

'T  is  insolent  ambition  and  revenge  ! 

Have  poured  out  blood  like  water  I  , 

Lord  of  K.  Pshaw,  pshaw,  girl !     | 

What  knovv'st  thou  of  these  things  ?    But  from  the 

lime 
Of  the  old  town  of  Troy,  unto  this  hour, 
Women  upset  the  world,  ha  I  ha! 

Ida.  My  father. 

Jest  not !     What  is  the  tenor  of  thy  words  I 

Lord  of  K.     Philip  of  Maine  did  ask  thy  hand  in 
marriage, 
Which  I  refused  ;  thence  rose  this  civil  contest. 
Then  was  he  poor,  brought  up  in  sordid  thrift. 
Whom  it  had  been  disgrace  for  Ida  Kronberg 
To  have  been  wife  unto.     Now  he  has  power, — 
And  woe  is  me,  that  it  should  even  he  so! 
Has  given  his  name  a  terrible  ascendance  ; 
And  we  must  crouch  beneaUi  him,  live  his  slaves, 
Be  trampled  on;  unless,  like  those  who  make 
Events  their  servitors  —  true  wisdom's  rule. 
We  take  him  by  his  craft  — yielded  but  to  keep 
The  power  which  but  in  seeming  we  resign. 
Thy  hand,  my  child,  will  heal  this  civil  broil. 
Will  give  again  dommion  to  thy  father  — 
What  says  my  Ida  ?     lie  of  Maine  is  noble  ; 
Is  brave  ;  hath  power;  is  a  mean  man  no  longer  ! 

Ida.     When  Philip  sought   my  hand,  he  was  as 
noble, — 
Nobler  than  now !    Ilis  name  had  not  a  stain ! 

Lord  of  K.      A   sordid,   penniless   lord,   without 
respect ; 
Scarce  raised  above  the  vassals  of  the  soil ! 

Ida.    That  humble,  penniless  lord,  I  would  have 
wedded. 
Because  he  then  was  worthy  of  my  love. 

Lord  of  K.    Hear  I  aright  I 

Ida.  Thou  hear'st  aright,  my  father, — 

Ah  be  not  wroth,  but  hear  me  calmly  on. 
Philip  of  Maine  is  a  dishonoured  man  ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  wed  with  such  a  one  — 
JNIy  father,  thou  wouldst  not ! 

Lord  of  K.  Thou  wouldst  have  wedded 

The  son  of  a  fallen  house  brought  up  in  thrift — 
Poor  as  a  hind,  but  not  so  serviceable — 
One  that  was  as  a  proverb  and  a  jest — 
A  needy  lord,  that  in  a  threadbare  jerkin 
Came  as  a  wooer !     And  now  that  he  has  gained 
Dominion  and  a  name,  why,  in  good  sooth, 
Thou  wilt  not  condescend  to  such  a  one  I 

Ida.    Because  he  hath  laid  waste  this  wretched 
land ; 
Hath  shown  himself  a  fierce,  revengeful  man, 
And  is  thy  deadly,  cruel  enemy  I 

Lord  of  K.     I  would  retain  my  power  by  winning 
him. 

Ida.  Is  it  to  such  a  man  thou'dst  wed  thy  daughter? 

Lord  of  K.      Unsay  what   thou  hast  said  —  that 
thou  'dst  have  wedded 
Philip  of  Maine  when  he  was  low  and  needy  I 

Ida.  Then  was  he  true  and  gentle — a  brave  man — 
A  loyal  man,  my  father  I 

Lord  of  K.  Could  I  think  it, 


I'd  curse  thee,  Ida,  with  my  bitterest  curse. 
Thou  loved  this  man  I    By  heaven,  if  it  be  so  — 
Say,  didst  thou  love  him  ? 

Ida.  Father,  curse  me  not ! 

Enough  of  woe  has  been  ;  nay,  do  not  curse. 
Lest  Cod  should  register  the  sin  in  heaven  ! 

Lord  of  K.    Didst  love  this  man  ? 

Ida.  The  time  is  past  — 

The  time  is  gone  for  ever  when  I  loved  him ! 

Lord  of  K.    Oh  heaven  and  earth  ! 

Ida.  My  gracious  father,  hear. 

I  loved  him  with  a  first,  true  maiden's  love  — 
I  loved  him  when  a  little  child,  my  father  — 
But  as  a  sacrifice  to  holy  duty 
I  cast  him  forth  from  my  sincerest  heart 
As  an  unworthy  man  —  thine  enemy; 
The  spoiler  of  thy  people  ! 

Lord  of  K.  Thou  hast  loved  him. 

And  thou  shalt  wed  him! — Thou,  against  my  will. 
Hast  loved,  and  I  will  wed  thee  'gainst  thy  will 
To  him  for  punishment !  —  By  heaven  I  will ! 

Ida.     Father,  if  I  have  ever  warmed  thy  heart  — 
If  I  have  ever  been  delight  unto  thee  — 
By  whate'er  love  thou  borest  to  my  mother  — 
And  by  the  sacredness  of  her  bequest 
Which  gave  me  to  thy  care,  her  only  child  — 
Oh  pity  —  save  me  from  this  cruel  doom! 

Lord  of  K.     Out  with  ihee ! — thou  art  hateful  to 
my  sight  I  — 
Thou  lovedst  that  most  beggarly,  vile  man  I 
And  now  that  I  am  struggling,  in  his  power. 
Thou  wilt  not  lift  a  finger  to  my  help! 

Ida.    Oh  that  my  life  could  save  thee ! 

Lord  of  K.  Then  consent  — 

'Tis  a  small  thing  thy  father  asks  of  thee  — 
His  power,  dearer  than  his  life's-blood,  is  in  thy  hands! 

Ida.     Oh,  not  to  wed  him,  father! 

Lord  of  K.  Then  begone 

And  never  call  me  father —  I  '11  be  lord 
Until  thou  hast  another,  and  by  God 
He  shall  teach  thee  submission  ! 

[Ida  retires,  and  he  goes  out  by  another 
door. 


SCENE  III. 

Ida's  apartment 

Enter  PHiLir. 

And  here  she  dwelt!  Here  passed  her  beautiful  life! 

A  tender,  humanizing  influence 

Breathes   through   the   room!     Ambition,  hate,  and 

vengeance. 
Have  here  no  entrance :  did  I  then  believe 
That  hate  had  conquered  love,  and  hot  ambition 
Driven  from  my  heart  all  by-gone  tenderness? 
But  to  be  near  her  —  but  to  breathe  the  air 
Which  she  has  breathed  awakes  all  former  love ; 
And  worthier,  now  methinks,  the  blessed  life 
Spent  in  all  sweet  and  kindly  charities. 
Though  nameless,  noiseless  as  an  unseen  rill. 
Than  the  great  contjueror's  years  of  bloody  glory ' 


THE  SEVEN  TEiMPTATIONS. 


63 


Enter  gaston. 

Gast.     My  noble   lord,   't  were   pity  your  sweet 
dreams 
Fn  this  fair  lady's  cliambcr  should  be  broken  — 
But  1  am  hero  u|)(ni  ihe  embassy 
Allied  to  love,  at  least  to  matrimony ! 
Phil.     Hal  a  capimlaiion  of  this  sort ? 
Gasl.    Voiir  noble  prisoner  offers  his  fair  daughter. 
On  the  condition  that  you  should  restore 
To  him  all  [xivver  i"  the  slate  ;  yet  should  receive 
A  rich  and  noble  dowry  with  his  daughter; 
And  further,  you  should  bear  at  his  decease, 
When  the  land's  sceptre  unto  you  devolves, 
As  title  of  tiie  state,  KronJierg  and  Maine. 
Phil.     Well,  that  is  fair  enough  I 
Gast.  Do  you  say  thus  — 

You  that  are  lord  already  of  this  realm ! 
Is  it  for  him  to  give  as  pleaselh  him, 
And  you  most  humbly  to  receive  with  thanks? 
Thus  will  you  yield  your  conqupjit  and  your  birth- 
right ! 
Phil.  I  swore  that  he  should  offer  me  his  daughter ! 
Gast.     And  then  that  you  would  wed  her?    A'o, 
not  so  I 
Besides,  this  man  is  craftier  than  you  are  — 
Think  you  that  he  would  keep  his  faith  with  you  ? 
I  tell  you  no!  This  is  a  trick  of  cunning. 
To  get  you  in  his  power.     lie  knows  your  love. 
And  by  this  passion  will  he  work  your  ruin. 
Phil.     'Tis  easier  said  than  done  ! 
Gasl.  And  if  you  yield 

One  atom  of  the  power  you  have  achieved, 
A  faction  in  the  slate  will  rise  against  you. 
The  burghers'  hearts  already  are  estranged  ; 
Resentment  grows  against  you  hourly  stronger — 
IS'o  longer  now  they  speak  below  their  breath ;  — 
Rule  them,  or  they  rule  you ! — and  traitorous  Kron- 

berg 
Will  give  you  up  to  them  as  a  peace-offering. 
[aside.]  And  for  my  last  night's  pranlvs  you  would  die 
by  inches. 
Phil.    Who  counselled  sending  forth  those  raven- 
ing wolves 
Into  the  midnight  city? 

Gast.  And  who  counselled 

The  midnight  murder  of  the  prisoners  ? 
For  this  the  soldiers  murmur. 

Phil.  Give  them  gold  — 

Mine  is  a  ruined  cause  without  the  soldiers  — 
It  is  a  difficult  course  I  have  to  steer : 
Contending  currents  strive  against  my  bark 
Fate  knows  if  I  shall  dear  them  I 

Gast.  I  '11  be  pilot, 

And  steer  you  through  the  storm — but  hear  me  on ! 
The  bodies  of  the  citizens  are  piled 
In  the  great  square,  with  such  sad  pomp  of  woe 
As  the  short  time  allows ;  and  oaths  are  ta'en 
Of  vengeance  upon  you,  save  you  will  promise 
All  the  demands  set  forth  with  wordy  wisdom 
In  this  long  document   [aside.]   But  I  'II  not  show  't: 
Here  they  require  "  that  felon-traitor,  Gaston, 
To  be  brought  to  condign  punishment  for 's  sins  I" 
7  K 


I      Phil.     Thou 'rt  ever  prating  of  these  citizens  — 
j  Metliought  there  was  an  cmbas.sy  of  marriage  ! 
Gasl.    So  fickle  are  the  people,  they  demand 
Kronberg  again  for  ruler  I 
,      Phil.  lie  shall  die ! 

I      Gasl.     And  in  the  distant  fields  the  lawless  many 
I  Are  listening  to  the  long  harangues  of  ItoUmd, 
j  That  mouthing,  wordy  fool,  who  never  loses 
An  opportunity  for  talk.    There  broods  no  good  ! 
Phil.     One  might  indeed  believe  ray  cause  was 
doubtful. 
To  hear  you  talk ! 

Gasl.  Vour's  is  a  doubtful  cause 

While  Kronberg  lives  —  he  forms  a  plea  for  faction. 
Phil.     Now  speak  you  to  the  point  —  Kronberg 
shall  die  I 

Gold  is  less  precious  than  the  passing  mo- 
ments. 

Promise  the  citizens  vvhate'er  they  ask. 
Ay,  ay,  I'll  promise  them!    I' faith,  you 
know 
Performance  is  a  very  different  matter ! 

Phil.     We  shall  not  be  so  over-nice  'bout  that! 
And  let  us  with  a  show  of  seemly  joy 
Accept  Lord  Kronberg's  offer.     Still  our  prisoner, 
He  falls  into  the  trap  he  lays  for  me. 

Gasl.     Poison  or  steel  will  make  us  sure  of  him  ! 
And  then  you  have  his  daughter  in  your  power. 

Phil.    But  honour's  strictest  law  shall  be  observed 
Toward  that  most  noble  lady  !     As  her  husband 
I  get  a  fairer  title  to  the  state 
With  Kronberg's  partisans ! 

Gast.  Well,  as  you  will  — 

Marry  or  not,  as  likes  you  !   [aside.]  She  will  undo 
This  dainty  statesman's  trick! 

Phd.   What  are  you  mumbling  o'er?  Let  us  away, 
I  '11  clasp  my  bride  before  the  set  of  day  ! 

[They  go  out  together. 


Gast. 


Phil 
Gast. 


SCENE  IV. 

Apartment  in  the  tower  —  Ida  and  Bertha. 

Berth.    Oh  do  not  yield  unto  this  bloody  man  — 
Another  day  and  succour  will  arrive  — 
Fabian  will  leave  no  friend,  no  means  untried  — 
They  call  again  for  Kronberg  in  the  city  ; 
And  Philip's  reign,  though  told  by  so  few  hours, 
Is  chronicled  in  blood. 

Ida.  I  hear  their  steps  — 

Leave  me  alone,  dear  Bertha,  for  this  trial ! 

Berth.     Within  thy  call  will  I  await  thy  summons. 

[<S7ie  goes  out 

Ida.     Now  lor   the  dreadful   meeting!  —  How  I 
tremble 
To  meet  the  man  who  was  so  dear  to  me ! 

Enter  ruiLiP,  magnijicenthj  apparelled. 

Phil.  Now  do  we  meet  without  reproach  or  fear — 
Not  as  we  parted,  my  own  gentle  Ida! 

Ida.     No,  no,  we  do  not  meet  as  last  we  parted: 
Thou  art  not  such  as  when  we  parted  last  — 

73 


64 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  w»s  a  gracious  man  unstained  with  blood  ; 
He  wore  not  proud  apparel,  such  as  this  ; 
He  was  a  poor,  brave  man  !  a  guiltless  man, 
Who  might  have  called  on  heaven  to  be  his  pledge — 
Thou  art  not  such  as  he ! 

Phil.  But  more  than  he ! 

I  am  the  man  on  whom  thy  sire  bestows  thee, 
He  was  rejected  by  him  ! 

Ida.  Woe  is  me, 

That  I  must  still  oppose  my  father's  will! 
Though  thou  wert  poor,  clollied  but  in  humble  weeds; 
Unsheltered  from  the  pitiless  winds  of  heaven  ; 
Without  a  name,  save  what  thy  father  won, 
Yet  pure  in  soul,  noble  in  princii)le, 
Gracious  in  deed,  and  merciful  in  heart, 
I  would  have  ta'en  thee,  spite  the  world's  reproach. 
But  tricked  out  in  these  gorgeous  robes  of  slate ; 
A  name  of  terror  unto  weeping  thousands ; 
With  the  offence  of  blood  upon  thy  soul  ; 
If  thou  didst  lay  the  world's  crown  at  my  feet 
I  must  reject  thee,  Philip ! 

Phil.  Fickle  woman ! 

How  art  thou  slave  to  every  passing  humour. 

Ida.  Why  should  I  tell  of  secret  tears  and  prayers 
Poured  out  to  Heaven  for  thee  ?  It  is  Heaven's  will 
That  I  should  see  my  dearest  hopes  depart ! 

Phil.    It  was  for  thee  I  strove  —  for  thee  I  con- 
quered — 
Hast  thou  not  wept  the  sorrows  of  the  people ! 
Hast  not  deplored  their  wrongs,  and  proudly  fashioned 
A  lovely  dream  of  glorious  freedom  out? 
And  was  it  not  thyself  who  bade  me  be 
Protector  of  the  people  ? 

Ida.  God  forgive  me! 

For  how  hast  thou  fuifdled  this  glorious  vision  — 
How  been  protector  of  the  ignorant  people  ? 
Hast   thou   not  shed  their   blood  ?    Outraged  their 

homes  — 
And  led  them  up,  like  hungry,  ravening  wolves. 
To  prey  upon  each  other  ?     Philip,  Philip, 
Thou  hast  forgot  thy  holy  enterprise 
To  feed  thine  own  revenge ! 

Phil.  Name  not  revenge, 

Lest  thou  too  tempt  me  to  it ! 

Ida.  Heaven  be  our  shield  — 

It  will  prescribe  thee  bounds,  even  as  it  limits 
The  raging  of  the  sea!     Oh  how  thou  'rt  fallen, — 
The  apostates  of  the  morning  fell  not  lower! 
Philip,  I  wept  my  ruined,  lovely  hopes 
With  bitterer  tears  than  ever  woman  shed  : 
But  I  have  done  with  tears  ;  they  moved  not  heaven, 
That  loveth  mercy  !     But  I  will  conjure  thee 
By  that  unkind  ambition  which  preferred 
Revenge  and  power  to  love,  to  risk  no  further, — 
And  let  the  blood  which  has  been  shed  suflice ! 

Phil.  Oh  yes,  thy  words  have  power!  Sweet  maid, 
relent ! 
Thy  tender  mercies,  like  kind  angels'  wings. 
Bring   blessings  with   them ;    where    I   shall   have 

wounded, 
Thou  shalt  pour  in  sweet  balm  ! 

Ida.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Thou  hast  left  many  wounds  for  me  to  heal ! 


No  —  henceforth  we  are  widely  separate  — 
Not  e'en  the  Eternal  One  undoeth  the  past. 
And  that  which  hath  been  done  hath  sundered  us! 

Phil.    Then  upon  thee  lie  every  coming  sin  ! 
If  thou  keep  not  thy  plighted  faith  with  me. 
Neither  will  I  keep  faith.     Thy  father  dies  ! 

Ida.  Philip,  thou  wilt  not — dar'st  not  kill  my  father ! 

Phil.    How  dare  I  not  ?    As  yet  I  have  not  ibund 
The  deed  I  dare  not  do ! 

Ida.  Perfidious  man ! 

If  this  poor  life  can  sate  thy  thirst  of  blood, 
Take  it,  but  spare  my  father  ! 

Phil.  I  have  said  it! 

Ida.    I  gave  thy  father  life  —  O  spare  thou  mine ! 
I  risked  my  life  to  save  thy  father's,  Philip! 

Phil.    It  was  a  woman's  act —  thus  do  not  men! 

Ida.    Oh   how  does  guilt  put  out  each  virtuous 


Stifle  each  generous,  noble  sentiment ! 

Phil.     Now  for  a  little  season,  we  will  part  — 
When  next  we  meet,  my  hands  shall  yet  be  redder! 

[He  goes  out. 
Ida.    Hence,  hence  !  What  may  be  done,  shall  yet 
be  done  — 
We  will  not  fall  without  a  dying  struggle  — 
Where's  Bertha,  Segbert,  good  Count  Nicholas? 

[She  goes  into  the  inner  room. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 
The  ruins  of  a  mill,  surrounded  ivitk  wood. 

Enter  mother  Schwartz,   Hans  Clef,  Roland, 
a7id  many  others. 

Roland.     It  neither  shall  be  this  man,  neither  that 
That  shall  be  tyrant  o'er  us!     What 's  this  Philip 
Better  than  Kronherg,  if  his  arm  's  as  heavy  ? 

Hans.    We  've  seen  enough  of  him ! 

Mother  S.  We  '11  none  of  him  I 

Others.     We  '11  none  of  him  ! 

Roland.  And  this  is  he  who  swore 

To  be  a  loving  father  to  the  people  ; 
Clothes  to  the  naked  ;  bread  unto  the  hungry  ! 

Hans.  We  are  mistaken  ! — we  are  clean  mistaken! 

Roland.     No,  no,  he  's  a  deceiver  ! 

Mother  S.  There  's  that  brewing 

Which  will  bring  down  a  tempest  'bout  his  ears  ! 

Roland.   Anon  they  will  be  here  who  from  the  city 
Will  bring  us  tidings  of  the  general  temper. 

Hans.    They  are  here  ! 

Enter  several  Men. 

Roland.  Tell  out  your  tidings  quickly. 

1*7  Man.     [throwing  down  a  heap  of  garments.] 
These  caps  and  handkerchiefs  from  off  the  dead 
I  snatched  in  eager  haste — thus  and  thus  only 
Come  tidings  of  your  dead  ! 

[The  people  gather  round,  recognizing  the 
garments  with  loud  lamentations  and 
yells  of  indignation. 
Mother  S.    Ah,  this   was   his !  Ah,  this  was  my 
poor  son's ! 

74 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


65 


1st  Man.    'T  was  from  a  mangled  corpse  I  took 
that  kercliief ! 

Mother  S.     My  son  I  my  son!     But  back,  tears,  to 
your  source  — 
I  will  shed  blood,  not  tears  I 

Roland.  What  say  (he  burghers, 

Those  ancient  friends  of  his  ? 

2d  Man.  Tiie  general  feeling 

Is  clean  against  him  now.    They  swear  he  gave 
The  town  to  pillage  but  to  save  his  own ! 

Hans.     And  that  he  did  !    We  're  sure  enough  of 
that ! 

'2d  Man.  Gaston,  they  say  's  the  very  fiend  himself— 
All  saw  his  horrid  doings  yesternight  — 
O'  troth,  there  is  some  riddle  'bout  that  man  ! 

Haws.     And  let  whoever  sins,  't  is  we  are  blamed 
for  't. 

Roland.    Speak  now  of  the  condition  of  the  city. 

2d  Man.     There  is  no  house  that  is  not  filled  with 
mourning  — 
The  richest  citizens  were  killed  i'  th'  tumult  — 
One-third  the  city  is  a  heap  of  ruins  — 
And  little  children,  wandering  up  and  down. 
Go  wailing  for  their  parents  —  parents  too 
And  friends,  and  wives  and  husbands  seek  their  dead, 
Mong  heaps  of  fallen  houses  —  everywhere, 
Deep  oaths  are  taken  of  revenge  on  Philip. 

Mother  S.     All  have  their  oaths  of  blood  against 
that  man ! 

Man.     The  soldiers  too  are  discontent,  — 'tis  said 
A  horrid  massacre  i'  th'  dead  o'  th'  night 
Has  cut  off  every  prisoner. 

Roland.  There  is  hope !  — 

What  guard  is  stationed  'neath  the  castle  rock  ? 

3d  Man.    The  guard  has  been  withdrawn. 

Roland.  There  's  an  old  pathway, 

Think  ye  we  might  not  get  an  entrance  there  ? 
Thereby  it  was  that  Philip  made  his  entrance! 

ith  Man.     I  know  it  well ;  yet  't  will  be  dangerous. 
More  inaccessible  from  tumbled  crags 
And  lullen  masonry  than  heretofore. 

Mother  S.  Our  wrongs  can  force  through  rocks  of 
adamant. 

Roland.     T  will  suit  our  purpose ;  now  let  all  dis- 
perse. 
And  when  eve  comes  we  will  again  asemble. 

[They  disperse  severally. 


SCENE  ir. 

Evening  —  the  gallery  of  the  castle —  Philip  pacing 
about,  in  deep  thought. 

On,  on  unto  the  topmost  verge  of  power ; 
And,  as  I  yet  ascend,  still  more  doth  grow 
The  grasping  wish  for  more  ;  —  the  aspiring  wish 
Higher  and  higher  to  rise.    This  petty  lordship. 
Why  not  a  sovereign  dukedom  ?    Wherefore  not 
The  Duke  of  Maine  as  good  as  Duke  of  Suabia  ? 

And  Kronberg  dead  ;  the  path  is  right  before  me. 
Ambition  and  revenge  shall  have  their  way  I  — 


But  where  is  Gaston  ?  he,  the  ready  tool 
Who  does  not  start  and  cry  "  alack,  my  lord !" 
Ha!  here  he  comes! 

(•(ist.  No  moment  may  be  lost  — 

Fabian  and  Segbert,  and  Count  Nicholas 
Are  hence.     As  firebrands  in  the  standing  corn 
.Are  they  among  the  people;  and  a  rumour 
Has  reached  the  town,  that  Suabia  drawelh  near 
With  a  strong  army  for  the  aid  of  Kronberg. 
Do  quickly  what  thou  dost,  and  rid  thyself 
Of  one  foe  ere  another  lakes  the  field  ! 

Phil.    Thou  hast  access  unto  the  tower.     Go  thou. 
Poison  or  steel,  use  thou  the  surer  means  ! 

Gast.     Nay,  't  will  be  tenfold  vengeance  from  thy 
hand.  , 

Phil,  [feeling  at  his  dagger.]  'T  is  sharp  and  true, 
but  do  thou  mix  a  cup 
Of  subtle  poison.     I  would  liefer  that  — 
And  if  he  will  not  pledge  me,  why,  there  's  this! 

Gast.    I  '11  mix  a  cunning  potion  that  will  do. 

Enter  the  lord  of  biaine. 

My  son  !  my  son!  hast  thou  decreed  his  death  ? 

Phil.  I  have. 

Lord  of  M.     Nay,  do  not  tell  me  so. 

Phil.  I  have. 

Lord  of  M.     Didst  thou  not  love  his  gentle,  angel 
daughter  ? 
Remember  her,  and  do  not  harm  his  life. 

Cast.     And  be  himself  the  victim  ! 

Lord  (f  M.  It  is  thou 

That  counsellest  my  son  to  these  bad  deeds  ! 
Philip,  she  gave  me  life  and  liberty, 
And,  but  for  her,  thy  father  had  been  dead  ! 

Phil.     Whose  hate  was 't  doomed  thee  to  the  gal- 
lows-tree ? 
Hence!  hence!  thou  dost  not  know,  for  urgently 
The  hour  calls  for  his  blood  ! 

Lord  of  M.  I  leave  thee  not. 

Till  thou  hast  given  his  life  unto  my  prayer. 

Gast.  to  Phil.     Fortune  is   slipping  through  your 
hand,  my  lord, 
While  you  stmd  dallying  thus.     Away,  old  man! 

Phil.   I'm  ready,  let 's  begone. 

[They  go  out  together. 

Lord  of  M.  Then,  may  the  Avenger 

Take  from  thee  thy  ill-gotten  |X)wer  and  station  ! 
This  is  a  place  of  blond  and  horrible  outrage; 
I  will  away  ;  men's  hearts  are  turned  to  stone. 
Better  it  were  to  hide  with  desert-beasts. 
Where  't  is  a  natural  instinct  to  be  cruel ! 

[He  goes  out. 

After  a  short  time  re-enter  philip. 
I  did  not  quail,  nor  did  my  heart  upbraid  me, 
WHien  thou.sands  lay  beneath  my  conquering  step. 
And  from  the  helmet-crown  unto  the  heel 
I  was  dyed  crimson  ;  why  then  faints  my  soul. 
Trembling  and  drooping  'neath  a  mountain's  weight 
Of  miserable  remorse  for  one  man's  blood  I  — 
Ne'er  till  this  moment,  w-hen  my  debt  is  paid. 
When  I  have  conquered  my  great  enemy. 
Quailed  I,  or  wished  undone  aught  that  was  done! 


66 


HO  WITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  hark !   What  sounds  are  these — quick,  coming 
steps, 
And  hurried  voices  ?     Am  I  grown  a  coward  ? 

Enter  gaston. 

Philip!  Philip  !  now  is  a  time  for  anion  : 
Why  dost  thou  stare  as  one  that  waliis  in  dreams  ? 
Phil.  Whence  come  those  hurried  sounds  ?  Whose 

are  those  steps  ? 
Gasl.     The  disaffected  thousands  from  tlie  fields 
Are  on  the  walls  —  within  the  very  castle  I 
Phil.     How  got  they  an  access  ? 
Gasl.  Even  as  thou  didst ; 

By  the  old  rock-path.  Hundreds  more  have  entered — 
The  portals  have  they  fired  ;  and  hark  their  cries  — 
Vengeance  and  blood ! 

Phil.  Hence  ;  draw  the  soldiers  out, 

And  man  the  walls.     Strike  every  villain  down 
That  sets  his  foot  within  the  caslle  gate. 

Gast.  They  fight  with  us  for  every  inch  of  ground  ; 
They  are  within  the  walls  —  the  place  is  fired  ; 
Accursed  knaves,  born  for  the  gibbet-tree! 
Phil,     [flrawiitg  his  sword.]    I  '11  teach  them  what 
the  cry  of  vengeance  meaneth  ! 

[He  rushes  out  —  Gaston  follows  him. 
A  confused  noise,  and  yelling  cries  are 
heard  approaching,  and  a  rabble  force 
their   way   in,   with   torches   in  their 
hands. 
Man.     Down  with  the  billets!    Here  I  here  !  Fire 
these  hangings  ! 
[They  hurl  furniture  into  the  middle  of  the 
gallery,  tear  down  pictures  and  hang- 
ings, which  they  pile  together  and  set 
fire  to. 

Enter  mother  sciiw.vrtz,  with  other  women,  covered 
with  dust  and  blood. 

Mother  S.    Spare  not  for  fire !    Now  for  a  funeral 
pile. 
To  celebrate,  my  son,  thy  memory ! 
They  shall  say,  this  was  for  the  woman's  son  ! 
Out  with  ye,  are  ye  plundering  ?    Give  me  blood  ! 
He  whom  I  seek  is  hence !     Come,  come  with  me ! 
[She  snatches  up  a  firebrand  and  rushes 
out  of  the  gallert/ ;  the  women  follow 
her,  bearing  off  booty.     The  gallery  is 
filled  with  smohe  and  flames. 


SCENE  nr. 

The  small  chamber  in  the  tower  —  Ida  and  Bertha. 

Berth.    Some  new  event  is  happening.    May 't 
please  heaven 
For  our  deliverance  I 

Ida.  Those  are  the  people's  voices; 

The  yelling  cries  of  the  triumphant  rabble. 
And,   merry !  those   quick   lights   that  through  the 

darkness 
Shoot  up  to  heaven  are  flames.  The  place  is  burning  ! 
Berth,    [trying  to  force  the  door.]    'T  is  barred!  'tis 
doubly  barred  I    There  is  no  issue  ! 


Here,  here,  we  miserably  shall  die  by  fire  ! 

Oh,  Ida,  vain  thy  prayer!  —  they  have  no  mercy  — 

That  old  man  will  not  move  his  cruel  son 

To  save  thy  father,  and  we  here  shall  perish! 

Oh,  can  there  be  Omnipotence  in  heaven. 

Who  sees  these  things,  yet  sends  no  angel  down 

To  smite  and  to  deliver  ! 

Ida.  Nay,  despair  not ; 

I  do  believe  some  power  will  save  us  yet! 

Berth.    Oh,  do  not  mock  me !  there  's  no  ruth  in 
heaven. 
On  earth  there  is  no  goodness! 

Ida.     [listening  at  the  door.]        Some  one  comes ! 

Enter  the  lord  of  ji.vi.ne. 

Ida.     Is   good  Lord  Kronberg  safe  ? 
Berth.  And  what  do  mean 

These  horrid  sounds  of  tumuli,  and  these  flames  ? 
Lord  of  M.     Come  forth,  my  noble  ladies!    'Tis 
an  hour 
Of  peril  and  alarm!     Will  you  confide 
In  an  old  man  I     I  am  no  soldier,  lady  ; 
But,  so  God  help  me,  I  will  guard  you  well ! 
Ida.     I    know   you,   and  will  trust  in  you!    Oh 
guide  us 
Unto  Lord  Kronberg's  cell !    Where  lies  my  father? 
Lord  of  M.     Your  noble  father  's  free. 
Ida.  Your  voice  is  sad, 

And  yet  your  v\ords  are  pleasant.     Lead  us  to  him 
Lord  of  M.     Quick  !  follow  me! 

[They  wrap  themselves  in  their  cloalis  and 
folloiv  him. 


SCENE  IV. 

Another  part  of  the  castle  —  citizens  stand  with  Lord 
Kronberg's  body  on  a  bier. 
1st  Citizen.     Name   not  his  faults.     I  knew  hira 
when  a  boy  ; 
I  was  his  favourite  playmate  ;  in  those  years 
Together  did  we  ride,  and  at  the  target  .. 
Together  shoot  our  arrows.     I  ne'er  thought 
Then  to  have  borne  him  in  a  plight  like  this  ! 
2d  Citizen.     He  was  a  hard  task-master ! 
3d  Citizen.  But  not  harder 

Than  such  be  ever.  F.ven  from  Pharaoh  downwards 
To  this  day's  idol,  Philip ! 

ilh  Citizen.  I  remember, 

It  must  be  five  and  forty  years  agone, 

When  his  good  mother 

3d  Citizen.  Ay,  there  was  a  lady. 

Fair  as  an  angel,  full  of  truth  and  kindness  — 
The  Lady  Ida  much  resembles  iicr. 

bth  Citizen.     Haste,  haste!  the  way  is  clear!    The 
contest  thickens 
About  the  northern  tower.     O  woful  night  — 
With  fire  and  blood,  wiki  shrieks  and  horrid  curse?. 
And  crash  of  liilling  walls!     But  forward  now ! 

[They  proceed. 
Enter  the  lord  of  m,\i.ne  conducting  iD\and  bertha. 
Lord  of  M.  [hastily  retreating.]  Ah,  not  this  way  ! 
No,  no!  a  moment's  pause. 
[Aside.]  Yon  is  a  sight  that  must  not  meet  their  eyes! 

70 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


67 


Citizens  re-enter  with  the  body. 
Ist  Citizen.  It  shall  not  be  exjwsed  unto  dishonour  ! 
Seek  out  a  guard,  and  stand  around  the  bier  ! 
[Soldiers  rush  in]  IIo!  soldiers,  will  ye  not  defend 
the  dead  ? 
Soldier.    We  fight  for  Philip  of  Maine,  not  for  the 

dead  ! 
Ida.    The  dead,  said  ye  ?    Is  good  Lord  Kronberg 
dead  -? 
Speak  to  me,  some  kind  soul,  for  I  'm  his  daughter! 
Isl  SoUlter.  [aside.]  She  doth  unman  me  ! 
2d  Soldier,  [aside.]  'Tis  a  noble  lady  ! 

[Ida  perceives  the  bier,  and  walks  slowly 
touxirds  it. 
Lies  the  dead  here  ?    Soldiers  and  citizens, 
Lies  here  your  lord  and  leader  ?    Oh,  will  no  one 
Tell  me  if 't  is  not  so  ? 

1st  Citizen.  Alas !  't  is  even  so  I 

Ida.     'T  was  a  sad  voice  that  told  me  he  was  free ; 
The  freedom  of  the  grave  —  ah,  vvoful  freedom  ! 

[She  slowly  uncovers  the  face  of  the  dead, 
gazes  upon  it,  and  becomes  deadly  pale. 
Citizen.     Dear,  innocent  soul ! 
Soldier.  I  will  not  draw  a  sword 

Against  the  Lady  Ida,  nor  her  cause ! 

Ida.    I  never  looked  upon  the  dead  till  now  — 
And  this  is  my  dead  father,  who  hath  fallen 
By  cruel  perfidy !  —  Not  in  the  field 
He  met  his  mortal  foe,  but  in  the  cell 
Of  the  deep  dungeon  :  a  fierce,  cruel  foe ! 
Ye  do  not  know,  soldiers  and  citizens. 
The  heartless  man  of  blood  whom  ye  have  chosen! 
The  dead  was  mild  and  merciful,  compared 
With  him  you  call  your  master!     Pious  friends, 
Carry  him  hence ! — This  is  a  den  of  crime ; 
A  house  of  cruelty,  and  fear,  and  blood ! 
Carry  him  hence  into  a  holy  place. 
So  Heaven  preserve  you  to  your  children's  arms, 
And  keep  your  sacred  homes  inviolate  ! 

Soldiers.  We  will  defend  the  dead,  and  Lady  Ida ! 
1st  Citizen.  Whither  shall  we  support  this  honoured 

bier  ? 
Ida.     Would    he    had   known    your    loyalty   and 
goodness! 
To  the  Cathedral — 'tis  a  holy  place; 
And  there  will  I  retire :  and  let  all  loyal, 
All  brave  and  noble  hearts  around  me  rally  ; 
And,  as  the  dead  would  have  maintained  the  right, 
So  God  and  all  good  men  assisting  me. 
We  will  retrieve  this  land's  forlorn  estate! 

[The  bier  is  borne  forward  ;  and  Ida, 
overcome  by  her  emotions,  is  supported 
out  by  Bertha  and  the  Lord  of  Maine, 
attended  by  crowds  of  citizens  and 
soldiers. 


SCENE  V. 

Past  midnight  —  outside  the  castle  wall  —  the  castle  is 
burning — the  roof  has  fallen  in,  and  immense  volumes 
of  flame,  wrapped  round  the  towers,  pierce  through 
the  blackness  of  the  ascending  smoke  like  fiery  Alps 


—  hundreds  of  people  are  seen  rushing  to  and  fro ; 
some  drii'en  back  by  soldiers,  others  carrying  off 
booty  —  wild  shotils  and  yells  of  triumph  are  heard 
amid  the  roar  of  the  flames  and  the  crashing  fall  of 
huge  piles  of  buildings. 

Enter  puii.ip  and  gaston. 

Gast.    'Tis  vain  to  struggle  more!     Fire  is  the 
victor. 

Phil.    Now,  draw  the  soldiers  back,  and  leave  tlie 
pile 
To  those  accursed  plunderers.     Ere  the  mom, 
'Twill  be  the  grave  of  hundreds,  who  now  press 
Impatient  through  the  burning  atmosphere, 
To  snatch  a  paltry  booty  ! 

Gast.  As  thou  wilt  — 

'T  is  a  retrieveless  game.    Thy  sun  has  set  — 
The  star  of  thy  ascendancy  has  fallen ! 

Phil.    Hast  not  intelligible  words  ! — Speak  plain ! 

Gast.    I'll  speak  it  plain  enough  I — Lord  Kronberg 
heads 
The  burghers  even  now ! 

Phil.  Peace,  liar !  he  is  dead ! 

Gast.    But  being  dead,  is  honoured  more  than  liv- 
ing— 
His  daughter  hath  made  speeches  o'er  the  body ; 
Shed  tears,  and  whined  with  pretty  artifice, 
Till  they  have  all  unsaid  their  oaths  to  thee ! 

Phil.    Thou  that  didst  keep  the  body,  hast  betray- 
ed me! 

Gast.    An  old  man  has  betrayed  thee;  even  thy 
father  — 
Better  by  far  he  had  died  upon  the  gibbet! 

Phil.    Slanderer,  for  shame! 

Gast.  Nay,  hang  me,  if  I  spoke  not 

Your  secret  thoughts. — But  now  the  time  is  precious: 
Draw  oflT  the  soldiers  who  yet  true  remain ; 
Get  to  the  camp,  upon  the  plain  of  Sami, 
And  hold  thyself  prepared,  for  on  the  morrow- 
There  will  be  work  to  do,  than  this  more  bloody  — 
And  as  thou  play'st  this  desperate  game,  depends 
Thy  waning  fortune. 

Phil.  Suabia  to  the  field 

Hath  brought  his  fresh  ten  thousand. 

Gast.  You  may  thank 

The  gentle  Lady  Ida  and  her  Counts 
For  this  young  gallant  rival.    You  have  seen  him  — 
A  not  unfitting  husband  for  the  lady  ! 

Phil.  Thou  cockatrice — thou  stabber  of  the  wound- 
ed! 

Gast.    Ha!  ha!  you  have  some  pretty  names  by 
heart! 
[aside.]  I  knew  that  this  would  gall  him! 

Phil.  Unkind  friend  — 

I  trusted  unto  thee  my  soul's  best  secrets ; 
I  did  believe  thee  not  the  worldly  spirit 
That  stabs  the  bleeding  heart — then  jeering  asks 
"  How  is  it  with  you  now  ?" — The  cruellest  blow 
Of  my  most  cruel  fortune  has  been  this ! 

Gast.     Nay,  take  't  not  so  to  heart!     I  would  but 
urge  thee 
To  try  thy  fortune  against  mighty  odds. 
And  conquer  fate! 

n 


68 


HO  WITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Phil.  My  soul  is  faint  within  me; 

Hence,  let  the  morrow  lor  itself  provide  I 

[He  goes. 
Gast.     He  beareth  poisoned  arrows  in  his  heart ; 
Hatred  and  jealousy,  and  crushed  ambition ! 
If  these  will  not  o'ercome  the  spirit  of  man. 
Then  there  's  a  devil  in  him. 

[He  goes. 


SCENE  VI. 

The  following  evening — the  interior  of  the  Cathedral 
— the  body  of  Lord  Kronherg  laid  in  state  before  the 
altar — Ida,  in  deep  mourning,  sits  tipon  the  steps  be- 
side it,  and  Berllia  and  other  ladies  stand  about  her 
—  the  Lord  of  Maine  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  leans 
against  a  monument  apart  from  the  rest — the  doors 
are  guarded  by  armed  burghers. 

Enter  count  fabian  in  haste. 

Burgher.     What  is  the  news  ? 

Fab.  An  entire  victory! 

A  bloody  field  is  fought — the  day  is  ours  — 
Philip  has  fled  —  the  remnant  of  his  army 
Have  yielded  to  our  friends — a  moment  more, 
And  brave  Count  Nicholas  will  here  arrive 
With  message  from  the  Duke  to  Lady  Ida: 
Even  now  he  comes. 

Enter  count  Nicholas. 

Count  Nich.     May  't  please  the  Lady  Ida 
To  hear  a  mes.sage  from  the  field  of  fight? 

[Ida  rises. 
God  has  been  good  unto  this  troubled  land. 
And  given  her  victory  o'er  her  enemies. 
Yet  here  the  noble  conqueror  entereth  not 
Save  as  your  good  ally,  by  your  consent. 
His  army,  camped  without  the  town  remains  — 
Grant  him  to  lay  his  good  sword  at  your  feet  I 

Ida.    Brave  Count,  thou  lov'dst  my  father.    Let 
the  dead 
Be  honoured  with  all  rites  of  sepulture, 
Before  the  land  rejoice  for  victory. 
For  me,  a  mighty  debt  is  yet  unpaid 
To  grief  and  filial  duty.     To  some  house 
Of  holy  solitude  I  will  retire 
A  .''eason ;  and  meantime  confide  to  thee. 
And  such  good  men  as  thou,  the  nation's  rule. 
Not  my  own  natural  strength  has  home  me  through 
The  great  events  and  awful  of  this  time. 
Nature  is  weak,  and  now  doth  need  repose: 
But  let  one  general  thanksgiving  ascend 
To  gracious  Heaven,  which  has  restored  us  peace, 
Though  at  a  price  so  great. 

And  from  the  duke 
1  crave  forgiveness,  that  I  meet  him  not; 
The  mournful  duties  of  the  time  excuse  me. 

[Count  Nicholas  goes  out. 

Lord  of  M.     They  said  my  son  had  fled.     I  must 
away  I 
He  ia  my  son  —  the  evil  hour  is  dark; 
And  misery  and  remorse  are  cruel  foes.' 
Wiere  victory  is,  is  not  a  place  for  me  — 


I  was  not  needed  in  his  hour  of  pride, 
In  sorrow  and  dismay  I  shall  be  lacked. 
O  fare  thee  well !     Be  merciful,  dear  lady : 
He  loved  thee  once,  and  for  thy  sake  he  fell ! 
And  if  he  fall  into  thy  power,  have  mercy  — 
Think  not  upon  the  dead,  but  on  the  time 
When  he  was  worthy  of  thee  ! 

Ida.  Fare  thee  well  — 

Go !  —  and  may  heaven  so  gift  thy  words  with  grace 
As  to  restore  him  to  its  blessed  peace !  — 
Farewell,  thou  kindest,  noblest  heart,  farewell  I 

[The  Lord  rf  Maine  ki.^ses  her  hand,  and, 
folding  his  face  in  his  cloak,  goes  out. 


SCENE  VII. 

Three  days  after  the  battle — the  dusk  of  (he  evening — 
the  interior  of  a  cave  in  a  dreary  forest  —  Philip 
lying  asleep ;  the  Lord  of  Maine  bending  over  him. 

Lord  of  M.    It  is  a  blessed  sleep!    It  will  restore 
him 
To  his  right  mind !    Oh  that  we  might  abide 
In  some  deep  wood,  'mong  mountains  far  away  ; 
Some  wilderness,  where  foot  of  man  ne'er  trod  ; 
Some  desert  island,  in  an  unknown  sea, 
Where  he  might  wear  his  life  in  holy  peace. 
And  I  be  the  true  Iriend  that  tended  on  him  ! 

Phil,    [opening  his  eyes.]    Where  am  I  ?  and  what 

gentle  sounds  are  these  ? 
Lord  of  M.    Sleep  yet,  my  son !    Thou  know'st 
how  I  did  watch 
O'er  thee  a  child  ;  how  sung  to  thee  o'  nights  — 
Recall  that  time,  and  sleep! 

Phil.  I  cannot  sleep !  — 

My  father,  thou  hast  been  a  gracious  sire, 
And  [  have  owed  thee  duties  manifold  ; 
Thou  hast  been  good  and    kind ;    yet  one    more 

kindness 
Do  me  this  day  —  my  arm  is  weak  and  faint. 
Strike  thou  my  dagger  in  this  wretched  breast ! 
Lord  of  M.    What  askest  thou  ?    It  is  a  sinner's 

thought! 
Phil.    Wilt  see  me  dragged,  a  spectacle,  a  show  ? 
Wilt  hear  them  sing  their  ballads  in  my  face  ? 
Hark  !  hark  !  I  hear  their  stejjs  !  Give  me  the  dagger  I 
Lord  of  M.     Nay, 'tis   no  sound,   but   the    low 

whispering  wind  ! 
Phil.     I  tell  thee  they  are  here!    Withstand  me 
not  — 
There  is  a  strength  like  madness  in  my  arm  — 
I  will  defend  myself! 

[He  starts  up  and  seizes  a  dogger. 
Enter  gaston. 

Ha  !  is  it  thou  I 
Gast.     Peace  be  w  ith  thee !  nay,  put  thy  dagger 
down  ! 
I  am  thy  friend  —  and  bring  a  band  of  friends 
To  reassure  thy  fortunes  —  Give 's  thy  hand  ! 

Phil,    [giving  his  hand.]     I  did  believe  thee  bet- 
ter than  thou  seem'st ; 
My  heart  was  slow  to  misconceive  of  thee! 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


69 


Gast.     Now  shall  thou  know  me  truly  as  I  am  : 
Now  will  I  bring  thy  truest  friends  unto  thee  ! 

[A  band  of  soldiers  rush  in  and  seize 

riitiip. 

Phil     Ay  now  I  know  thee,  thou  accursed  Judas ! 
Gast.     But  I  've  a  better  price  than  Judas  had  — 
A  better  price  for  a  less  worthy  man  ! 

Phil.   My  life's  severest  blow  has  been  thy  friend- 
ship I 
Enter  mother  Schwartz,  with  a  drawn  dagger. 
Now  will  I  have  thy  blood  for  my  son's  blood  ! 
Soldier.  Off.  woman,  off!  Alive  he  must  be  taken. 
Mother  S.     I  'II  have  his  blood  !     I  will  not  break 
my  oath ! 

[She  suddenly  stubs  him. 

There  's  that  will  send  thee  howling  to  my  son ! 
Soldier.    Thou  'st  robbed  us  of  our  price  !  take 
thy  reward  ! 

[He  slabs  her. 

Phil.     My  day  is  done !  Let  me  lie  down  and  die ! 

Lord  of  M.     Within  my  arms  !  the  father's  arms, 

my  son ! 

Cast  up  thy  thoughts  to  heaven !  think  not  of  man ! 

Soldier.    He  's  dead,  he  hears  thee  not !  Give  us 

the  body ! 
Father.    Ye  shall  not  part  me  from  this  precious 
clay  — 
Where'er  ye  bear  it,  thither  will  I  follow ! 


AcHZiB,  throwing  off  his  disguise,  entered  the  city 
in  his  own  character.  It  was  a  city  of  mourning, 
which  he  had  made  so ;  but  his  evil  nature  saw  in 
human  misery,  material  rather  of  mirth  than  com- 
passion. He  would  much  rather  have  torn  open  the 
wounds  of  social  life,  than  have  seen  them  healing; 
but  now  was  the  calm  after  the  storm,  the  reaction 
after  excitement  and  emotion,  and  men  coveted  so 
much  to  be  at  rest,  that  not  even  Achzib  could  have 
agitated  another  tumult.  He  therefore  ado|)ted  the 
spirit  of  the  lirne,  and  railed  against  liberty  as  anar- 
chv,  against  renovators  as  anarchs. 

It  was  with  malignant  pleasure  he  saw  how  the 
holy  cause  of  freedom  was  thrown  back,  by  the  out- 
rages which  ambition  and  the  license  of  evil  had 
committed  in  her  name :  he  saw  how  virtuous  men 
and  honest  patriots,  who  had  joined  Piiiiip  against 
despotism,  but  abandoned  him  in  his  bloody  and  am- 
bitious career,  now  came  forth  from  their  retirements, 
and  rallying  round  the  person  of  Ida,  united  heart 
and  hand  to  re-establish  the  old  order  of  things,  dis- 
gusted with  liberty,  as  with  a  lying  priestess,  and  in 
despair  of  renovating  social  life  or  social  policy:  he 
saw  the  people  sit  down,  willing  to  endure  patiently 
whatever  evil  power  might  inflict  upon  them,  pr(v 
vided  they  were  protected  from  rapine  and  blood, 
and  the  pretences  of  ambition  to  make  them  again 
free ;  and  satisfied  that  all  here  was  as  he  could  de- 
sire, he  turned  his  steps  to  another  scene  of  action. 


It  was  on  an  evening,  bright  and  balmy  as  one  in 
Paradise,  when  Achzib  strolled  into  the  place  of  pub- 


lic resort  adjacent  to  a  great  city.  On  its  smooth 
roads  were  seen  the  equipages  of  the  grandees,  and 
eiiuestrian  companies  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  who, 
governing  their  high-bred  and  mettlesome  horses  with 
graceful  ease,  reminded  the  spectator  rather  of  the 
pages  of  Ariosto  than  of  a  scene  in  real  lifie.  On 
seats  under  the  old  leafy  trees,  or  on  the  bright  green 
turf,  sat  men,  women,  and  children,  in  their  holiday 
allire,  all  beautifid  as  separate  groups,  but  more 
beautiful  as  forming  one  great  whole  of  human  en- 
joyment. 

There  was  a  poet  among  them,  but  with  feelings 
difTerent  to  those  of  others; — their's  was  an  individ- 
ual happiness  only,  but  his  was  a  warm,  broad  phi- 
lanthropy, forgetting  self,  embracing  all,  loving  all, 
and  pouring  out  thanksgiving  that  man  was  enabled, 
both  old  and  young,  rich  and  po6r,  to  go  forth  and  re- 
joice. 

Achzib  approached,  and  took  the  vacant  seat  be- 
side him.  "  Considering,"  said  he,  "  the  ill-condition 
of  society,  the  tyranny  of  rulers,  and  the  misery  of 
the  subordinate  classes,  there  is  no  inconsiderable 
measure  of  human  enjoyment  even  in  a  space  nar- 
row as  this." 

"  Man's  capacity  for  enjoyment,"  said  the  poet, 
"  even  under  circumstances  unfavourable  to  general 
happiness,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  beneficent 
ordinations  of  Providence.  A  balmy  atmosphere  and 
a  fine  sunset,  common  occurrences  of  nature  as  these 
are,  contribute  immensely  to  human  felicity.  Look 
around  us — and  of  these  hundreds,  not  one  of  whom 
but  has  his  own  peculiar  cares  and  anxieties,  disease 
or  distress  of  mind,  and  yet  what  a  universal  senti- 
ment of  happiness  pervades  all !  A  sight  like  this 
awakens  my  spirit  to  a  loftier  worship  and  a  more 
tender  gratitude  than  ten  homilies  I" 

"  But,"  replied  Achzib,  "  the  enjoyment  of  these 
hundreds  consists  in  exhibiting  themselves  or  their 
magnificence  on  so  fine  an  evening.  How  would  the 
bright  sunset  exhilarate  the  heart  of  yonder  Countess, 
except  it  shone  on  her  jewelled  attire?  It  is  solely 
the  love  of  self-display  that  brings  out  these  gay  and 
happy  people." 

"  Shame  on  thee  !"  said  the  Poet,  "  thine  is  a  cyni- 
cal spirit.  What  is  the  gaze  of  the  many  to  that 
young  mother  and  her  boy?" 

"I  grant  they  are  a  pretty  sight,"  said  Achzib; 
"  the  child  is  passingly  fair,  and  the  mother  dotes  on 
him." 

"  IIovv  beautiful,"  exclaimed  the  Poet,  "  is  the  love 

j  which  a  mother  bears  to  her  child !     I  mean  not  that 

I  yearning,  trembling  anxiety,  with  which  she  regards 

j  her  grown-up  offspring  entering  upon  the  cares  and 

I  temiJtations  of  the  world;  but  that  hopeful,  joyful, 

unselfish  love,  which  a  mother  feels  fijr  her  first-born. 

She  is  young;  the  world  has  allurements  for  her,  but 

a  stronger  impulse  is  on  her  heart ;  she  is  willing  to 

spend  and  be  spent,  to  watch  and  be  weary;  and  the 

clasping  of  his  little  arms  round  her  neck,  and  the 

pure  out-gushing  love  of  his  innocent  spirit,  are  her 

suflicient  reward !" 

"It  is  but  the  instinct  of  all  animals,"  said  Achzib. 

"  Yes ;  but  eimobled  by  a  sublimer  principle,"  re- 
79 


70 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


plied  the  Poet.  "The  guardian  angel  of  a  child  is  a 
gentle  Christian  mother;  she  protects  not  its  out- 
ward life  only,  but  informs  and  purifies,  and  exalts 
that  nobler  existence  which  elevates  man  above  the 
brute." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Achzib,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"  whether  an  infidel  mother  ever  took  as  much  pains 
to  instruct  her  child  in  unbelief  as  a  Christian  mother 
does  in  belief" 

"  'T  is  an  unheard-of  thing !"  said  the  Poet.  "  A 
mother  could  not  teach  her  little  child  to  deny  God! 
'Tis  a  monstrous  thought — an  outrage  to  our  nature 
but  to  conceive  it." 

"  In  what  way,"  inquired  Achzib,  "  would  the  af- 
fection of  a  mother  be  made  the  mode  of  temptation  ? 
for  every  virtue  has  its  appropriate  temptation,  and 
divines  teach  that  the  highest  virtue  consists  in  the 
resistance  of  evil !" 

"Thine  are  strange  speculations,"  said  the  Poet; 
"  but  the  dearly  beloved  child  is  often  a  snare  to  a 
parent's  heart ;  it  has  been  an  idol  between  the  soul 
and  God,  and  He  has  sometimes  mercifully  taken  the 
child  to  keep  the  parent  from  sin." 

"  I  have  heard  as  much,"  said  Achzib,  and  fell  into 
a  long  silence. 


THE  SORROW  OF  TERESA. 


PERSONS. 

OLAF. 

TERESA,  HIS   WIFE. 

PAOLO,   THEIR   CHILD. 

ACHZIB,   AS   A   NORTHERN    HUNTER. 

HULDA,  AN   OLD  WOMAN. 


SCENE    I. 

A  little  chapel  in  a  gloomy  northern  forest —  Teresa 
on  her  hiees  before  the  image  of  the  Virgin. 

Ter.    Thou,  that  didst  bear  a  pain  that  had  no 
healing  — 

An  undivided  misery, 
Which  unto  kindred  heart  knew  no  appealing, 

O,  hear  thou  me  ! 
I  tell  thee  not  mine  own  peculiar  woe ; 

I  tell  thee  not  the  want  that  makes  me  poor, 
For  thou,  dear  Mother  of  (Jod,  all  this  dost  know  ! — 
But  I  beseech  thy  blessing,  and  thy  aid  ; 
Assure  me,  where  my  nature  is  afraid, 
And  where  I  murmur,  strengthen  to  endure  ! 

[She  bows  her  head,  kneeling  in  silence — as  she 
prepares  to  leave  the  chapel,  enter  paolo, 
with  a  few  snow-drops  in  his  hand. 
Paol.     Mother,  in  Italy  I  used  to  gather 
Sweet  flowers  ;  the  fragrant  lily,  like  a  cup 
Chiselled  in  marble,  and  the  rich,  red  rose. 
And  carry  them,  an  offering  to  Our  Lady ; 
Think'st  thou  she  will  accept  such  gifts  as  these, 


For  they  are  not  like  flowers  of  Italy  — 
But  they  are  such,  dear  mother,  as  grow  here  ? 
Ter.     My  boy,  she  will  accept  them !     Gracious 
Virgin, 
She  would  receive  a  p(3orer  gift  than  this; 
She  would  accept  the  will  without  the  gift, 
For  she  doth  know  the  heart !    There  on  the  shrine 
Lay  them,  my  boy,  and  pray  if  thou  have  need  ; 
Fear  not,  for  she  is  gracious,  —  so  is  God  ! 

Paol.     [lai/ing  the  flowers  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin.] 
I  have  no  prayer,  dear  mother,  save  for  thee, 
And  that  is  in  my  heart.     I  cannot  speak  it, 
Thou  didst  weep  so,  when  last  I  prayed  for  thee ! 
Ter.     [kissing  him.]    It  is  enough,  my  boy,  the 
Holy  Mother 
Knoweth  what  is  within  thy  inmost  heart! 

[She  again  bows  herself  before  the  Virgin, 
then  taking  the  child's  hand,  goes  out. 


SCENE  n. 

Night  —  the  same  forest ;  the  pine  trees  are  old  and 
splintered,  and  covered  with  snow ;  it  is  a  scene  of 
desolation — at  a  little  distance  a  small  house  is  seen 
through  an  opening  of  the  ivood. 

Enter  achzib,  as  a  northern  hunter. 

Hun.    And  this  is  their  abode !  A  mighty  change. 
From  a  proud  palace  on  the  Arno's  side, 
To  a  poor  cabin  in  a  northern  wild  ! 
Let  me  retrace  the  history  of  this  pair  :  — 
He  was  Count  Spazzi  —  young  and  rich,  and  proud, 
Ambitious  and  determined.     Fortune  brought 
Unto  his  knowledge  fair  Teresa  Cogni, 
The  daughter  of  an  exiled  chief  of  Corinth  ; 
Beautifiil  as  her  own  land,  and  pure 
As  her  own  cloudless  heavens.    It  is  a  tale 
So  long,  so  full  of  sorrow  and  of  guile, 
Of  heart-ache  and  remorseless  tyranny, 
That  now  I  may  not  stop  to  trace  it  out. 
But  she  was  forced  to  marry  that  stern  man, 
.■\fter  her  father's  death  had  given  her 
Into  his  power.  —  Enough,  it  was  a  marriage 
Where  joy  was  not ;  but  where  the  tyrant  smiled 
Because  his -pride  and  will  were  gratified. 
Next  followed  lawless  years  of  heedless  crime  ; 
To  those,  the  desperate  strife  between  us  two, 
Wherein  I  made  the  vow  which  I  have  kept. 
How,  it  now  matters  not.     I  watched  him  fall, 
Impelled  by  my  fierce  hate,  until  at  length 
I  saw  him  banished  from  his  native  land. 
Meantime  that  gentle  partner  of  his  fall. 
Bore,  with  a  patience  which  was  not  of  earth, 
All  evils  of  their  cruel  destiny. 
But  she  was  now  a  mother  —  and  for  him. 
That  docile  boy,  whose  spirit  was  like  hers. 
Ever-enduring  and  so  full  of  kindness. 
What  mother  would  not  bear  all  misery 
And  yet  repine  not,  blessed  in  the  love 
Of  that  confidmg  spirit !    Thus  it  was.    ^ 
And  they  three  went  forth,  exiles  from  their  land  ■ 
One  with  the  curse  of  his  own  crimes  upon  him ; 

80 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


71 


Two  innocent  as  doves,  and  only  cursed 

In  that  their  lives  ami  ibriunes  were  bound  up 

With  that  bad  man's. 

lie  is  a  hunter  now ; 
And  his  precarious  living  earns  with  toil 
And  danger,  amid  natures  like  his  own : 
And  here  I  might  have  left  him  to  live  out 
The  term  of"  his  existence,  had  I  not 
Seen  how  the  silent  virtues  of  the  wife, 
And  the  clear,  innocent  spirit  of  the  boy, 
Have  gained  ascendance  o'er  him  ;  and  besides, 
Sure  as  I  am  of  Spazzi,  't  is  (or  her. 
My  seventh  victim,  that  I  tread  these  wilds; 
For  will  she  not  curse  God,  if  from  her  sight 
Is  ta'en  that  precious  cliiiii.  and  hate  her  husband, 
By  whom  it  shall  appear  the  deed  is  done  ? 
She  will,  she  will  —  1  know  this  mother's  heart! 
.And  on  the  morrow,  as  a  skilful  hunter, 
I  shall  present  myself  before  her  husband, 
IVo  more  Count  Spazzi,  but  the  hunter  Olaf 

[He  goes  farther  into  the  forest. 


SCE-XE  III. 

The  following  morning  —  the  interior  of  the  house  in 
the  forest  —  Teresa  sitting  near  the  fire  —  Faolo 
kneeling  upon  a  footstool  at  her  side. 

Paol.  And  now,  dear  mother,  tell  me  that  old  tale, 
About  the  little  boy  who  prayed  that  Jesus 
Might  come  and  play  with  him. 

Ter.  1  will,  my  love. 

[She  sings  in  a  tow  recitative. 
*  Among  green,  pleasant  meadows, 

AH  in  a  grove  so  wild. 
Was  set  a  marble  image 
Of  the  \irgin  and  the  Child. 

There  oft,  on  summer  evenings, 

A  lonely  boy  would  rove, 
To  play  beside  the  image 

That  sanctified  the  grove. 

Oft  sate  his  mother  by  him, 

Among  the  shadows  dim. 
And  told  how  the  Lord  Jesus 

Was  once  a  child,  like  him. 

"  And  now  from  highest  heaven 
He  doth  look  down  each  day, 

And  sees  whate'er  thou  doest. 
And  hears  what  thou  dost  say  !" 

Thus  spoke  his  tender  mother: 

And  on  an  evening  bright. 
When  the  red,  round  sun  descended 

'Mid  clouds  of  crimson  light, 

Again  the  boy  was  playing. 

And  earnestly  said  he, 
"Oh  beautiful  child  Jesus, 

Cpme  down  and  play  with  me!  j 


*  A  free  translation  of  one  of  Herder's  beautiful  legends 
L 


"  I  will  find  thee  flowers  the  fairest, 

And  weave  lor  thee  a  crown  ; 
I  will  get  thee  ripe,  re<l  strawberries, 

If  thou  wilt  but  vome  down  ! 
"Oh  Holy,  Holy  Mother, 

Put  him  down  from  off  thy  knee ; 
For  in  these  silent  meadows 

There  are  none  to  play  with  me !" 

Thus  spoke  the  boy  so  lonely, 
The  while  his  inolhcr  heard. 

But  on  his  prayer  she  pondered, 
And  spoke  to  him  no  word. 

That  self-same  night  she  dreamed 

A  lovely  dream  of  joy; 
She  thought  she  saw  young  Jesus 

There,  playing  with  the  boy. 

''  And  for  the  fruits  and  flowers 
Which  thou  hast  brought  to  me, 

Rich  blessing  shall  be  given 
A  thousand-fold  to  thee ! 

"  For  in  the  fields  of  heaven 
Thou  shall  roam  with  me  at  will, 

And  of  bright  fruits,  celestial, 
Shall  have,  dear  child,  thy  fill  I" 

Thus  tenderly  and  kindly 

The  fair  child  Jesus  s[X)ke  ; 
And  full  of  careful  musings. 

The  anxious  mother  woke. 

And  thus  it  was  accomplished 

In  a  short  month  and  a  day. 
The  lonely  boy,  so  gentle. 

Upon  his  death-bed  lay. 

And  thus  he  spoke  in  dying : 

"Oh  mother  dear,  I  see 
That  beautiful  child  Jesus 

A-coming  down  to  me! 

"  And  in  his  hand  he  beareth 
Bright  flowers  as  white  as  snow. 

And  red  and  juicy  strawberries, — 
Dear  mother,  let  me  go  I" 

He  died  —  but  that  fond  mother 

Her  sorrow  did  restrain. 
For  she  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 

And  she  asked  him  not  again! 

Paol.     I  wish   that  I   had   been  that   boy,  do&c 
mother! 

Ter.    How  so,  my  Paolo,  did  not  that  boy  die. 
And  leave  his  mother  childless? 

Paol.  Ah,  alas, 

I  had  forgotten  that !     But,  mother  dear. 
Thou  coiildst  not  be  so  wretched,  wanting  me, 
As  I,  if  thou  wert  not!     It  breaks  my  heart 
Only  to  think  of  it;  and  I  do  pray. 
Morning  and  night,  that  I  may  never  lose  thee ! 

Ter.     My  precious  child,  heaven  is  so  very  good, 
I  do  believe  it  will  not  sunder  us 
Who  are  so  dear,  so  needful  to  each  other! 

Paol.     Let  us  not  speak  of  parting!    And,  indeed, 
I  will  not  be  a  hunter  w  hen  a  man  ; 

81 


72 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  will  not  leave  Ihee  early  in  a  morning, 
And  keep  away  from  thee  for  days  and  days ! 
I  do  not  love  the  chase,  it  frightens  me ; 
The  horrid  bark  of  wolves  fills  me  with  dread. 
I  dream  of  them  at  night ! 

Ter.  Thou  shall  not,  love  ! 

And  yet,  what  couldst  thou  be,  if  not  a  hunter, 
In  these  wild  regions,  Paolo ! 

Paol.  Oh  no,  mother, 

I  will  not  be  a  hunter !     They  are  fierce, 
They  have  loud  angry  voices.     Dearest  mother, 
I  tremble  when  I  hear  my  father  speak  ; 
I  wish  he  was  as  kind,  and  spoke  as  sweetly 
As  thou  dost. 

Ter.  Hush,  my  Paolo  —  say  not  thus  — 

Thy  father  is  a  bold  and  skilful  hunter, — 
A  very  skilful  hunter. 

Paol.  Yes,  I  know  it; 

I  've  often  heard  it  said.     But  tell  me  why 
Men  are  so  stern !     If  I  am  e'er  a  man, 
I  will  be  kind  and  gentle ;  and  the  dogs 
Shall  not  start  up  whene'er  they  hear  my  step. 
And  skulk  away  from  the  warm,  pleasant  hearth ! 
I  will  love  all  things,  mother;  I  will  make 
All  things  love  me  ! 

Ter.  My  dearest,  gentle  boy, 

I  do  believe  thou  wilt ! 

Paol.  Mother,  hast  heard 

My  father  goes  unto  the  chase  to-day, 
And  that  strange  hunter  with  him ! 

Ter.  Nay,  my  love, 

In  this  wild  storm  they  will  not  go  to  hunt. 

Paol.  I  saw  them  even  now.  The  sledge  is  ready. 
With  the  horse  harnessed  to 't ;  and,  mother  dear. 
We  shall  have  such  a  long  and  quiet  day, — 
'Twill  be  so  happy !    And  oh,  wilt  thou  tell  me 
About  thy  home  at  Corinth,  and  the  time 
When  from  ths  morning  to  the  blessed  eve 
Thou  sangest  to  the  music  of  thy  lute ; 
Or  wander'dst  out  with  kind  and  merry  friends ; 
Or  tendedst  thy  sweet  flowers;  —  and  tell  me  too 
About  the  bright,  blue,  restless  sea  at  Corinth  — 
And  sing  me  songs  and  hymns  in  thy  Greek  tongue. 
And  hear  how  I  can  sing  them  after  thee  — 
Wilt  thou,  dear  mother? 

Ter.  I  will  indeed,  my  love! 

But  hark !  thy  birds  are  chirping  for  their  meal, 
Oo,  feed  them,  my  sweet  boy. 

Paol.  Yes,  I  will  feed  them. 

And  then  there  will  be  nothing  all  the  day 
To  take  me  from  thy  side ! 

[He  goes  out. 

Ter.  Thou  dear,  dear  child ! 

Thou  happy,  innocent  spirit !     'T  is  o'er-payment, 
A  rich  o'er-payment  of  my  many  woes. 
To  see  thee  gather  up  such  full  enjoyment 
Within  the  narrowed  limits  of  the  gfiod 
Which  thy  hard  fortune  gives  thee!     And  no  more 
Let  me  account  my.self  forlorn  and  stripped. 
Whilst  I  have  thee,  my  boy ! 

But  hark !  here  comes 
My  husband ! 


Enter  OLAF,  muffled  in  his  hunting  dress. 

Olaf.  Where  's  the  boy!    I  hunt  to-day. 

Ter.     Not  in  this  storm,  my  husband  I 

Olaf.  In  this  storm ! 

Where  is  the  boy  ?    I  heard  him  here,  just  now. 

7'er.    Why,  why  the  boy  ?    What  dost  thou  want 
with  him? 

Olaf.    He  shall  go  out  with  me  on  this  day's  hunt 

Ter.    Oh  no !  not  so  —  he  must  not  go  to-day ! 

Olaf.     Why,  'tis  a  puny,  feeble-hearted  thing. 
Whom  thou  hast  fondled  with  and  fooled,  till  nought 
Of  a  boy's  spirit  is  within  his  heart! 
But  he  shall  go  with  me,  and  learn  to  dare 
The  perils  of  the  forest ! 

Ter.  But  this  once  — 

This  once,  my  husband,  spare  him — and  when  next 
Thou  goest  to  the  hunt,  he  shall  go  with  thee ! 

Olaf.    This    day    he   shall    go   with  me !    Thou 
wouldst  teach 
The  boy  rebellion !     He  shall  go  with  me  I 

Ter.  Nay,  say  not  so — he  does  not  love  the  chase ! 

OUif.    'Tis  me  he  does  not  love  —  and  for  good 
reason, — 
Thou  ever  keep'st  him  sitting  at  thy  side, 
A  caded,  dwindled  thing  that  has  no  spirit ! 
Look  at  the  other  children  of  the  forest; 
They  are  brave,  manly  boys! 

Ter.  Alas,  my  husband, 

Thou  hast  forgotten,  'I  is  a  tender  flower 
Transplanted  to  a  cold,  ungenial  clime. 

Olaf.    Say  not  another  word !    Thou  hear'st  my 
will ! 

Enter  paolo  ;  he  runs  to  his  mother's  side. 

Ter.    Thy  father  wishes  thee  to  hunt  to-day. 

Paol.    Oh,  not  to-day,  dear  mother ! 

Olaf.  And  why  not? 

It  ever  is  the  cry,  "Oh  not  to-day!" 
I  pr'ythee  what  new  fancy 's  in  thy  head, 
That  thou  canst  not  go  with  me  ? 

Paul.  I  besought 

My  mother  to  sing  me  her  Corinth  songs ; 
To  tell  me  of  the  groves  and  of  the  flowers, 
And  of  that  happy  home  that  was  more  fair 
Than  even  was  ours,  in  pleasant  Italy ; 
And  she  has  promised  that  she  will,  my  father. 

Olaf.    Ha !  ha!  is 't  so  ? — 'T  is  even  as  1  thought. 
I  know  wherefore  these  stories  of  the  past! 
Mark  me,  Teresa,  if  thou  school  him  thus, 
I  '11  sunder  ye  I  —  Thou  need'st  not  clasp  thy  hands ; 
For  on  my  life  I  '11  do  it! 

Paol.     [weeping.]  Father,  father, 

Part  me  not  from  my  mother,  and  indeed 
I  will  go  with  you. 

Ter.  [aside  to  Olaf]  Pray  thee,  speak  him  kindly ! 

Olaf    Come,  I'll  be  thy  companion!  I  will  leach 
thee 
To  be  a  man;  —  dry  up  these  childish  tears! 

Ter.  My  sweet  boy,  do  not  weep !  Go  out  this  day 
Thy  mother  prays  it  of  thee,  and  bring  back 
A  little  ermine,  we  will  make  it  tame; 
It  shall  be  thine,  my  Paolo,  and  shall  love  thee. 

82 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


73 


Pad.    I  will  go,  dearest  mother  —  nor  will  cry 
Though  the  gaunt,  hungry  wolves  bark  round  about, 
[aside.]  But.  mother  dear,  will  you  sit  by  my  side 
When  we  come  back,  and  sing  me  fast  asleep? 
I  have  such  horrid  dreams  of  wolves  at  night. 

Ter.    I  will,  indeed  I  will,  my  dearest  love! 

Olaf.    Come,  come,  why  all  this  fondling?    We'll 
be  back 
Long  ere  the  night. 

Ter.     Come,  now  I  '11  put  thee  on 
Thy  cloak,  and  that  warm  cap  of  ermine  skin 
I  made  for  thee  last  winter  I 

[Then  "'*  ""'• 

Olaf.  How  she  sways  him! 

With  a  sweet  word  she  guides  him  as  she  will ! 
Would  that  the  child  loved  me  but  half  as  well; 
Heaven  help  me !  but  I  am  a  rough,  had  man, 
And  have  deserved  neither  her  love  nor  his ! 
But  now  the  sledge  is  ready. 

[He  goes  out. 


SCENE  IV. 

Near  sunset  —  a  dreary,  desolate  region,  surrounded 
with  ice-mountains — the  Hunter  drives  a  sledge  ra- 
pidly forward,  in  the  back  part  of  which  sit  Olaf 
and  Paolo. 

Olaf.  Where  is  this  wild?  I  know  not  where  thou 
drivest! 

Hunter.     Below  our  feet  lies  the  eternal  ice 
Of  the  great  sea ! 

Olaf.  Our  prey  abides  not  here ! 

Hunt.     We  '11  find  enough,  anon  ! 

Olaf  Thou  dost  not  know 

The  track  on  which  thou  go'st.  —  Here  only  dwells 
The  gaunt  and  savage  wolf!  and  hark  —  even  now 
I  hear  their  bark ! 

Pool.  Oh,  are  there  wolves  a-nigh? 

Hunt.    Ay,  they  are  nigh,  look  in  that  black  abysm, 
It  is  a  wild  wolPs  den ! 

Olaf.  Thou  braggart  hunter, 

Is  this  thy  wondrous  skill  ?  Wheel  round  the  sledge 
Before  the  horse  is  maddened  with  the  cry! 
There  is  no  time  to  lose !  Pull  in  the  beast ! 

Hunt.    It  will  not  do  —  the  wolves  are  now  upon 
us! 

Pool.    Oh  father,  save  me  !  —  save  me,  dearest  fa- 
ther! 

Olaf.    Let  go  my  cloak  —  they  shall  not  hurt  thee, 
child ! 
[to  the  Hunler.]Thoa  cursed  man!  —  Dost  see  these 

savage  beasts, 
And  yet  sit  grinning  there,  as  thou  had'st  done 
A  piece  of  hunter-craft! 

Hunt.  You  carry  arms  — 

Cannot  you  fire  upon  them  ?    They  will  gorge 
Upon  each  other,  and  be  pacified ! 

Olaf     If  they  taste  blood,  they  will  be  more  fero- 
cious — 
And  thou  knovv'st  well,  we  have  not  ammunition 
For  such  a  strife!  yet  will  I  fire  on  them. 
Their  savage  barking  will  bring  others  down. 

[He  fires. 


Pool.   Oh  horrid  !  how  they  tear  each  other's  flesh. 
Olaf     Now  hurry  forward,  for  our  only  hop© 
Lies  in  out-speeding  them  ! 
Pool.  Let  us  go  home  ! 

Ottif.     Again  they  are  upon  us  —  their  gaunt  jaws 
Dropping  with  blood,  which  they  lick  evermore ! 
Now  lor  another  slaughter  ! 

Hunt.  'T  is  in  vain, 

For  right  and  left,  yet  other  packs  are  coming ! 

Pool.    Oh  lather,  fiillier,  they  will  be  upon  us! 
And  I  shall  never  see  my  mother  more! 
Hunt.     Peace,  brawling  child  ! 
Olaf  My  poor,  dear  boy,  be  still. 

Paol.     I  will,  I  will,  dear  father  ! 
Olaf.  [to  the  Hunter.]  Cursed  murderer. 

His  blood  will  be  upon  thy  head  ! 

HuTit.  Indeed ! 

Who  forced  him  from  his  mother  'gainst  his  will  ? 
Ohif.     Most  strange,  inhuman  wretch! 
Hunt.  Nay,  use  thy  gun, 

'T  will  do  thee  better  service  than  thy  tongue  ! 
Olaf.  [aside]  Please  heaven  I  live,  I  '11  pay  thee 
for  this  hunt. 
Wages  thou  didst  not  ask! 

[He  puts  his  last  charge  into  his  piece. 
This  is  the  last  — 
When  this  is  done,  there  is  no  other  hope 
But  in  our  flight!  [He fires. 

Now  heaven  must  be  our  helper ! 
On,  on,  spare  not  the  thong !    , 

[The  horse  in  dashing  forward,  breaks 
from  the  sledge  ;  the  xoolvesfall  upon 
him  instantly. 
Olaf.  Now  must  we  fly  ! 

Hunt.    There  is  a  hut  among  these  icy  deserts 
Raised  by  some  hunters.     While  they  gorge  them- 
selves 
We  may  escape. 
Paol.  Take,  take  my  hand,  dear  father! 

Olaf    How  cold  it  is,  poor  boy ! 

[  They  turn  among  the  ice-mountains,  and 
soon  are  out  of  sight. 


SCENE  V. 
A  chaotic  wilderness  of  icebergs. 

Enter  the  hunter,  and  olaf  carrying  paolo,  who 
appears  faint. 

Hunt.  I  hear  their  bark — we  are  not  much  a-head! 

Olaf.     How  far  is  't  now  unto  the  hunter's  cabin  ? 

Hunt.    A  half  hour  it  would  lake  us,  could  we  run 
At  our  best  speed — but  cumbered  with  the  child. 
What  can  we  do  ? 

Paol.  Dear  father,  I  will  run  — 

I  will  not  cumber  thee  —  I  am  s#ong  now  ! 

Olaf.     My  poor  dear  boy,  thou  canst  not!  would 
to  heaven 
Thou  wert  at  home ! 

Paol.  How  kind  thou  art,  dear  father ! 

I  will  run  on  —  I  will  not  cumber  thee! 

83 


74 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hunt.    The  wolves  are  here !    Hark,  hark !  their 
barking  comes 
Upon  the  passing  wind ! 
Paol.  Oh,  they  are  here  ! 

Olaf.    How  can  we  'scape  from  them  ?    I  '11  sell 
my  life 
Dearly  for  this  child's  sake  ! 

Hunt.  Throw  them  the  child  ! 

And  while  they  gorge  on  him,  we  can  escape. 
Olaf.    Thou  devil  of  hell ! 

Paol.  Sweet  father,  do  it  not! 

[The  wolves  surround  them  ;  and  the  Hunter 
snatching  up  Faolo  throws    him  among 
them. 
Paol.    Oh  lather,  father,  save  me ! 
Olaf.  My  boy  !  my  boy! 

Hunt.    It  is  too  late— they  tear  him  limb  from  limb ! 
Now  for  escape !     Run,  run,  and  we  shall  reach 
A  place  of  safety  !  [He  darts  forward. 

Olaf.  God  in  heaven  !  my  boy  — 

My  gentle-hearted  boy!  my  murdered  boy.*^ 

[He  dashes  among  the  wolves  with  Jiis 
hunting  knife,  and  then  springs  for- 
ward after  the  Hunter 


SCENE  vr. 

^ight  —  the  interior  of  Olafs  hotise — Teresa  alone  — 
a  bright  fire  burns  on  the  hearth  — refreshmeiits  are 
set  out,  and  clothes  hanging  by  the  fire  for  Olaf  and 
Paolo. 

Teresa.    How  late  it  is !  an  hour  beyond  the  mid- 
night ! 
And  bitter  cold  it  is !    The  icy  wind 
Even  pierces  through  these  walls  I   Poor  little  Paolo, 
How  weary  and  half-frozen  he  will  be  : 
But  he  shall  sit  upon  the  bench  beside  me, 
And  I  will  hold  his  hands,  and  lay  his  head 
Upon  my  knee;  it  is  his  dear  indulgence  — 
Poor  child,  and  he  shall  have  it  all  to-night ! 

[She  puts  fresh  logs  on  the  fire. 
And  this  is  the  third  time  I  have  renewed 
The  wasting  fire!  and  when  1  piled  it  first, 
"  My  Paolo  will  be  here,"  I  said,  "  before 
These  logs  shall  have  burned  through  !"  but,  now 

alas, 
I  know  not  what  to  say,  saving  the  wonder 
That  he  comes  not,  and  even  this  is  grown 
A  kind  of  vague  despair,  that  seems  to  threaten 
He  will  not  come  at  all !    Oh,  if  aught  happen. 
Save  good  unto  the  child,  like  poor  old  Jacob, 
Then  should  I  be  bereaved ! 

Enter  HUiiDA,  with  a  very  dejected  countenance ;  she 
takes  down  Paolo's  clothes,  and  folds  them  up. 
Ter.  '  Nay,  how  is  this? 

Huld.    He  will  not  need  them  more  ? 
Ter.  Woman,  what  say'st  thou  ? 

Huld.    T<vo  hunters  from  the  icebergs  are  come 
down  — 
Ere  long  thy  husband  comes. 


Ter.  And  not  ray  boy  ? 

Hulda.    [laying  the  clothes  together.]     He  will  not 
need  these  more ! 

Ter.  Then  he  is  dead! 

Huld.    Alas,  dear  lady,  yes ! 

Ter.  Peace,  woman  I   peace '. 

The  earth  were  less  forlorn  without  the  sun, 
Than  I  without  my  boy !     He  is  not  dead  ! 

Huld.    Would  God  he  were  not ! 

Ter.  Do  not  say  he  is ! 

It  is  like  blasphemy  to  say  he  's  dead. 
Heaven  would  not  strip  me  so  —  O  do  not  say  it ! 
Where  are  these  men  ?    I  '11  forth  and  meet  my  boy! 

Huld.    [stopping  her.]    He  is  not  on  the  road  !  No, 
never  more 
Will  he  repass  this  threshold ! 

Ter.  'T  is  a  dream  ! 

Huld.   Dear  lady,  no  ! — too  plainly  tell  the  hunters 
All  that  has  happened  ! 

Ter.  And,  pr'ythee,  what  has  happened  ? 

Huld.  A  quarrel  'twixt  the  hunter  and  our  master, 
Who  now  comes  wounded  home. 

Ter.  And  what  of  Paolo  ? 

Huld.    O  heavy,  heavy  news !  —  The  child  is 
missing ! 

Ter.  Nay,  then  he  is  not  dead ! — Oh  no,  not  dead  ! 
I  told  thee  heaven  would  not  so  deal  with  me ! 
My  precious  boy  will  come  back  on  the  morrow,  — 
Hunters  are  often  lost  for  many  days. 
These  men  shall  seek  for  him  among  the  wilds  — 
I,  too,  will  go  myself    Where  are  the  men  ? 

Enter  Vie  hunter,  hastily. 

Hunt.    Dear  lady,  woe  is  me ! 

Huld.  Away,  away! 

Ter.     Where  is  my  boy  ? 

Hunt.  Oh  wretched,  wretched  mother! 

Ter.    Torture  me  not,  but  tell  me  where  he  is  ? 

Hunt.    Lady,  forgive  me  for  the  news  I  bring  ! 

Ter.    Then  he  is  dead  ? 

Hunt.  Most  terrible  recital ! 

Lady,  thy  husband,  to  preserve  himself. 
Hath  given  thy  little  Paolo  to  the  wolves! 

Ter.     [with  a  scream  of  horror.]    Oh  no,  no,  no ! 

Hutit.    He  stopped  their  maws 
With  thy  poor  Paolo's  blood ! 

Ter.  He  did  not  so ! 

Hunt.     Poor  little  one,  how  he  did  cry  for  thee! 

Huld.    Peace  !  can'st  not  hold  thy  peace.  Oh  hear 
it  not! 
Lady,  he  is  but  missing ! 

Hunt.  Poor  weak  thing ! 

How  he  did  cling  to  me,  and  pray  that  I 
Would  save  him  from  his  father  ! 

[Teresa  clasps  her  hands,  and  stands  in 
speechless  agony. 
I  might  have  snatched  a  pretty  lock  of  hair; 
I  wish  I  had  —  a  pretty  curling  lock  ! 

Ter.    [falling  on  her  kness.]    God,  of  thy  mercy 
strengthen,  strengthen  me ! 
Enable  me  to  bear  what  is  thy  will ! 

[She  falls  insensible  to  the  floor. 

Huld.    Wretch,  why  didst  tell  it  her  so  cruelly  — 
84 


THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS. 


75 


Besides,  ihe  iceberg  hunters  say  not  so. 
Thou  'st  killed  her  by  thy  tidings  ! 

Until.  I  lark,  he  comes! 

1  hear  her  husband's  voice  I 

Huld.  She  must  not  see  him  ! 

[She  bears  Teresa  out. 

nunl.     I  must  off!  I  'II  not  again  meet  Olaf ; 
He  's  not  the  facile  fool  that  once  he  was : 
l>ut  there  's  that  damning  deed  laid  to  his  charge, 
Will  make  Teresa  curse  both  hnn  and  heaven ! 

[He  goes  out. 


SCENE  VII. 

The  following  day — ike  interior  of  the  chapel — Teresa 
on  her  knees  hrfore  the  image  of  the  Virgin. 

Mother  of  God,  who  borest 
That  cruel  pang  which  made  thy  spirit  bleed  ! 

Who  knew'st  severest  anguish,  sorrow  sorest, 
Hear  me  in  my  great  need  ! 

My  need  is  great,  my  woe  is  like  thine  own  ! 
I  am  bereaved  of  mine  only  one  ! 
Thou  know'st  I  have  no  other! 
Comfort  me,  oh  my  mother! 

Kind  Saviour,  who  didst  shed 
Tears  for  thy  Lazarus  dead  ; 
Who  raised  the  widow's  son  from  off  his  bier ; 
Who  didst  endure  all  woe 
That  human  hearts  can  know. 
Hear  me,  O  hear! 

Thou  that  art  strong  to  comfort,  look  on  me  — 

I  sit  in  darkness,  and  behold  no  light! 
Over  my  heart  the  waves  of  agony 

Have  gone,  and  left  me  faint!  Forbear  to  smite 
A  bruised  and  broken  reed  !     Sustain,  sustain  ; 

Divinest  Comforter,  to  thee  I  fly, 
Let  me  not  fly  in  vain ! 

Support  me  with  thy  love,  or  else  I  die  ! 

Father,  who  didst  send  down  thy  Well-Beloved, 

To  suffer  shame  and  death  that  I  might  live, 
Hear  me,  in  this  great  sorrow  not  unmoved, 

And  if  I  sin,  forgive  ! 

Whate'er  I  had  was  thine  I 
A  God  of  mercy  thou  hast  ever  been ; 

.Assist  me  to  resign; 
And  if  I  murmur,  count  it  not  for  sin  ! 

How  rich  I  was,  I  dare  not  —  dare  not  think ; 
How  poor  I  am,  thou  knowest,  who  canst  see 
Into  my  soul's  unfathomed  misery; 

Forgive  me  if  I  shrink ! 
Forgive  me  if  I  shed  these  human  tears  I 
That  it  so  hard  appears 

To  yield  my  will  to  thine,  forgive,  forgive! 
Father,  it  is  a  bitter  cup  to  drink  ! 

[She  boios  her  face,  and  after  a  time  of 
silence,  rises. 
My  soul  is  strengthened  !  It  shall  bear 
My  lot,  whatever  it  may  be  ; 
8 


And  from  the  depths  of  my  despair 
I  will  look  up,  and  trust  in  Thee! 

[She  goes  slowly  out. 


SCENE  VHI. 

Many  iveeks  afterwards  —  a  chamber  of  Olaf's  house 
— Olaf  near  death,  lying  upon  his  bed — Teresa  sits 
beside  him. 

Olaf.    For  years  of  tyranny  I  do  beseech 
Thy  pardon! —  For  thy  meekness  and  thy  truth, 
The  unrepining  patience,  and  the  beauty 
Of  thy  most  holy  life,  my  wile,  I  bless  thee! 

Ter.    Thank  God  !  affliclion  has  been  merciful ! 
My  boy,  thy  death  has  saved  thy  father's  sonl ! 

Olaf.    And  the  great  might  of  virtue  in  thyself; — 
Thy  resignation,  and  thy  pitying  pardon  — 
For  these,  receive  my  blessing  ere  I  die  — 
These,  which  have  been  the  means  of  my  salvation  ! 
Ter.     Bless  Him,  my  husband,  who  is  strong  to 

save ! 
Olaf    I  do,  I  do  I  —  and  I  rejoice  in  death ; 
Though,  had  my  life  been  spared,  I  would  have  been 
Both  son  and  husband  to  thee!  —  Weep  not  thou  — 
We  shall  all  three  ere  long  be  united  — 
I,  the  poor  outcast  else,  be  one  with  you  ! 
Ter.     Out  of  affliction  has  arisen  joy, 
And  out  of  black  despair  immortal  hope ! 

Olaf.  [after  a  silence  of  some  lime.]  Give  me  thy 
hand,  sweet  friend  ; — I  fain  would  sleep ; — 
And  if  I  wake  no  more,  I  still  would  know 
Thou  wilt  be  with  me  when  I  pass  away  ! 

Ter.  May  the  kind,  holy  Mother  bless  thy  sleep, — 
And  bless  thy  waking,  be  't  of  life  or  death! 

[Olaf  remains  perfectly  quiet,  and  after 
some  time  a  light  slumber  comes  over 
Teresa,  during  which  she  hears  dream- 
like voices  singing. 

Oh  human  soul,  't  is  done. 
Past  is  thy  trial ;  past  thy  woe  and  pain ; 
Nor  is  there  mortal  stain 

Upon  thy  spirit-robes,  redeemed  one  ! 
Spirit,  that  through  a  troul)led  sea 

Of  sin  and  pa.ssion  hast  been  wildly  tost. 

And  yet  not  lost. 
With  songs  of  triumph  do  we  welcome  thee  ! 

Redeemed  spirit,  come, 
Thine  is  a  heavenly  home  ! 
Come,  freed  I'rom  human  error; 
From  frailty,  that  did  gird  thee  as  the  sea 

Engirds  the  earth  ;  from  darkness,  doubt  and  terror 
Which  hung  around  thy  soul  ere  the  light  came  I 
From  these  we  welcome  thee ! 
Hark,  heaven  itself,  rejoices, 
Hark,  the  celestial  voices 
Shouting,  like  trumpet-peals,  thy  spirit-name!  — 
Oh  gladly  enter  in, 
Thou  conqueror  of  sin. 
The  eternal  city  of  the  holy  ones. 
Where,  brighter  far  than  stars,  or  moons,  or  suns 
85 


76 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  shall  shine  out  before  the  Infinite!  — 
And  seel  a  heavenly  child. 
With  garments  undefiled, 
Streaming  upon  the  air  like  odorous  light, 
Awaits  to  welcome  thee  ! 
Oh  father,  clasp  thy  boy. 
Pour  out  thy  soul  in  joy, 
In  love,  which  human  frailty  held  in  thrall ;  — 

Boy,  clasp  thy  father  now. 
Distrust  and  fear  in  heaven  there  cannot  be. 

For  love  enfoldeth  all ! 
Oh  happy  pair,  too  long  divided. 

Pour  out  your  souls  in  one  strong  sympathy! 
Eternal  Love  your  meeting  steps  hath  guided, 
Ne'er  to  be  parted  through  eternity  ! 
Ter.  [wahiiig.]    I  know  that  he  is  dead  ;  but  this 
sweet  omen. 
These  holy  voices  pealing  joy  in  heaven. 
Have  taken  the  sling  from  death !     My  dear,  dear 

husband, 
I  know  that  thou  art  blessed  —  art  reunited 
Unto  our  boy! 

[Ske  bends  over  the  body  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  then  kneeling  down  and  cov- 
ering her  face,  she  remains  in  silent 
prayer. 


Achzib's  mission  was  ended ;  and  he  returned  to 
his  fellows  with  exultation.  "  I  have  done  that  which 
I  set  out  to  do  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  ye  shall  declare 
me  victor.  I  have  proved  the  supremacy  of  evil :  for 
of  the  seven  whom  I  have  tried,  I  have  won  four. 
Let  me  no  longer  be  called  Achzib  the  Liar,  for  I 
have  proved  that  evil  obtains  a  wider  and  more  pow- 
erful agency  than  good.  I  have  won  four  young 
men,  in  the  strength  of  manhood,  and  in  the  full 
force  of  intellecl :  I  have  lost  only  a  poor  scholar,  an 
old  man,  and  a  woman !" 

"  Melhinks,"  said  the  younger  spirit,  "  thou  hast 
been  in  some  measure  defeated  ;  inasmuch  as  these 
feeble  ones  were  ijiightier  than  thou  !" 

"  1  was  a  fool,"  returned  Achzib,  "  to  attempt  any 
of  the  three  :  in  them,  passion,  and  the  aptitude  to 
sin,  were  weak  :  one  was  enfeebled  by  sickness,  one 
by  old  age,  the  third  by  long  endurance  of  evil." 

"Thy  triumph  had  been  greater,"  interrupted  the 
elder,  "  had  thou  won  any  of  the  three,  whom,  losing, 
thou  pretendesl  to  undervalue;  the  four  thou  hast 
won  were  an  easy  conquest,  fijr  though  boastful  of 
virtue,  they  were  weak  in  principle." 

"  It  mailers  not,"  said  Achzib:  "  any  of  these,  but 
lijr  my  ministration,  might  have  gone  on  through  life 
without  materially  adding  to  crime;  without  draw- 
ing others  after  them  into  sin  ;  and  without  baptizing 
human  hearts  in  woe,  as  they  have  done ;  and  I  tell 
ye,  of  the  seven  whom  I  have  tried,  four  have  be- 
come my  victims." 

"  We  deny  it  not,"  said  the  two. 

"  Then  let  me  reign  as  a  crowned  one,"  exclaimed 
Achzib,  "  for  I  have  proved  that  evil  is  mightier  than 
good !" 

As  Achzib  thus  spoke,  an  angel  of  iriith  stood  be- 


fore them.  "  Achzib,"  said  he,  "  thou  hast  tried  the 
sons  of  men,  and  hast  tempted  four  to  perdition;  thus 
has  the  All-wise  permitted.  I  come  not,  however,  to 
speak  of  their  doom,  but  of  good  and  evil  as  it  regards 
human  life.  Thou  hast  introduced  sin  and  sorrow 
among  men  ;  but  thou  hast  only  feebly  known  the  re- 
sult of  every  downward  step  in  human  degradation 
and  woe.  Thou  hast  seen  evil  obtaining  the  mastery 
over  good ;  sin  laying  desolate  the  home  of  virtue 
and  peace ;  the  good  and  the  kind  brought  to  the 
grave,  or  going  through  life  mourning  because  of  it; 
and  thou  hast  exclaimed,  'surely,  I  am  mightier  than 
God !'  Thou  hast  riveted  on  the  chains  of  oppres- 
sion; thou  hast  darkened  the  minds  of  the  noble  and 
pure,  with  thy  lying  deeds  ;  and  hast  left  generations 
yet  unborn,  to  groan  under  thy  sinful  agency ;  and 
men  beholding  these  things,  have  exclaimed,  with 
bleeding  hearts,  'surely,  evil  is  mightier  than  good!' 
But  a  superior  intelligence  looks  beyond  the  outward 
seeming,  and  perceives  in  the  midst  of  evil,  only  more 
widely-extended  good. 

"  O  fools  and  blind,  you  cannot  degrade  God  I  Your 
]  malign  interference  cannot  reverse  the  decrees  of  his 
omnipotent  wisdom.  His  goodness  upholds  and  per- 
vades all  things,  both  of  the  outward  creation,  and 
man's  moral  existence ;  and  though  evil  is  permitted, 
it  neither  mars  nor  deranges  the  great  plan  of  universal 
Providence.  Evil,  like  darkness,  which  makes  visible 
the  glory  and  immensity  of  God's  works,  unseen  by 
day,  though  still  present ;  brings  forth,  in  the  moral 
world,  the  loveliness,  the  nobility,  and  the  joy-dif- 
fusing nature  of  virtue.  It  is  the  depth  of  shadow, 
by  which  good  is  thrown  into  strong  relief;  it  is  the 
source  whence  many  of  the  highest  actions,  many  of 
the  most  triumphant  passages  of  a  conflicting  life ; 
whence  often,  the  most  melting  and  beautiful  trophies 
of  the  soul,  winged  in  all  its  strength  and  affection, 
have  been  made  to  proceed.  It  is  the  trial  of  love, 
of  fiiith,  of  patience ;  it  calls  for  forgiveness,  and 
Christian  charity  ;  it  teaches  forbearance,  meekness, 
and  pity.  It  is  the  subjection  to  evil  which  is  the 
ordeal  of  the  human  spirit,  and  it  is  the  severe  con- 
trast of  crime,  whicii  leads  it  to  pay  its  devoutest 
homage  to  virtue. 

"Designer  of  evil,  thou  hast  failed!  For  every 
soul  whom  ihou  hast  lured  into  sin,  thou  hast  thrown 
others,  through  the  anguish,  or  by  the  example  of 
that  sin,  upon  the  healing  mercy  of  Him  who  is  able 
and  willing  to  save  I" 

Achzib  turned  abashed  from  the  speaker  of  Truth, 
and  retired  with  his  fellows  into  darkness;  and  the 
angel  lifting  up  his    voice,  poured  out  a  hymn  of 
praise. 
Thou,  that  createdst  with  a  word  each  star; 

Who,  out  of  nothingness  brought  systems  forth, 
Yet  didst  exalt  beyond  creation,  far, 

The  human  soul,  immortal  at  its  birth  ;  — 
Thou  gavesl  light  and  darkness  ;  life  and  death ; 
Thou  gavest  good  and  ill. 
Twin  powers,  to  be 
Companions  of  its  mortal,  devious  path ; 
Yet  left  the  human  will, 
Unlimited  and  free ! 

86 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


We  know  how  pain  and  woe. 

Sorrow  and  sin,  make  up  the  sum  of  life!  • 

How  good  and  evil  arc  at  ceaseless  strife. 
And  how  the  soul  doth  err  in  clioice.  we  know ! 
Yet  not  for  this  droop  we,  nor  are  afraid  ; 

We  know  thy  goodness,  we  behold  thy  might ; 
We  know  thy  truth  can  never  be  gainsaid, 

And  what  thou  dost  is  right  I 
We  glorify  thy  name  that  thus  it  is ;  — 
We  glorify  tliy  name  for  more  than  this! 
^Ve  know  that  out  Of  darkness  shines  thy  light; 

That  out  of  evil  cometh  forth  thy  good  ; 
That  none  shall  circumvent  the  Infinite, 
Nor  can  Omnipotence  be  e'er  subdued ! 


We  know  that  doubt  shall  cease, and  leeble  terror; 

That  lliuu  wilt  wipe  all  tears  from  every  eye ! 
That  thine  Almighty  Truth  shall  vanquish  error, 
And  death  shall  die  I 

We  know  that  this  shall  be, 
Thorcfirc  we  trust  in  thee, 
And  pour  in  balm  to  human  hearts  that  bleed; 
And  bind  the  broken  and  the  bruised  reed  ; 
And  say,  rejoice,  rejoice! 

For  truth  is  strong! 
Exalt  ye  every  voice 
In  one  triumphant  song  — 
For  truth  is  God  —  and  he  shall  make  you  free! 
Evil  is  but  of  Time  ;  —  Good  of  Eternity  ! 


gmuisji  antr  iFCte-^ilsie  EHvutt». 


CAROLINE    BOWLES, 

AN 

HONOURED    FELLOW-LABOURER, 
THIS     LITTLE     BOOK, 

THE  DESIGN  OF  WHICH  IS 

TO  MAKE  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIANITY 

AN   ENDEARED   AND   FAMILIAR 

FIRE-SIDE  GUEST, 

IS     AFFECTIONATELY     INSCRIBED. 

L'ENVOI. 

I  HAVE  indited  thee  with  care  and  love, 
My  little  book ;  and  now  I  send  thee  forth 

On  a  good  mission  like  the  gentle  dove. 

Bearing  glad  tidings  with  thee  o'er  the  earth. 

Thou  wast  not  meant  for  riot  and  for  jest. 
Dear  little  book,  all  simple  as  thou  art ; 

But  in  sweet  homes  to  be  a  loving  guest ; 
And  find  a  place  in  many  a  guileless-heart. 

Have  not  a  fear  !  I  know  that  thou  wilt  find 
Thy  journey  pleasant  as  a  path  of  flowers. 

For  pure  and  youthful  hearts  are  ever  kind. 
Glad  to  be  pleased  with  labour  such  as  ours. 

Sit  down  with  little  children  by  the  way. 
And  tell  them  of  sweet  Marien  how  she  went 

Over  the  weary  world  from  day  to  day. 
On  christian  works  of  love,  like  thee,  intent 

Tell  them  of  Him  who  framed  the  sea,  the  sky ; 

The  glorious  earth  and  all  that  dwell  therein; 
And  of  that  Holy  One  made  strong  to  die. 

Sinless  himself,  to  save  the  world  from  sin. 

And  thou  hast  many  a  tale  of  wonder  planned 
With  various  art" to  make  thy  spirit  wise; 


These  have  I  given  thee  that  thou  may'st  command 
Glad  smiles  at  will  and  pitying  tears  and  sighs. 

For  thus,  young,  generous  spirits  would  be  won; 

And  I  have  gifted  thee  to  win  them  best; 
Now  go  thou  forth  undaunted,  gentle  one. 

And  trust  thy  cause  to  every  youthful  breast 

Go  forth,  and  have  thou  neither  fear  nor  shame; 

Many  shall  be  thy  friends,  thy  foes  be  few ; 
And  greet  thou  those  who  love  thee  in  my  name, 

Yea,  greet  them  warmly  !     Little  book,  adieu! 


MARIEN'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

A  FIRE-SIDE  STORY. 

Christianity,  like  a  child,  goes  wandering  over 
the  world.  Fearless  in  its  innocence,  it  is  not  abash- 
ed before  princes,  nor  confounded  by  the  wisdom  of 
synods.  Before  it  the  blood-siaiiied  warrior  sheathes 
his  sword,  and  plucks  the  laurel  from  his  brow;  — 
the  midnight  murderer  turns  fi-om  his  purpose,  and, 
like  the  heart-smitten  disciple,  goes  out  and  weeps 
bitterly.  It  brings  liberty  to  the  captive,  joy  to  the 
mourner,  freedom  to  the  slave,  repentance  and  for- 
giveness to  the  sinner,  hope  to  the  faint-hearted,  and 
assurance  to  the  dying. 

It  enters  the  huts  of  poor  men,  and  sits  down  with 
them  and  Iheir  children;  it  makes  them  contented 
in  the  midst  of  privations,  and  leaves  behind  an 
everlasting  blessing.  It  walks  through  great  cities, 
amid  all  their  jiomp  and  splendour,  iheir  unimaginable 
pride,  and  their  unutterable  misery,  a  purifying,  en- 
nobling, correcting,  and  redeeming  angel. 

It  is  alike  the  beautiful  companion  of  childhood 
and  the  comfortable  associate  of  age.  It  ennobles 
the  noble ;  gives  wisdom  to  the  wise ;  and  new 
grace  to  the  lovely.  The  patriot,  the  priest,  the  poet, 
and  the  eloquent  man,  all  derive  their  sublime 
I  power  from  its  influence. 

87 


78 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thanks  be  to  the  Eternal  Father,  who  has  made 
us  one  with  Him  through  the  benign  Spirit  of 
Christianity ! 


PART   I. 


Through  the  wide  world  went  Marien 

On  a  holy  mission  sent, 
A  little  child  of  tender  years. 

Throughout  the  world  she  went. 

And  ever,  as  she  went  along. 

Sweet  flowers  sprang  'nealh  her  feet; 

All  flowers  that  were  most  beautiful, 
Of  virtues  strong  and  sweet. 

And  ever,  as  she  went  along, 
The  desert  beasts  grew  tame  ; 

And  man,  the  savage,  dyed  with  blood. 
The  merciful  became. 

Now,  if  you  will  attend  to  me, 

I  will  in  order  tell 
The  history  .of  this  little  child. 

And  what  to  her  befel. 

No  friend  at  all  had  Marien, 

And  at  the  break  of  day. 
In  a  lonesome  place  within  the  world, 

In  quiet  thought  she  lay. 

The  stars  were  lost  in  coming  mom. 

The  moon  was  pale  and  dim, 
And  the  golden  sun  was  rising 

Over  the  ocean's  rim. 

With  upturned  eye  lay  Marien  ;  — 

"  And  I  am  alone,"  said  she, 
"  Though  the  blackbird  and  the  nightingale 

Sing  in  the  forest-tree  .- 

"Though  the  weak  woodland  creatures 

Come  to  me  when  I  call. 
And  eat  their  food  from  out  my  hand ; 

And  I  am  loved  by  all : 

"  Though  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  come  out. 

And  flowers  of  fiiirest  grace. 
And  whate'er  God  made  beautiful. 

Are  with  me  in  this  place : 

"  Yet  I  am  all  alone,  alone. 

Alone  both  night  and  day! 
So  I  will  forth  into  the  world. 

And  do  what  good  I  may: 

"For  many  a  heart  is  sorrowful, 
And  I  that  heart  may  cheer;  — 

And  many  a  weary  captive  pines 
In  dungeons  dark  and  drear ;  — 

And  I  the  iron  bonds  may  loose,  — 
Then  why  abide  I  here  ? 

"  And  many  a  spirit  dark  with  crime. 

Yet  longeth  to  repent ; 
And  many  a  grievous  wrong  is  done 

To  the  weak  and  innocent;  — 


And  I  may  do  the  injured  right, 
May  save  the  penitent! 

" Up,  I  will  forth  into  the  world!" 

And,  thus  as  she  did  say, 
Sweet  Marien  from  the  ground  rose  up 

And  went  forth  on  her  way. 

Through  the  wood  went  Marien, 
The  thick  wood  and  the  green ; 

And  not  tar  had  she  travelled  ere 
A  cruel  sight  was  seen. 

Under  the  green  and  leafy  boughs 
Where  singing  birds  were  set ; 

At  srrife  about  their  heritage. 
Two  ruffian  brothers  met. 

"Thou  shalt  not  of  our  father's  land. 
The  elder  said,  "  have  part!" 

The  younger  brother  spoke  no  word, 
But  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 

Then  deep  into  the  forest  dark 
With  desperate  speed  he  ran. 

And  gentle  Marien  stood  beside 
The  bleeding,  murdered  man. 

With  pitying  tears  that  would  not  cease. 
She  washed  his  wounded  side, 

And  prayed  him  to  have  faith  in  Him 
Who  for  the  sinner  died. 

But  no  sign  made  the  murdered  man. 
There  stiff  in  death  he  lay;  — 

And  Marien  through  the  forest  wild 
Went  mourning  on  her  way. 

Ere  long,  as  she  went  wandering  on, 
She  came  to  where  there  sat, 

Willi  folded  arms  upon  her  t)reasf, 
A  woman  desolate. 

Pale  was  she  as  the  marble  stone. 
And  steadfiist  was  her  eye; 

She  sat  enchained,  as  in  a  trance. 
By  her  great  misery. 

"  What  ails  thee,  mother  ?''  Marien  said. 
In  a  gentle  voice  and  sweet ; 

"  What  aileth  thee,  my  mother?" 
And  knelt  down  at  her  feet. 

"  What  aileth  thee,  my  mother  ?" 

Kind  Marien  still  did  say; 
And  those  two  words,  my  mother. 

To  the  lone  heart  found  their  way. 

As  one  who  wakcneth  in  amaze. 
She  quickly  raised  her  head  ;  — 

And  "  Who  is  't  calls  me  mother  V 
Said  she,  "  my  child  is  dead  !" 

"He  was  the  last  of  seven  sons  — 
He  is  dead  —  I  have  none  other ;  — 

This  is  the  day  they  bury  him  ;  — 
Who  is  it  calls  me  mother?" 

"  'T  is  J,"  said  gentle  Marien, 
"  Dear  soul,  be  comforted  !" 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


79 


But  the  woman  only  wrung  her  hands, 
And  cried,  "  My  son  is  dead !" 

"  Be  comforted,"  said  Marien, 

And  then  she  sweetly  s^wke 
Of  Jesus  Christ,  and  how  he  came 

The  sting  from  death  to  take. 

She  told  of  all  his  life-long  love, 

His  soul  by  sutTering  tried  : 
And  how  at  last  his  mother  stood     , 

To  see  him  crucified. 

Of  the  disciples'  broken  hearts 
She  told,  of  pangs  and  pain; 

Of  Mary  at  the  sepulchre, 
And  Christ  arisen  again. 

"Then  sorrow  not,"  she  said,  "  as  though 

Thou  wert  of  all  bereft  ; 
For  still,  though  they  beloved  are  not. 

This  blessed  faitli  is  left. 

"That  when  thy  dream  of  life  is  o'er 
Thou  shalt  embrace  thy  seven. 

More  beautiful  than  earthly  sons, 
With  our  dear  Lord  in  heaven !" 

DovMi  on  her  knees  the  woman  fell. 
And  "  blessed  be  God,"  said  she, 

"  Who  in  my  sorest  need  hath  sent 
This  comforter  to  me !" 


PART   II. 


Now  Marien  in  the  woman's  house 
Abode  a  little  space. 

And  comfort  to  the  mother  came  ; 
And  a  dear  daughter's  place 

Had  Marien  in  the  woman's  heart. 

Doing  the  while  a  daughter's  part 

But  now  'twas  time  that  she  must  go; 

For  Marien's  duty  was  not  there, 
Now  grief  was  past  and  woe  was  done ; 
So,  with  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

She  rose  up  forth  to  fare. 

"  Nay,  bide  with  me,"  the  woman  said, 

"  Or,  if  as  thou  dost  say. 
Duty  forbids  that  ihis  may  be, 
I  a  day's  journey  go  with  thee. 

To  speed  thee  on  the  way." 

So  forth  the  loving  pair  set  out. 
The  woman  and  the  child  ; 

And  first  they  crossed  the  desert  heath. 
And  then  the  mountains  wild. 

And  in  the  woman's  arms  she  lay, 

That  night  within  the  forest  hoar. 
And  the  next  morn,  with  loving  heart. 
They  said  farewell,  as  those  who  part 
To  meet  on  earth  no  more. 

Upon  her  way  went  Marien, 
From  morn  till  set  of  day, 
8*  M 


And  the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  word, 

Upon  her  spirit  lay. 
And  oftentimes  she  sang  aloud 

As  she  went  on  her  way. 

The  joyfulest  song  sang  Marien 

That  e'er  left  human  tongue ; 
The  very  birds  were  mute  to  hear 

The  holy  words  she  sung. 

But  now  the  darksome  night  came  on. 

And  Marien  lay  her  down 
Within  a  little  way-side  cave. 

On  mosses  green  and  brown. 

And  in  the  deepest  hush  of  night 

Rude  robbers  entered  in ; 
And  first  they  ate  and  drank,  then  rose 

To  do  a  deed  of  sin. 

For  with  them  was  a  feeble  man. 
Whom  they  had  robbed,  and  they 

Here  came  to  foully  murder  him, 
And  hide  him  from  the  day. 

Up  from  her  bed  sprang  Marien, 

With  heavenly  power  endued ; 
And  in  her  glorious  innocence. 

Stood  'raong  the  robbers  rude. 

"  Ye  shall  not  take  the  life  of  man !" 

Spake  Marien  low  and  sweet; 
"  For  this  will  God  take  strict  account. 

Before  his  judgment-seat  I" 

Out  from  the  cave  the  robbers  fled, 

For  they  believed  there  stood, 
A  spirit  stern  and  beautiful. 

Not  aught  of  flesh  and  blood. 

And  two  from  out  the  robber-band 

Thenceforward  did  repent. 
And  lived  two  humble  Christian  men, 

On  righteous  deeds  intent. 

When  from  the  cave  the  robber-band 

Had  fled,  the  aged  man 
Rose  from  the  floor  where  he  was  laid. 

And  marvelling  much,  began. 

"  Who  art  thou,  child  ?  and  those  few  words 
Of  might  which  thou  hast  spoken. 

What  may  they  be  ?    My  foes  have  fled  — 
And  lol  my  bonds  are  broken; 

At  thy  few  words  my  foes  have  fled, 
My  rigid  bonds  have  broken  !" 

Then  Maria  'gan  to  tell  him  how. 
Through  her  God's  power  had  wrought ; 

And  him  I'rom  peril,  nigh  to  death. 
Thus  wondrously  had  brought. 

She  told  him  how  holy  Daniel's  faith 

The  caged  beasts  disarmed  ; 
How  the  three  righteous  children  walked 

Through  raging  fire  unharmed. 
89 


80 


IIO\VITT"S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  told  how  Peter,  bound  with  chains. 

Lay  in  the  prison-ward, 
How  God's  good  angel  freed  liim  straight, 
And  the  strong  prison's  iron  gate 

Oped  of  its  own  accord. 

"  God  knows  our  wants,"  saic^  Marien 

"And  in  our  sorest  need. 
Puts  forth  his  arm  to  rescue  us, 
For  he  is  merciful,  and  thus 

It  is  that  thou  art  freed." 

"  Let  us  go  hence !"  the  old  man  said, 

And  o'er  the  forest  sod, 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  quiet  steps, 

Went  forward  praising  God. 

Ere  noontide,  to  a  forest  grange 

They  came,  a  sylvan  place. 
Where  trooped,  no  longer  fearing  ^an. 

The  forest's  native  race, 
The  white  doe  and  the  antlered  stag. 

And  every  beast  of  chase. 

'Twas  joy  to  see  them  drawing  near 

The  old  man  as  he  came; 
And  this  he  stroked,  and  that  he  called 

By  some  familiar  name. 

'Twas  joy  unto  the  little  child 
This  little  pleasant  place  to  see  ; 

"  This  is  my  home,"  he  said,  "  and  here 
Thou  shalt  abide  with  me." 

"  I  have  no  child  to  be  mine  heir. 

And  I  am  growing  old  ;  — 
Thou  shalt  be  heir  of  all  my  lands. 

And  heir  of  all  my  gold. 

"Thou  shalt  be  comfort  to  mine  age. 

And  here  within  this  wood, 
'Mongst  faithful,  gentle  things,  shalt  thou 

Grow  up  to  womanhood !" 

There  dwelt  the  lovely  Marien, 

Within  the  forest  wild, 
And  she  unto  the  lone  old  man 

Was  dearer  than  a  child. 

There  dwelt  the  lovely  Marien  ; 

Yet  not  long  dwelt  she  there  ;  — 
The  old  man  died  ;  —  and  then  came  forth 

A  kinsman  for  the  heir. 

A  lean  and  rugged  man  of  pelf, 

In  wickedness  grown  old  ; 
Prom  some  vile  city-den  he  came 

And  seized  ujxjn  the  gold;  — 
He  slew  the  tamed  forest-beasts, — 

The  forest-grange  he  sold. 

And  with  hard  speeches,  coarse  and  rude, 

Away  the  child  he  sent : 
Meek  Marien  answered  not  a  word, 

But  through  the  forest  went. 


PART    III. 


TiiROL'GH  the  wild  wood  went  Marien, 

For  many  a  weary  day ; 
Her  f(X)d  the  forest-fruits,  and  on 

The  forest-turf  she  lay. 

The  wildern  wood  was  skirted 
By  moorlands  dry  and  brown  ; 

And  after  them  came  Marien 
Into  a  little  town. 

At  entrance  of  the  little  town 

A  cross  stood  by  the  way, 
A  rude  stone  cross,  and  there  she  knelt 

A  little  prayer  to  say. 

Then  on  the  stone-steps  sate  her  down ; 

And  soon  beside  her  crept, 
A  pale  child  with  a  clasped  book. 

And  all  the  while  she  wept. 

"  Why  weep  you,  child,"  asked  Marien, 
"  What  Iroublelh  you  so  sore  ?" 

At  these  words  spoken  tenderly. 
The  child  wept  more  and  more. 

"  I  have  not  heard,"  at  length  he  said, 
"  Kind  words  this  many  a  year. 

My  mother  is  dead  —  and  my  father 
Is  a  hard  man  and  severe. 

"  I  sit  in  corners  of  the  house 
Where  none  can  see  me  weep ; 

And  in  the  quiet  of  the  day 
'Tis  here  I  often  creep. 

"  The  kid  leaps  by  his  mother's  side, 
The  singing  birds  are  glad  : 

But  when  I  play  me  in  the  sun, 
My  heart  is  ever  sad. 

"They  say  this  blessed  book  can  heal 

All  trouble,  and  therefore 
All  day  I  keep  it  in  my  sight ; 
I  lay  it  'neath  my  head  at  night. 
But  it  doth  fcring  no  cure  to  me  :  — 
I  know  not  what  the  cause  may  be. 

For  I  of  learning  have  no  store  !" 

Thereat,  like  to  a  broken  flower 
The  child  drooped  down  his  head  ; 

Then  Marien  look  the  clasped  book 
And  of  the  Saviour  read. 

She  read  of  him  the  humble  child 

Of  poverty  and  scorn  ; 
How  holy  angels  sang  for  him 

The  night  that  he  was  born. 

How  blessed  angels  came  from  heaven 
To  hail  that  Christmas  night, 

And  shepherd  people  with  their  flocks 
Beheld  the  glorious  sight. 

Then  read  she  how,  a  growing  youth. 

His  parents  he  obeyed. 
And  served  with  unrepining  will 

St.  Joseph  at  his  trade. 

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HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


81 


Then  how  he  grew  to  man's  estate 

Anon  his  little  head  dropped  low, 

And  wandered  up  and  down, 

And  his  white  li[)s  'gan  to  say. 

Preaching  upon  the  lone  sea-side, 

"  Oh  kiss  me  gentle  one,  for  now 

And  in  tlie  busy  to«ii. 

Even  I  am  called  away  — 

Of  all  his  tenderness,  his  love, 

The  blessed  motiier's  voice  I  hear, 

Page  after  page  she  read; 

It  calleth  me  away!" 

How  he  made  whole  the  sick,  the  maimed. 

So  died  the  child  ;  —  and  Marien  laid 

And  how  he  raised  the  dead. 

His  meek  arms  on  his  breast, 

And  how  he  loved  the  children  small, 

With  the  clasped  book  between  his  hands:  — 

Even  of  low  degree  ; 

Thus  God  had  given  him  rest! 

And  how  he  blessed  them  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  Marien,  weeping  holy  tears, 

And  set  them  on  his  knee. 

Sate  down  beside  the  dead. 

When  this  the  little  child  had  heard 

And  slept  that  night  within  the  church, 

He  spoke  in  accents  low. 

As  in  a  kingly  bed. 

"  Would  that  I  had  been  one  with  them 

Scarce  from  the  church  had  Marien  passed. 

To  have  been  blessed  so !" 

When  came  the  father  there. 

"Thou  shalt  be  blessed,  gentle  one  !" 

As  was  his  wont,  though  fierce  and  bad. 

Said  Marien  kind  and  mild. 

To  say*  a  morning  prayer. 

"  Christ,  the  Great  Comforter,  doth  bless 

Not  seven  paces  had  he  gone. 

Thee,  even  now,  poor  child  !" 

When,  heart-struck,  he  surveyed 

So  conversed  they  of  holy  things 

Before  his  feet,  that  little  child 

Until  the  closing  day. 

In  his  dead  beauty  laid. 

Then  Marien  and  the  little  child 

At  once  as  by  a  lightning  stroke 

Rose  up  to  go  their  way. 

His  softened  soul  was  torn 

As  to  the  town  they  came,  they  passed 

With  a  deep  sense  of  all  the  wrong 

An  ancient  church,  and  "  here 

That  little  child  had  borne. 

Let  us  go  in !"'  the  pale  child  said, 

And  then  came  back  the  timid  voice 

"  For  the  organ  pealeth  over  head. 

The  footstep  faint  and  low. 

And  that  sweet  strain  of  holy  sound 

The  many  little  arts  to  please. 

Like  a  heavenly  vesture  wraps  me  round. 

The  look  of  hopeless  woe. 

And  my  heavy  heart  doth  cheer." 

And  many  a  shuddering  memory 

So  Marien  and  the  little  child 

Of  harsh  rebuke  and  blow. 

Into  the  church  they  stole  ; 

No  prayer  of  self-approving  words. 

And  many  voices  rich  and  soft 

As  was  his  wont,  he  said. 

Rose  upward  from  the  organ  loft, 

But  humbled,  weeping,  self-condemned. 

And  the  majestic  instrument 

He  stood  before  the  dead. 

Pealed  to  an  anthem  that  was  sent 

To  soothe  a  troubled  soul. 

PART    IV. 

Anon  the  voices  died  away, 

The  pealing  organ  ceased. 

And  through  the  church's  ancient  door 

Ten  long  days'  travel  Marien  went. 

Passed  chorister  and  priest. 

O'er  woodland  and  o'er  wold. 

And  Marien  and  th^  little  child 
Went  forward  hand  in  hand 

Teaching  and  preaching  by  the  way. 

Like  Jesus  Christ  of  old. 

Adown  the  chancel  aisle,  and  then 

Sometimes  within  the  Caron's  hall 

At  once  they  made  a  stand. 

A  lodging  she  would  find. 

Over  the  altar  hung  a  piece 

And  never  went  she  from  the  door 

With  holy  influence  fraught. 

But  blessings  staid  behind  ,• 

A  work  divine  of  wondrous  skill 

Proud  foes  forgiven,  revenge  withheld. 

By  some  old  painter  wrought 

And  plenteous  peace  of  mind. 

The  gracious  Saviour  breathing  love. 

With  shepherd  people  on  the  hills  ; 

Was  there  like  life  expressed, 

With  toiling  peasant  men. 

And  round  his  knees  the  children  small 

She  sate  ;  with  women  dwelling  lone, 

Were  thronging  to  be  blessed. 

On  mountain  or  in  glen. 

Down  dropped  the  child  upon  his  knees. 

By  wayside  wells  she  sate  her  down. 

And  weeping,  tenderly 

With  pilgrims  old  and  bent ; 

Cried  "  bless  me  also,  poor  and  weak, 

Or,  hand  in  hand,  with  children  small, 

Or  let  me  go  to  thee !" 

To  the  village  school  she  went. 

91 


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IIOVVITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  made  them  spare  the  singing  birds 

All  in  their  leafy  bowers  : 
She  made  them  love  all  living  things  ; 

And  praise  God  for  the  flowers. 

But  now  she  came  to  where  there  raged 

Wild  war  throughout  the  land  ; 
She  heard  the  vexed  people's  cry; 
She  saw  the  ravaged  corn-fields  lie  ; 
The  hamlets  smoking  to  the  sky  ; 
And  everywhere  careering  by 

The  spoiler's  savage  band. 

All  hearts  were  changed.    Like  ravening  wolves 

Men  preyed  upon  each  other; 
Dead  children  lay  on  the  bloody  mould  ; 
And  pitiless  had  grown,  and  cold, 

The  heart  of  many  a  mother. 

Wild  shouts  and  horrid  shrieks  around 

Filled  all  the  air;  the  earth 
Reeked  with  the  blood  that  had  been  spilt ; 

And  man  made  mockery  and  mirth 
Of  agony  and  mortal  woe  :  — 
Yet  through  all  this  did  Marien  go. 

Outraged  of  heart,  the  child  went  on, 

Weeping  upon  her  way ; 
And  now  she  soothed  a  dying  wretch  ; 
Then  for  another  ran  to  fetch 

Water;  and  every  day 
Did  deeds  of  mercy  good  and  mild  :  — 
Thus  journeyed  on  the  pitying  child. 

On  went  she,  —  and  as  she  went  on, 

Men  grew  ashamed  of  blood, 
So  beautiful  did  mercy  seem; 

And  the  wild  soldier  rude 
Slunk  back  as  slinks  a  noisome  beast; 

And  to  their  homes  once  more 
Came  mothers  with  their  little  ones; 

And  old  men,  weak  and  hoar, 
Sate  in  the  sun  as  they  had  wont, 

Unfearing  at  the  door. 

On  went  the  child,  —  and  as  she  went, 

Within  the  Baron's  hall. 
Were  hung  up  helm  and  mail  and  sword. 

To  rust  upon  the  wall. 

On  went  she,  — and  the  poets  sung 

No  longer  war's  acclaim. 
But  holy  hymns  of  love  and  joy, 

To  hail  her  as  she  came. 

On  went  she,  like  an  angel  good ; 

With  bounding  steps  she  went, 
Day  after  day,  until  she  came 

To  the  great  Conqueror's  tent. 

There  sat  he,  a  strong  man  of  blood, 
Steel-mailed  and  scarfed  with  blue, 

Poring  o'er  charts  of  distant  lands. 
For  new  lands  to  subdue. 


Beside  him  stood  the  gentle  child  ; 

And  now  he  traced  with  care, 
Measuring  from  river  unto  sea, 

A  fertile  region  fair. 

"  'Tis  a  good  land,"  said  Marien, 

"  From  river  unto  sea  ; 
And  there  a  (}uiet  people  dwell. 

Who  never  heard  of  thee. 

"  They  feed  their  flocks  and  herds  in  peace  ; 

The  fruitful  vine  they  till ; 
The  quiet  homes  their  fathers  built 

They  and  their  children  fill. 

"Even  now  their  happy  children's  joy 

Thee  and  thy  will  condemn ; 
Wherefore  should'st  thou  possess  that  land  ? 

God  gave  it  unto  them!" 

Into  her  face  the  proud  man  looked. 

Amazed  at  what  he  heard ; 
Then  turned  unto  his  charts  again, 

And  answered  never  a  word. 

Another  land  among  the  hills 

He  measured  with  his  eye; 
"  'Tis  a  stern  land,"  said  Marien, 

"  A  land  of  liberty  ! 

"  There  fled  the  Christians  in  old  time. 
And  built  their  churches  there  ; 

The  bells  upon  the  sabbath  morn 
Call  all  that  land  to  prayer. 

"  Would'st  thou  God's  people  tribulate  ? 

A  cursed  thing  it  were 
To  make  that  Christian  land  of  love 

A  bloody  sepulchre  I" 
The  proud  man  turned  him  round  about 

And  fiercely  gazed  at  her. 

"  Rivers  of  blood  have  flowed  for  thee!" 

Unblenching  Marien  said, 
"  .And  many  a  Christian  land  hast  thou 

With  Christian  blood  made  red. 

"  Up,  sin  no  more !     'Tis  coming  now, 

The  day  thou  canst  pot  flee. 
When  all  the  thousands  thou  hast  slain 

God  will  require  of  thee! 

"Thou  man  of  blood,  repent,  repent, 

Repent  whilst  yet  thou  may. 
And  store  up  deeds  of  love  and  peace 

Against  that  awful  day!" 

Up  from  his  seat  the  conqueror  rose, 

And  paced  the  uneasy  tent. 
And  ground  his  teeth  and  groaned  aloud. 

As  one  that  doth  repent, 

Forth  from  the  tent  sped  Marien  ; 

And  many  a  summer's  day 
Throughout  a  blessed  land  of  peace 

She  journeyed  on  her  way. 

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83 


PART    V 


At  length,  after  long  travel  past,        _ 

She  came  as  it  grew  late. 
Along  a  beaten  road,  that  led 

To  a  vast  city  gate. 

A  vast  and  populous  city,  where 
Rose  dome,  and  lower,  and  spire, 
And  many  a  gilded  pinnacle, 
Far-seen,  as  the  bright  sunset  fell, 
Like  glittering  points  of  fire. 

A  city  vast  and  populous. 

Whose  thronging  multitude 
Sent  forth  a  sound  afar-ofT  heard, 

Strong  as  the  ocean-flood. 

A  strong,  deep  sound  of  many  sounds, 

Toil,  pleasure,  pain,  delight. 
And  traffic,  myriad-wheeled,  whose  din 

Ceased  not  by  day  or  night. 

And  through  the  city  gate  a  throng 

Passed  ever,  never  spent ; 
A  busy  mingling  human  tide 

Of  those  who  came  and  went 

'T  was  a  proud  city  and  a  rich ; 

A  city  fair  and  old  ; 
Filled  with  the  world's  most  costly  things, - 

Of  precious  stones  and  gold  ; 
Of  silks,  fine  woods,  and  spiceries  ; 

And  all  that's  bought  and  sold. 

Thither  came  homeless  Marien, 

Came  there  as  it  grew  late. 
Foot-sore  and  weary,  friendless,  poor, 

Unto  the  city  gate. 

There  found  her  a  poor  carpenter 

Returning  from  his  trade. 
And  he,  with  pitying  countenance. 

Her  weary  form  surveyed. 

"  Come !"  said  he,  "  thou  unto  my  house, 

Shalt  go:  and  of  my  bread, 
And  of  my  cup,  Ihou  shalt  partake; 
Shalt  bide  with  me !"  and  as  he  spake 

Her  weary  steps  he  led. 

Unto  an  liumble  place  that  stood 

'Mong  dwellings  of  the  poor 
He  brought  her;  bade  her  welcome  thrice 

Unto  his  lowly  door. 

The  good-wife  met  her  with  like  cheer, 
"  And  though  our  fare  is  scant, 

Fear  not,"  she  said,  "  whilst  we  have  food 
It  is  not  thou  shalt  want'." 

So  dwelt  she  with  this  humble  pair 

In  the  great  city,  cherished  so. 
As  parents  cherish  their  first-born  ; 

Nor  would  they  let  her  go. 

Thus  for  a  year  she  dwelt  with  them  ; 
And  that  while  their  abode 


Was  blessed  exceedingly;  their  store 

Grew  daily,  weekly,  more  and  more  ; 
And  peace  so  multiplied  around. 
The  very  hearth  seemed  holy  ground. 
As  if  once  more  on  earth  was  found 
The  Paradise  of  God. 

'T  was  she  that  blessed  ihc  bread  they  ate, 
'T  was  she  soothed  all  their  cares; 

They  knew  not  that  they  entertained 
An  angel  unawares. 

With  simple  hearts  that  had  no  guile 

They  of  the  Saviour  heard ; 
And,  weeping  tears  of  joyful  faith, 

Believed  and  blessed  each  word. 

No  more  they  marvelled  how  their  board 
With  plenteous  li)od  was  spread  ; 

Five  barley  loaves  dispensed  by  Christ 
The  famished  thousands  fed. 

With  love  that  would  not  be  repressed, 

Their  kindling  bosoms  burned. 
And  'mong  their  neighbours  poor  they  went 

To  teach  what  they  had  learned. 

To  teach  how  Christ  unto  the  jMor, 

The  sinner  vile,  was  sent; 
How  Mary  washed  his  feet  with  tears, 
And  wiped  them  with  her  golden  hairs, 

A  weeping  penitent. 

And  how  the  sinful  woman  stood 

Unjudged  before  his  face; 
How  the  poor  prodigal  sped  back 

Repentant  to  his  place ; 

How  to  the  thief  upon  the  cross 

He  said,  thou  art  forgiven. 
And  thou  shalt  be  with  me  this  day, 

In  the  paradise  of  Heaven. 

So  preached  the  carpenter ;  and  men 

Turned  from  their  evil  ways, 
And  Christian  prayer  was  heard  around, 

And  Christian  hymns  of  praise. 

Strange  seemed  these  things ;  and  to  the  rich, 

And  to  the  proud,  'twas  told. 
How  many  of  the  meaner  sort 

Lived  like  the  saints  of  old. 

How  holy,  blameless,  were  their  lives ; 

And  ho.v  poor  craftsmen  vile. 
Amid  their  fellows,  tool  in  hand, 

The  gospel  preached  the  while. 

'T  was  told  of  Marien  ;  how  she  came 
A  wanderer  none  knew  whence  ; 

Friendless  and  poor,  of  mind  mature, 
A  child  in  innocence; 

As  thus  't  was  told,  some  blessed  God, 
But  others  took  offence. 

"  Why,"  said  they,  "  should  this  simple  child. 

These  men  of  low  degree. 
Thus  preach  and  practise  ?  what  new  faith 

Is  there,  or  need  there  be  ? 

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"  Bishops  have  taught  a  thousand  years, 

And  learned  men  are  they ; 
These  are  mad  doctrines,  false,  unfit. 

Devised  to  lead  astray." 

Therefore  the  simple  people  were 

To  a  full  synod  brought. 
To  answer  for  their  altered  lives, 

And  for  the  faith  they  taught. 

Much  marvelled  all  those  learned  men 

To  see  them  fearless  stand. 
Calm,  unabashed  ;  with  ready  wit, 

And  language  at  command. 

And  to  their  taunts  of  low  estate, 

They  answered,  "  let  alone 
All  pride  of  rank  ;  Christ  chose  the  poor, 

To  make  his  gospel  known. 

"  And  what  are  we  ?  —  Immortal  souls, 
For  whom  Christ's  blood  was  shed  ; 

Children  of  one  great  sire,  with  ye, 

Co-heirs  of  Immortality ; 

Alike  you  both  in  birth  and  death ; 

Alone  our  lot  so  difTereth, 
As  God  shall  judge  the  dead  !" 

Then  were  they  questioned  of  old  creeds  ; 

By  sophistries  perplexed  ; 
So  that  their  artless  lore  might  fail. 

Their  simple  souls  be  vexed. 

But  they  were  steadfast  in  the  faith 

As  taught  the  holy  book  ; 
And  thence  it  was  adjudged  a  crime 

Upon  its  page  to  look. 

And  the  grave  synod  rose  in  wrath. 
And  they  were  judged  blasphemers  dire, 

And  doomed,  their  daring  heresies 
To  expiate  in  fire. 


PART  VI. 


So  perished  for  their  faith  in  Christ, 
This  righteous  couple  ;  for  their  foes 

Beseeching  pardon  ;  blessing  God 

That  they  were  reckoned  among  those 

Worthy  to  die  for  (Christ,  whose  place 

Is  with  the  Holiest  face  to  face. 

Beside  the  pile  stood  Marien 

Weeping  sad  hmnan  tears. 
Yet  strengthening,  comforting  the  while, 

And  soothing  all  their  fears. 

And  as  she  spoke,  her  countenance 
With  heavenly  lustre  beamed, 

And  all  around  her  youthful  form 
Celestial  beauty  streamed. 

Men  looked  on  her  with  wondering  awe. 

As  on  an  angel's  face. 
And  pity,  and  love,  and  sweet  remorse. 

In  every  heart  had  place. 


Throughout  the  city  rang  the  tale 

Of  this  divinest  child  ; 
And  for  her  sake  unto  her  faith 

Many  were  reconciled. 

Unto€ie  synod  came  these  things; 

And  "  here  let  her  be  brought, 
To  answer  for  herself,"  they  said, 

"  And  suffer  as  she  ought." 

As  Christ  among  the  doctors  stood, 

So  she  among  these  men. 
Stem,  rugged- browed,  and  deeply  versed 

In  parchment  and  in  pen ; 
Meekly  she  stood  ;  when  they  reviled. 

Reviling  not  again. 

Yet  with  sweet  words  and  argument. 

Rather  of  love  than  lore. 
She  pleaded  for  the  faith,  as  ne'er 

Pled  youthful  tongue  before. 

All  were  amazed  who  heard  her  words ; 

And  straightway  spoke  each  one 
Unto  his  neighbour,  '•  Through  this  child 

May  mighty  things  be  done!" 

Then  threatening  words  anon  grew  soft, 
"And  thou  with  us  shall  go," 

They  said,  "  and  with  the  poor  and  vile, 
J\o  longer  suffer  woe. 

"Thou  shaft  be  clothed  in  purple  robes, 

In  gold  and  linen  fine ; 
Shalt  eat  the  daintiest  food  ;  shall  drink 

The  spirit-gladdening  wine. 

"  And  with  us  in  proud  palaces 
A  crowned  queen  shall  be; 

Leave  but  these  men,  for  they  are  poor. 
And  can  do  nought  for  thee! 

"  Behold  the  stake  at  which  they  bum  — 

The  iron-rack  behold  — 
Are  these  the  men  to  make  thee  rich 

With  silver  and  with  gold  ? 

"Come  with  us,  glorious  Marien, 

And  in  our  places  high. 
We  will  exalt  thee  as  a  queen. 

Will  deck  thee  royally!" 

"  Nay,"  said  sweet  Marien,  "  as  a  queen 

It  is  not  I  may  bide ; 
I  am  not  won  with  power  nor  gold. 

Nor  aught  of  human  pride. 

"  Who  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field. 
Will  clothe  me,  even  as  tliey  ; 

Who  hears  the  ravens  when  they  cry. 
Will  feed  me  day  by  day !" 

But  still  the  tempters  kept  with  her; 

And  "  Come  away,"  they  said. 
And  she  unto  a  sumptuous  dome 

With  royal  pomp  was  led. 

They  showed  her  all  that  palace  proud  ; 

They  .'^howed  her  store  of  gold  ; 
They  told  her  of  a  hundred  realms. 

And  wealth  a  hundred-fold. 

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HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


85 


"  And  all  this  sholl  bo  thine,"  they  said, 

"All  this  be  thine,  and  more, 
So  thou  wilt  l)ind  thyself  to  us, 

And  leave  the  weak  and  poor! 

"Thou  that  art  weak  and  poor  thyself, 

A  crowned  queen  shall  be!" 
Said  Marien,  "  In  the  wilderness 

The  Tempter  came,  and  he 
Oflered  to  Jesus  Christ  such  gifts 

As  now  ye  offer  me  I" 

Those  rugged  brows  grew  dark.  "  Come  now 

With  us,"  they  fiercely  said, 
"And  see  what  never  daylight  saw, 

The  halls  of  dool  and  dread !" 

Then  unto  chambers  hidden,  vast, 

Mysterious,  far  from  view. 
They  led  her;  there  was  set  the  rack, 

The  knotted  cord,  the  screw, 
And  many  a  horrid  instrument. 

Whose  dark  ensanguined  hue 
Told  of  their  purpose,     "  These,"  said  they, 
•'Many  strange  wonders  do  I 

"Look  well ;  could'st  thou  endure  these  things  ? 

Strong  men  have  died  ere  now 
Under  their  torment;  men  were  they, 

A  little  child  art  thou  !" 

Then  Marien  meekly  answered,  "  What 

God  sufTereth  you  to  dare. 
He,  to  whom  darkness  is  as  light, 

Will  strengthen  me  to  bear  I" 

"  Come  onward  yet,"  they  said ;  and  down 

Damp,  broken  stairs  they  went ; 
Down,  down  to  hidden  vaults  of  stone, 

Through  vapours  pestilent. 

And  then  with  sullen  iron  keys 

They  opened  doors  of  stone  ; 
.\nd  heavy  chained  captives  there 

They  showed  her,  one  by  one. 

Old,  white-haired  men ;  men  middle-aged, 

That  had  been  strong  of  limb; 
But  each,  now  pallid,  hollow-eyed. 

Like  spectres  worn  and  dim. 

.\nd  many,  as  the  dull  door  oped, 

Ne'er  lifted  up  the  head;  — 
Heart-broken  victims  of  long  pain. 

Whose  very  hope  was  dead. 

Others  with  feverish  restlessness 

Sprang  up,  and  with  quick  cry. 
That  thrilled  the  hearer  to  the  soul. 

Demanded  liberty. 

With  bleedmg  heart  went  Marien  on  ; 

And  her  conductors  spake, 
"These  are  our  victims;  these  await 

The  rack,  the  cord,  the  stake. 

"  .\nd  as  these  are,  so  shalt  thou  be, 

If  thou  our  will  gainsay  ; 
.\ccept  our  service,  pride,  and  power ; 

Or,  on  this  very  day. 


Rucked,  prisoned,  poor,  and  miserable. 
Thou  shalt  be,  even  as  they  !" 

Down  on  the  floor  sank  Marien, 
And,  "Oh,  dear  Ix)rd,"  she  cried, 

"  Assist  thy  poor  and  trembling  one 
This  awful  hour  to  bide  ; 

Let  me  be  strong  to  do  thy  will, 
Like  him  who  bowed,  and  died  !" 

They  took  her:  —  of  that  prison  house. 

The  secrets  wiio  may  say  ?  — 
I\acked,  fettered,  captived,  in  their  power. 

The  gentle  Marien  lay; 
Captive  within  their  torture-halls 

A  long  night  and  a  day ! 


PART    VII. 


The.v  forth  they  brought  her;  gave  her  wine 

And  pleasant  food  to  eat ; 
.\nd  "  rest  thee,  Marien,  in  our  arras," 

Sung  syren  voices  sweet. 

"  Rest  thee  within  our  arms;  refresh 

Thy  fainting  soul  with  wine  ; 
Eat  and  be  glad  ;  forget  the  past. 

And  make  all  pleasure  thme !" 

"  Tempt  me  not  I"  said  the  feeble  child, 
"  Take  hence  your  spiced  bowl ; 

Is 't  not  enough  to  rack  my  limbs, 
But  you  must  vex  my  soul  ? 

"  Look  at  my  flesh,  which  ye  have  torn ; 

Look  at  j'our  bloody  rack;  — 
Take  hence  your  gifts,  and  let  me  go 

To  my  own  people  back. 

"  To  my  own  people  let  me  go, 

A  bruised  and  broken  reed  ; 
I  i'oT  your  purpose  am  unmeet ; 

Let  me  go  hence  with  speed." 

So,  in  her  weakness,  prayed  the  child  ; 

But  those  remorseless  men, 
More  dead  than  living,  bore  her  back 

Lnto  their  prison-den. 

Into  a  noisome  prison-house, 

W'ith  iron-doors  made  fast, 
'Mong  felons  and  'mong  murderers. 

Was  gentle  Marien  cast. 

Upon  the  hard,  cold  prison-floor 

Sick  luito  death  she  lay. 
As  if  God  had  forsaken  her, 

For  many  a  weary  day. 

She  thought  of  her  sweet  forest  life. 

And  of  those  creatures  small. 
Weak,  woodland  creatures,  tamed  by  love. 

That  came  unto  her  call. 

She  thought  of  him,  the  forest-lord, 

And  of  the  forest-grange  ; 
Of  the  delicious  life  she  led, 

With  liberty  to  range. 

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HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  as  she  thought,  even  as  a  child's, 

The  ceaseless  tears  did  flow. 
For  torturing  pain  and  misery 

Had  brought  her  spirij  low. 
When  one  from  out  the  felon-band 

Came  softly  to  her  side, 
And  "  do  not  weep,  thou  little  child  !" 

With  pitying  voice,  he  cried. 
"  At  sight  of  thee,  I  know  not  why, 

My  softened  heart  doth  burn, 
And  the  gone  tenderness  of  youth 

Doth  to  my  soul  return. 
"I  think  upon  my  early  days. 

Like  unto  days  of  heaven ; 
And  I,  that  have  not  wept  for  years, 
Even  as  a  child,  shed  ceaseless  tears, 

And  pray  to  be  forgiven !" 

"  Blessed  be  God  !"  said  Marien, 

And  rose  up  from  the  floor; 
"  I  was  not  hither  brought  in  vain ! 

His  mercy  I  adore. 
Who  out  of  darkness  brought  forth  light!" 

And  thus  she  wept  no  more. 

But  ever  of  the  Saviour  taught ; 

How  he  came  down  to  win. 
With  love,  and  suflfering  manifold. 

The  sinner  from  his  sin. 

How,  not  to  kings  and  mighty  men 

He  came,  nor  to  the  wise. 
But  to  the  thief  and  murderer, 

And  those  whom  men  despise. 

And  how,  throughout  the  host  of  heaven 

Goes  yet  a  louder  praise 
O'er  one  poor  sinner  who  doth  turn 

From  his  unrighteous  ways. 
Than  o'er  a  hundred  godly  men, 

Who  sin  not  all  their  days. 
Thus  with  the  felons  she  abode, 

And  that  barred  prison  rude 
Was  as  if  angels  dwelt  therein, 

And  not  fierce  men  of  blood ; 
For  God  had  her  captivity 

Turned  into  means  of  good. 

Now  all  this  while  sweet  Marien's  friends, 

Who  in  the  town  remained. 
Of  her  took  painful  thought,  resolved 

Her  freedom  should  be  gained. 

And  at  the  last  they  compassed  it. 

With  labour  long  and  great ; 
And  through  the  night  they  hurried  her 

Unto  the  city-gate. 
There  many  a  mother  stood,  and  child. 

Weeping  with  friendly  woe. 
Thus,  thus  to  meet,  as  'twere  from  death, 

And  then  to  bid  her  go. 

To  bid  her  go,  whom  so  they  loved. 

Nor  once  more  sec  her  face ; 
To  bid  her  go ;  to  speed  her  forth 

To  some  more  friendly  place. 


Thus,  amid  blessings,  prayers,  and  teare 

About  the  break  of  day. 
She  left  the  city,  praising  God 
For  her  release ;  and  swiftly  trod 

Upon  her  unknown  way. 


PART  VIII. 


A  BOW-SHOT  from  the  city-gate 

Turned  Marien  from  the  plain, 
Intent  by  unfrequented  ways 

The  mountain-land  to  gain. 

With  bounding  step  she  onward  went, 

Over  the  moorland  fells ; 
O'er  fragrant  tracks  of  purple  thyme. 

And  crimson  heather-bells. 

Joyful  in  her  release  she  went. 

Still  onward  yet,  and  higher ; 
Up  many  a  mossy,  stony  steep. 
Through  many  a  flock  of  mountain  sheep, 
By  the  hill-tarns  so  dark  and  deep. 

As  if  she  could  not  tire. 

Onward  and  upward  still  she  went 

Among  the  breezy  hills. 
Singing  for  very  joyfulness 

Unto  the  singing  rills. 

The  days  of  her  captivity. 

The  days  of  fear  and  pain. 
Were  past,  and  now  through  shade  and  shine. 

She  wandered  free  again. 

Free,  like  the  breezes  of  the  hill, 

Free,  like  the  waters  wild  ; 
And  in  her  fullness  of  delight. 
Unceasingly  from  height  to  height 

Went  on  the  blessed  child. 

And  ever  when  she  needed  food, 

Some  wanderer  of  the  hill 
Drew  forth  the  morsel  from  his  scrip. 

And  bade  her  eat  her  fill. 

For  He  who  fed  by  Cherith-brook 

The  prophet  in  his  need. 
Of  this  his  wandering  little  one 

Unceasingly  had  heed. 

And  ever  when  she  needed  rest. 

Some  little  cove  she  found. 
So  green,  so  .sheltered,  and  so  still. 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  hill, 

As  angels  girt  it  round. 

Thus  hidden  'mong  the  quiet  hills 

Alone,  yet  wanting  nought. 
She  dwelt  secure,  until  her  foes 

For  her  no  longer  sought. 

Then  forth  she  journeyed.    Soon  the  hills 
Were  of  more  smooth  descent; 

And  downward  now,  and  onward  still. 
Toward  the  sea  she  went. 

96 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


.87 


Toward  the  great  sea  for  raany  days ; 

And  now  she  heard  ils  roar; 
Had  sunlit  glimpses  of  ifnovv, 

And  now  she  trod  the  shore. 

A  rugged  shore  of  broken  cliffs. 
And  barren  wave-washed  sand, 

Where  only  the  dry  sea-wheat  grew 
By  patches  on  the  strand. 

A  weary  way  walked  Marien 

Beside  the  booming  sea, 
Nor  boat,  nor  hut,  nor  fisherman 

Throughout  the  day  saw  she. 

A  weary,  solitary  way  ; 

And  as  tlie  day  declined 
Over  the  dark  and  troubled  sea 

Arose  a  stormy  wind. 

The  heavy  waves  came  roaring  in 

With  the  strong  coming  tide ; 
The  rain  poured  down,  aud  deep  dark  night 

Closed  in  on  every  side. 

There  stood  the  homeless  Marien 

With  bare,  unsandaled  feet  ; 
And  on  her  form,  with  pitiless  force, 

The  raging  tempest  beat. 

Clasping  her  hands,  she  stood  forlorn, 

"In  tempest,  and  in  night:" 
She  cried,  "Oh  Lord,  I  trust  in  thee, 

And  thou  wilt  lead  me  right !" 

Now  underneath  a  shelving  bank 
Of  sea-driven  sand,  there  stood 

A  miserable  hnt,  the  home 
Of  a  poor  fisher  good. 

Whose  loving  wife  but  yesternight 

Died  in  his  arms,  and  he, 
Since  that  day's  noon,  alone  had  been 

Casting  his  nets  at  sea. 

At  noon  he  kissed  his  little  ones, 

And  would  be  back,  he  said, 
Long  ere  night  closed  ;  but  with  the  night 

Arose  that  tempest  dread. 

It  was  an  old  and  crazy  boat, 

Wherein  the  man  was  set, 
And  soon  't  was  laden  heavily 

With  many  a  laden  net. 

"  Oh  sorrow,  sorrow !"  groaned  he  forth. 

As  rose  the  sudden  squall. 
Thinking  upon  the  mother  dead, 

And  on  his  children  small. 

"  Oh  sorrow,  sorrow  I"  loud  he  cried. 
As  the  helm  flew  from  his  hand. 

And  he  knew  the  boat  was  sinking 
But  half  a  league  from  land. 

"  Oh  sorrow,  sorrow !"  as  he  sank 

Was  still  his  wailin?  cry ; 
And  Marien  heafd  amid  the  storm, 

That  voice  of  misery. 
9  N 


Now  all  this  while  the  children  small 

Kept  in  their  dreary  place, 
Troubled  and  sad,  and  half  afear'd 

Of  their  dead  mother's  face. 

And  when,  to  while  the  time,  they  played 

With  shells  beside  the  door, 
They  fbtmd  they  had  not  hearts  for  mirth, 

And  so  they  played  no  more. 

Yet  keeping  up  with  forced  content 
Their  hearts  as  best  they  might, 

Still  wishing  afternoon  were  gone. 
And  it  was  only  night. 

But  when,  hour  after  hour  went  on. 

And  the  night  tempest  black 
Raged  o'er  the  stormy  sea,  and  still 

The  father  came  not  back ; 
It  would  have  touched  a  heart  of  stone 

To  see  their  looks  of  fear  — 
So  young  and  so  forlorn; — their  words 

Of  counsel  small  to  hear. 
And  now  they  shouted  through  the  storm  ; 

And  then  with  better  wit. 
As  they  had  seen  their  mother  do, 

A  fire  of  wood  they  lit. 
That  he  might  see  the  hght  afar 

And  steer  his  boat  by  it. 

Unto  this  light  came  Marien ; 

And  ere  her  weary  feet 
Had  reached  the  floor,  the  children  ran 

With  eager  arms  to  meet 
Their  loving  lather,  as  they  thought. 

And  give  him  welcome  sweet. 

Alas!  the  father  even  then 

Had  run  his  mortal  race  ; 
But  God  had  sent  his  Comforter. 

To  fill  his  earthly  place. 


PART   IX, 


Woe  's  me,  what  secret  tears  are  shed, 
What  wounded  spirits  bleed  ; 

W^hat  loving  hearts  are  sundered. 
And  yet  man  takes  no  heed ! 

He  goeth  on  his  daily  course, 
Made  fat  with  oil  and  wine. 

And  pilielh  not  the  weary  souls 
That  in  his  bondage  pine ; 

That  turn  for  him  the  mazy  wheel ; 
That  delve  for  him  the  mine. 

And  pitieth  not  the  children  small. 

In  noisy  factories  dim. 
That  all  day  long,  lean,  pale,  and  faint. 

Do  heavy  tasks  for  him ! 

To  him  they  are  but  as  the  stone.s 

Beneath  his  feet  that  lie: 
It  entereth  not  his  thoughts  that  they 

From  him  claim  sympathy. 

97 


88 


IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  entereth  not  his  thoughts  that  God 

lleareth  the  sutFerer's  groan, 
That  in  his  righteous  eye,  their  Ufa 

Is  precious  as  his  own. 

This  moves  him  not.     But  let  us  now 

Unto  the  lisher's  shed. 
Where  sat  his  weeping  little  ones 

Three  days  beside  the  dead. 

It  was  a  solitary  waste 

Of  barren  sand,  which  bore 
No  sign  of  human  dwelling-place 

For  miles  along  the  shore. 

Yet  to  the  scattered  dwellers  there 

Sped  Marien,  and  besought 
That  of  the  living  and  the  dead 

They  would  take  Christian  thought. 

So  in  the  churchyard  by  the  sea. 

The  senseless  dead  was  laid  : 
"  And  now  what  will  become  of  us  !" 

The  weeping  children  said. 

"  For  who  will  give  us  bread  to  eat  ? 

The  neighbours  are  so  poor  ! 
And  he,  our  kinsman  in  the  town, 

Would  drive  us  from  his  door. 

"  For  he  is  rich  and  pitiless, 

With  heart  as  cold  as  stone  ! 
Who  will  be  parents  to  us  now 

That  ours  are  dead  and  gone  ?" 

"  Weep  not,"  said  faithful  Marien, 
"Man's  heart  is  not  so  hard, 
But  it  your  friendless  misery 
Will  tenderly  regard ! 

"And  I  with  you  will  still  abide 
Your  friendless  souls  to  cheer, 

Be  father  and  mother  both  to  you  ; 
For  this  God  .sent  me  here. 

"  And  to  your  kinsman  in  the  town. 

Who  hath  such  store  of  gold, 
I  will  convey  you :  God  can  change 

His  spirit  stern  and  cold. 

"  And  ye,  like  angels  of  sweet  love, 
From  earth  his  soul  may  wm. 

Fear  not ;  and  we  with  morning  light 
The  journey  will  begin." 

They  took  their  little  worldly  store  ; 

And  at  the  break  of  day. 
Leaving  the  lonesome  sea-side  shed, 

Set  out  upon  their  way. 

'Mong  sandy  hills  their  way  they  wound  ; 

O'er  sea-graiis  dusk  and  harsh  ; 
By  many  a  land-mark  lone  and  still ; 

Through  many  a  salt  sea-marsh. 

And  thus  for  twice  seven  days  they  went 

A  little  loving  band. 
Walking  along  their  weary  way  ; 

Like  angels,  hand  in  hand. 


And  everywhere  kind  Christian  folks 

They  found,  as  Marien  said. 
Who  gave  them  lodging  for  the  night. 

And  gave  them  dady  bread. 

And  thus  they  pilgrimed,  day  by  day, 

Alone  yet  not  cast  dotvn. 
Strengthened  by  Marien 's  company, 

Unto  the  sea-port  town. 

A  busy  town  beside  the  sea, 

Wiiere  men  were  all  astir. 
Buying  and  selling  ;  eager-eyed. 
Two  different  races,  yet  allied, — 

Merchant  and  mariner. 

A  place  of  ships,  whose  name  was  known 

Far  off,  beyond  the  main ; 
A  busy  place  of  trade,  vihere  nought 

Was  in  repute  but  gain. 

Thither  they  came,  those  children  poor, 

About  the  eventide ; 
And  where  dwelt  he,  their  kinsman  rich, 

They  asked  on  every  side. 

After  long  asking,  one  they  found, 

An  old  man  and  a  poor. 
Who  undertook  to  lead  them  straight 

Unto  the  kinsman's  door. 

But  ever  as  he  went  along 

He  to  himself  did  say. 
Low  broken  sentences,  as  thus, 

"  Their  kinsman !  —  well-a-way !" 

All  through  a  labyrinth  of  walls 

Blackened  with  cloudy  smoke, 
He  led  them,  where  was  heard  the  forge 

And  the  strong  hammer's  stroke. 

And  beneath  lofty  windows  dim 

In  many  a  doleful  rov^% 
Whence  came  the  jangle  of  quick  looms, 

Down  to  the  courts  below. 

Still  on  the  children,  terrified, 
With  wildered  spirits  passed  ; 

Until  of  these  great  mammon  halls. 
They  reached  the  heart  at  last, — 

A  little  chamber  hot  and  dim, 
W'ith  iron  bars  made  fast. 

There  sate  the  kinsman,  shrunk  and  lean. 

And  leaden-eyed  and  old. 
Busied  before  a  lighted  lamp 

In  sealing  bags  of  gold. 

The  moment  that  they  entered  in. 

He  clutched  wiih  pallid  fear 
His  heavy  bags,  as  if  he  thought 

That  sudden  thieves  were.  near. 

"  Rich  man !"  said  Marien,  "  ope  thy  bags 

And  of  thy  gold  be  free. 
Make  gladsome  cheer,  for  Heaven  hath  sent 

A  blessing  tmlo  ihee !" 
"  What  I"  said  the  miser,  "'is  there  news 

Of  my  lost  argosy  V 

98 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


89 


"  Better  than  gold,  or  merchant-ships, 

Is  that  which  thou  shalt  win," 
Said  Marion,  "  thine  immortal  soul 

From  its  black  load  of  sin." 

"  Look  at  these  children,  ihine  own  blood," 

And  then  their  name  she  told ; 
"  Open  thiwc  heart  lo  do  them  good. 

To  love  ihem  more  than  gold;  — 
And  what  thou  givest  will  come  back 

To  thee,  a  thousand-lbld !" 

"  Ah,"  said  the  miser,  "  even  these 

Some  gainful  work  may  do. 
My  looms  stand  still ;  of  5'onthful  hands 

I  have  not  half  enow; 
I  shall  have  prolil  in  their  toil ; 

Yes,  child,  thy  words  are  true  I" 

"  Thou  fool !"  said  Marien,  "  still  for  gain. 

To  cast  thy  soul  away! 
The  Lord  be  judge  'twixt  these  and  thee 

Upon  his  reckoning  day! 

"These  little  ones  are  fatherless, — 

He  sees -them  day  and  night; 
And  as  thou  doest  unto  them, 

On  thee  he  will  requite  I" 

"  Gave  I  not  alms  upon  a  time  V 

Said  he,  with  anger  thrilled  ; 
"  And  when  I  die,  give  I  not  gold, 

A  stately  church  to  build  ? 

"  What  wouldst  thou  more  ?  my  flesh  and  blood 

I  seek  not  to  gainsay. 
But  what  I  give,  is  it  unmeet 

Their  labour  should  repay !" 

So  saying,  in  an  iron  chest, 

He  locked  his  bags  of  gold. 
And  bade  the  children  follow  him, 

In  accents  harsh  and  cold. 


PART   X. 


"  Oh  leave  us  not  sweet  Marien !" 

The  little  children  spake; 

For  if  thou  leave  us  here,  alone. 

Our  wretched  hearts  will  break." 

She  left  them  not  —  kind  Marien ! 

And  in  a  noisome  room, 
Day  after  day,  week  after  week, 

They  laboured  at  the  loom. 

The  while  they  thought  with  longing  souls 

Upon  the  breezy  strand. 
The  flying  shuttles,  to  and  fro, 

Passed  through  each  little  hand. 

The  while  they  thought  with  aching  hearts, 

Upon  their  parents  dear. 
The  growing  web  was  watered, 

With  many  a  bitter  tear. 


And  the  sweet  memory  of  the  past, — 
The  white  sands  stretching  wide ; 

Their  father's  boat  w-herein  they  played, 
Upon  the  rocking  tide ; 

The  sandy  shells ;  the  sea-mew's  scream  ; 

The  ocean's  ceaseless  boom ; 
Came  to  them  like  a  troubling  dream. 

Within  the  noisy  loom. 

Wo-worth  those  children,  hard  bested, 

A  weary  life  they  knew; 
Their  hands  were  thin ;  their  cheeks  were  pale 

That  were  of  rosy  hue. 

The  miser  kinsman  in  and  out 

Passed  ever  and  anon ; 
Nor  ever  did  he  speak  a  word. 

Except  to  urge  them  on. 

Wo-worth  those  children,  hard  bested. 

They  worked  the  livelong  day; 
Nor  was  there  one,  save  Marien, 

A  soothing  ward  to  say  :  — 
So,  amid  toil  and  ])ain  of  heart. 

The  long  months  wore  away. 

The  long,  the  weary  months  passed  on. 

And  the  hard  kinsman  told 
Over  his  profits;  every  loom 

Increased  the  hoard  of  gold  ; 
"  'Tis  well !"  said  he,  "  let  more  be  spun 

That  more  may  yet  be  sold !" 

So  passed  the  time ;  and  with  the  toil 

Of  children  weak  and  poor. 
The  sordid  kinsman's  treasure-hoards 

Increased  more  and  more. 

But  ere  a  year  was  come  and  gone, 

The  spirit  of  the  boy 
Was  changed  ;  with  natures  fierce  and  rudo 

He  found  his  chiefest  joy. 

The  hardness  of  the  kinsman's  soul 

Wrought  on  him  like  a  spell, 
Exciting  in  his  outraged  heart. 

Revenge  and  hatred  fell ; 
The  will  impatient  to  control; 

The  spirit  lo  rebel. 

Hence  was  there  warfare  'twixt  the  two. 
The  weak  against  the  strong;  — 

A  hopeless,  miserable  strife 
That  could  not  last  for  long  : 

How  can  the  young,  the  poor,  contend 
Against  the  rich  man's  wrong! 

The  tender  trouble  of  his  eye, 

Was  gone;  his  brow  was  cold; 
His  speech,  like  that  of  desperate  men. 

Was  reckless,  fierce,  and  bold. 

No  more  he  kissed  his  sister's  cheek ; 

Nor  soothed  her  as  she  wept ; 
No  more  he  said  at  Marien's  knee 

His  prayers  before  he  slept. 

99 


90 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  they,  the  solitary  pair, 

"  'Tis  darksome  all  —  Oh,  drearly  dark ' 

Like  pitying  angels  poured 

When  will  this  gloom  pass  by  ? 

Tears  for  tlie  sinner ;  and  with  groans 

Is  there  no  comfort  for  t!ie  poor. 

His  evil  life  deplored. 

And  for  the  young  who  die  I" 

Man  knew  not  of  that  secret  grief, 

Down  by  her  side  knelt  Marien, 

Which  in  their  bosoms  lay; 

And  kissed  her  fading  cheek. 

And  for  the  sinful  brother's  sin, 

Then  of  the  loving  Saviour, 

Yet  harder  doom  had  they. 

In  low  tones  'gan  to  speak. 

But  God,  who  trieth  hearts  ;  who  knows 

She  told  of  Lazarus,  how  he  lay. 

The  springs  of  Iniman  will  ; 

A  beggar  mean  and  poor. 

Who  is  a  juster  judge  than  man. 

And  died,  in  misery  and  want. 

Of  mortal  good  and  ill ; 

Beside  the  rich  man's  door. 

He  saw  those  poor  despised  ones. 

Yet  how  the  blessed  angels  came. 

And  willed  them  still  to  mourn  : 

To  bear  his  soul  on  high. 

He  saw  the  wandering  prodigal, 

Within  the  glorious  courts  of  heaven, 

Yet  bade  him  not  return. 

On  Abraham's  breast  to  lie. 

She  told  how  children,  when  they  die, 

Yet  higher  glory  win. 
And  see  the  Father  face  to  face. 

In  his  good  time  that  weak  one's  woe. 
Would  do  its  work  of  grace  ; 

And  the  poor  prodigal,  himself. 
Would  seek  the  father's  face  ;  — 

Unsoiled  by  tainting  sin. 

Meantime  man's  judgment  censured  them. 

"  Blessed  be  God  '."  the  child  began. 

As  abject,  mean,  and  base. 

"  I  doubt  not,  neither  fear. 

All  round  about  the  bed,  behold. 

The  erring  brother  was  away, 

The  angcl-bands  appear! 

And  none  could  tell  his  fate  ; 

And  the  young  sister  at  the  loom 

"I  go! — yet  still,  dear  Marien, 

Sate  drooping,  desolate. 

One  last  boon  let  me  win  I  — 

Seek  out  the  poor  lost  prodigal. 

8he  mourned  not  for  her  parents  dead. 

And  bring  him  back  from  sin! 

Nor  for  the  breezy  shore  : 

And  now  the  weary,  jangling  loom 

"I  go !  I  go  !"  and  angels  bright. 

Distracted  her  no  more. 

The  spirit  bare  away:  — 

On  earth  'twas  darksome,  dreary  night. 

Like  one  that  worketh  in  a  dream, 

In  heaven  'twas  endless  day ! 

So  worked  she  day  by  day, 

Intent  upon  the  loving  grief, 

—  And  now,  upon  that  selfsame  night, 

Which  on  her  spirit  lay  ; 

Within  a  carved  bed. 

And  as  she  worked,  and  as  she  grieved 

Lay  the  rich  kinsman  wrapped  in  lawn. 

Her  young  life  wore  away. 

With  pillows  'neath  his  head. 

And  they  who  saw  her  come  and  go. 

Scheming  deep  schemes  of  gold,  he  lay 

Oft  said,  with  pitying  tongue. 

All  in  that  lordly  room; 

"  .\las,  that  lalwur  is  tlie  doom 

Blessing  himself  that  he  had  stores 

Of  aught  so  weak  and  young  !" 

For  many  years  to  come. 

Alone  the  kinsman  pitied  not ; 

Just  then  an  awful  form  spake  low. 

He  chid  her,  that  no  more 

A  form  that  none  might  see: 

The  frame  was  strong,  the  hand  was  swift, 

"  Thou  Ibol,  this  very  night,  thy  soul 

As  it  had  been  before. 

Shall  be  required  of  thee  !" 

—  All  for  the  child  was  dark  on  earth. 

And  when  into  that  chamber  fair 

When  holy  angels  bright 

Stole  in  the  morning-ray. 

Unbarreil  the  golden  gates  of  heaven 

A  lifeless  corpse,  upon  his  bed. 

For  her  one  winter's  night. 

The  miser  kinsman  lay. 

Within  a  chamber  poor  and  low. 

—  Beside  his  door  stood  solemn  mutes; 

Upon  a  pallet  bed. 

And  chambers  high  and  dim. 

She  lay,  and  "  hold  my  hand,  sweet  friend," 

Where  hung  was  pall,  and  mourning  lights 

With  feeble  voice  she  said. 

Made  show  of  grief  for  him. 

"  Oh  hold  my  hand,  sweet  Marien," 

Full  fifty  muffled  mourners  stood. 

The  dying  child  spake  low; 

Around  the  scutcheoned  bed. 

'■  And  let  me  hear  thy  blessed  voice. 

That  held  the  corse,  as  if,  indeed. 

To  cheer  me  as  I  go! 

A  righteous  man  were  dead. 

100 

HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


91 


Within  a  tomb,  which  he  had  built. 

Of  costly  marble-stone, 
They  buried  him,  and  plates  of  brass 

His  name  and  wealth  made  known. 

A  coffin  of  the  meanest  wood, 
The  liitle  child  received  ; 

And  o'er  her  humble,  nameless  grave, 
No  hooded  mourner  grieved. 

Only  kind  Marien  wept  such  tears, 
As  the  dear  Saviour  shed. 

When  in  the  house  of  Bethany 
He  raoumed  for  Lazarus  dead. 


PART  XI. 


Now  from  the  miser  kinsman's  house 

Came  many  a  jovial  sound ; 
And  lavish  heirs  had  spent  his  gold. 

Ere  twelve  months  had  gone  round. 

That  while  within  the  busy  town 
Dwelt  Marien ;  and  each  day. 

In  some  good  deed  of  Christian  love 
And  mercy,  passed  away. 

For  many  an  abject  dweller  there, 
Grief-bowed  and  labour-spent. 

Groaned  forth,  amid  his  little  ones, 
To  heaven  his  sad  lament; 

And  unto  such,,  to  raise,  to  cheer. 
The  sent  of  God,  she  went. 

But  she  who,  even  as  they,  was  poor, 

Failed  not  of  daily  bread  ; 
A  stranger,  many  took  her  in. 

And  warmed,  and  clothed,  and  fed. 

And  when  a  sickness  sore  befel. 

And  nigh  to  death  she  lay. 
Kind  hearts  there  were  who  came  to  her, 

And  watched  her  night  and  day. 

And  afterwards,  when  evil  men 
Doomed  her  in  bonds  to  lie. 

Many  a  true,  noble  friend  arose. 
Willing  for  her  to  die. 

Oh,  blessed  Christian  heart.s,  who  thus 

Unto  this  little  one 
Did  deeds  of  love ;  for  as  to  Christ 

These  righteous  works  were  done! 
And  they  who  blessed  her,  for  themselves 

A  tenfold  blessing  won ! 

Thus  dwelt  svveet  Marien  in  the  town 

For  many  a  passing  year  ; 
Yet  of  the  poor,  lost  prodigal, 

No  tidings  could  she  hear. 

She  found  him  not ;.  but  yet  she  found 

Others  who,  even  as  he. 
Had  gone  astray  and  pined  forlorn 

In  hopeless  misery. 
9* 


To  these  repentant,  outcast  ones, 
She  spake  kind  words  of  grace. 

And  led  them  back,  with  yearning  hearts, 
To  seek  the  Father's  face ; 

To  find  forgiveness  in  His  heart, 
And  love  in  His  embrace. 

Oh  blessed,  blessed  Marien  I 

—  But  let  us  now  recall 
Whate'er  had  happed  of  change  and  woe 

Unto  the  prodigal. 

He  saw  his  little  sister  pine; 

He  saw  her  silent  woe ; 
He  saw  her  strength  decline,  yet  still 

Her  weary  labour  grow. 

As  this  he  saw,  yet  more  and  more 

He  hated  that  hard  man. 
With  whom  their  cheerless  misery, 

Their  daily  tasks  began. 

And  even  to  true  Marien, 
He  bare  an  altered  mind ;  — 

Alas,  that  injuries  should  make 
Else  loving  hearts  unkind  ! 

But  so  it  is !  and  when  the  twain 

To  cheer  his  spirit  strove. 
His  wrath  arose,  and  he  repelled 

Their  patient  deeds  of  love. 

Then  evil  men  assailed  his  youth  ; 

And  he  who  was  so  frail 
In  suffering,  'gainst  the  tempter's  might 

Was  feeble  to  prevail. 

He  was  their  easy  prey ;  their  tool ; 

And  bravely  clothed  and  fed. 
In  desperate  scenes,  'mid  desperate  men, 

A  lawless  life  he  led. 

Yet  often  to  his  soul  came  back 

Sweet  memory  of  the  time. 
When  he,  a  happy,  thoughtless  child. 

Had  knowledge  of  no  crime. 

And  like  a  heavier,  wearier  woe. 
Than  labour  night  and  day, 

The  consciousness  of  evil  deeds 
Upon  his  spirit  lay. 

He  thought  of  slighted  Marien, 

And  of  the  sister  meek  ; 
Of  the  thin  hands  that  plied  the  loom, 

And  of  the  fading  cheek ; 
Yet  how  he  had  deserted  them, 

The  faithful  and  the  weak! 

He  heard  his  loving  parent's  voice 

Reproach  him  in  his  sleep ; 
And  conscience,  that  slern  bosom-guest. 

Ceaseless  upbraidings  keep. 

Yet,  for  the  hated  kinsman's  sake. 

Neither  would  he  regard  ; 
And,  because  man  was  hard  to  him. 

Made  his  own  nature  hard. 

101 


92 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thus  doing  outrage  to  his  soul. 

By  chance  he  went  one  day 
Through  the  brown  trodden  churchyard,  where 

The  little  sister  lay. 

A  sexton  there  at  work  he  found ; 

And  why  he  turned  the  mould 
So  carefully,  he  asked,  since  there 

No  name  the  tenant  told. 

Replied  he,  "in  this  wide  church-yard 

I  know  each  separate  mound  ; 
Yet  unto  me  that  little  grave 

Alone  seems  holy  ground." 

And  then  he  told  of  Marien, 

And  how  she  there  had  wept 
Over  the  child,  that  'neath  the  mould. 

In  dreamless  quiet  slept. 

"A  little,  friendless  pauper  child. 

She  lielh  here,"  said  he; 
"  Yet  not  a  grave  in  all  the  ground 

Like  this  affecteth  me !" 

Saying  this,  he  wiped  a  tear  aside. 

And  turned  from  the  place; 
And,  in  the  skirls  of  his  rich  robe, 

The  brother  hid  his  face. 

—  He  left  the  town;  and  in  a  ship, 

Bound  for  a  far-off  strand, 
He  took  his  voyage  ;  but  distress 

Pursued  her  from  the  land. 

At  first  disease  was  'mong  her  men ; 

And  suffering  long  and  sore. 
In  midst  of  joyless,  suffering  mates, 

Forlorn  and  sad  he  bore. 

Next  mutiny  brake  forth ;  and  then 

That  miserable  ship. 
As  if  there  were  no  port  for  her. 
Without  a  wind  the  sails  to  stir, 

Lay  moveless  on  the  deep. 

As  Jonah,  fleeing  from  the  Lord, 

The  soul-struck  penitent 
Lay  self-condemned,  believing  all 

On  his  account  were  sent. 

Anon  a  tempest  rose,  and  drove 

The  ship  before  the  gale. 
For  three  long  days ;  and  bore  away 

Her  rudder,  mast,  and  sail. 

On  the  fourth  night  dark  land  appeared, 

And  the  strained  vessel  bore 
Right  on  the  rocky  reef,  and  lay 

A  wreck  upon  the  shore. 

At  day-break  only  he  remained 

To  note  the  vessel's  fale ;  — 
The  Crusoe  of  a  desert  isle. 

Abject  and  desolate. 

—  The  world  went  on  as  it  was  wont ; 

And  in  the  cily  street, 
And  in  the  busy  market-place. 

Did  thronging  thousands  meet. 


Upon  the  hearths  of  poor  men's  homes 
(lood  neighbours  met  at  night ; 

And  kindness  and  companionship 
Made  woe  and  labour  light. 

The  loneliest  hut  among  the  hills 
To  human  hearts  was  known; 

And  even  in  kingly  palaces 
Men  might  not  dwell  alone. 

The  world  went  on  as  it  was  wont; 

And  no  man  knew  the  while 
Of  that  poor  lonely  prodigal, 

Upon  his  lonely  isle. 

He  clomb  the  cliffs  to  look  afar 

Over  the  distant  sea; 
If,  please  God,  for  his  rescuing 

A  coming  sail  might  be. 

He  lit  his  beacon  fires  at  night; 

He  hoisted  signals  high;  — 
But  the  world  went  on  as  it  was  wont, 

And  not  a  ship  sailed  by. 

He  was  not  missed  among  his  kind,  — 

Man  had  forgot  his  name ; 
But  unto  Him  who  cares  for  all. 
Who  sees'the  little  sparrow  fall, 

His  lonely  misery  came. 

God  saw  him ;  saw  his  broken  heart, 

His  cheerless  solitude. 
Saw  how  his  human  pride  was  gone. 

His  human  will  subdued. 

Saw  him  and  loved  him.    Broken  heart. 
Look  up!  the  Father's  voice 

Calleth  thee  from  thy  depths  of  woe. 
And  biddelh  thee  rejoice! 

—  Now  Marien  from  the  trading  town 
Had  voyaged ;  sent  of  Heaven 

She  knew  not  whiiher ;  and  the  ship. 
Which  with  long  storm  had  striven. 

At  length  upon  a  glorious  isle 
Amid  the  seas  was  driven  ; 

Where  dwelt  a  gentle  race  at  rest 

Amid  their  flowery  wilds. 
Unknown  to  all  the  world,  with  hearts 

As  simple  as  a  child's. 

With  them  abode  sweet  Marien: 
But  now  it  chanced  one  day. 

As  in  a  slender  carved  boat 
Upon  the  shore  she  lay, 

A  strong  vvind*came,  and  filled  the  sail. 
And  bare  her  thence  away. 

She  had  no  fear,  true  Marien ;  — 
That  God  was  good,  she  knew. 

And  even  then  had  sent  her  forth 
Some  work  of  love  to  do. 

The  prodigal  upon  his  rock 
Was  kneeling,  and  his  prayer 

For  confidence  in  heaven,  arose 
Upon  the  evening  air, 

102 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


93 


Just  as  the  little  boat  approached 
The  island  bleak  and  bare. 

The  boat  ran  up  a  creek,  as  if, 

'Twere  steered  by  angels  good  ; 
And  ere  the  evening  prayer  was  done 

Beside  the  youth  she  stood. 

The  chiefest  joy  it  hath  not  words 

lis  deep  excess  to  say; 
And  as  if  he  had  seen  a  sprite, 

His  spirit  died  away. 

Then  with  clasped  hands,  and  broken  speech, 
And  tears  that  ceaseless  flowed  ; 

He  poured  forth  from  his  full  heart 
A  fervent  praise  of  God. 


PART  XII, 


"  But  let  us  hence,"  said  Marien  ; 

And  with  the  earliest  morn, 
Within  the  slender  carved  boat. 

They  left  the  isle  forlorn. 

A  light  breeze  from  the  desert  shore 

Over  the  waters  blew, 
And  the  little  boat  sailed  on  before, 

Till  the  isle  was  out  of  view. 

As  friends  long  parted,  met  once  more. 
They  sat ;  and  of  times  gone. 

And  of  the  blessed  dead  conversed. 
As  the  slender  boat  sailed  on. 

And  as  they  sailed,  sweet  ]\Iarien 

Over  the  Gospel  bent. 
And  read  of  joy  that  is  in  heaven 

O'er  sinners  that  repent  ; 

And  of  the  weary  prodigal 
Returning  bov^■ed  with  shame. 

And  the  good  father  hastening  forth 
To  meet  him  as  he  came  ; 

And  how  he  bade  the  fairest  robe 
Be  brought;  the  golden  ring; 

Shoes  for  the  feel ;  and  music  sweet. 
As  if  to  hail  a  king. 

"  For  this,  my  son,"  said  he,  "  was  dead. 

And  is  alive ;  is  found. 
Who  was  long  lost;  'tis  meet,  therefore. 

That  stintless  joy  abound  !" 

"  Oh,  child  of  woe,"  said  Marien, 

"  Look  up,  for  thou  art  he  ; 
And  round  about  the  Father's  throne 

Many  rejoice  for  ihee !" 

"  Oh  Lord,  I  bless  thee,"  said  the  youth, 

"  That  of  thy  mercy  great. 
Thou  hast  vouchsafed  to  rescue  me 

From  my  forlorn  estate  ! 
And  henceforth,  to  thy  work  of  love 

Myself  I  dedicate .' 


"The  meanest  of  thy  creatures,  low 

I  bend  before  thy  throne. 
And  offer  my  poor  self  to  make 

Thy  loving-kindness  known ! 

"  Oh  father,  give  me  words  of  power, 

The  stony  hearts  to  move  ; 
Give  me  prevailing  eloquence, 

To  publish  forth  thy  love ! 

"  Thy  love  which  wearieth  not ;  which  like 

Thy  sun,  on  all  doth  sliiue  ! 
Oh  Father,  let  me  worship  Thee 
Through  life,  by  gladly  serving  Thee! 
I  love  not  life ;  I  ask  not  wealth  ; 
My  heart  and  soul,  my  youth  and  health. 

My  life,  oh  Lord,  are  thine !" 

So  spake  the  youth ;  but  now  the  boat 

The  glorious  island  neared. 
Which,  like  a  cloudland  realm  of  bliss, 

Above  the  sea  appeared. 

Skyward  rose  sunny  peaks,  pale-hued. 

As  if  of  opal  glow  ; 
And  crested  palms,  broad-leaved  and  tall. 

In  valleys  grew  below. 

A  lovely  land  of  flowers,  as  fair 

As  Paradise,  ere  sin 
And  sorrow,  that  corrupting  pair, 

With  death  had  enfered  in. 

A  lovely  land  !  —  "  And  even  now," 
Cried  Marien,  "see  they  come, 

Children  of  love,  my  brother,  now 
To  bid  thee  welcome  home ! 

"  For  these,  God  kept  thee  in  the  wild. 

From  sinful  men  apart ; 
For  these,  his  people,  through  distress 

Made  pure  thy  trusting  heart ! 

"  Thy  work  is  here !    Go  forth,  'mid  these 

Meek  children  of  the  sun. 
Oh  servant  of  the  Lord,  and  tell 

What  He  for  thee  halh  done!" 

Down  to  the  shore  the  thousands  came, 

A  joyous,  peaceful  host. 
To  welcome  Marien  back,  whom  they 

Had  sorrowed  for  as  lost. 

"  .And  welcome  to  thee,  little  child  !" 
They  sang  forth  sweet  and  clear  ; 

"And  welcome  to  the  stranger  poor. 
Who  Cometh  with  thee  here  !" 

And  then  they  brought  him  silken  cloth, 

Since  he  was  meanly  drest; 
And  juicy,  mellow  fruits  to  eat. 
And  perfumed  waters  for  his  feet. 

And  mats  whereon  to  rest. 

And  ever  as  they  served  him. 
They  sang  forth  sweet  and  low, 

"Would  this  repose  might  solace  thee. 
These  apples  cure  thy  woe  I" 

103 


94 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  though  the  twain  knew  not  their  speech, 

Yet  well  they  understood 
The  looks  of  love  that  welcomed  them, 

Their  actions  kind  and  good. 

With  them  for  many  a  year  abode 
The  youth,  and  learned  Iheir  tongue  ; 

And  with  the  sound  oi'  Christian  praise 
The  hills  and  valleys  rung. 

Oh  beautiful  beyond  all  lands 

That  lay  beneath  the  moon, 
Was  that  fair  isle  of  Christian  love 

Of  Christian  virtues  boon. 

A  joyful  people  there  they  dwelt, 

Unsuffering  from  their  birth; 
Of  simplest  life ;  benignly  wise; 

As  angels  on  the  earth. 

And  with  them  dwelt  the  holy  youth. 
Their  chief,  their  priest,  their  friend, 

Beloved  and  loving,  for  their  sakes 
Willing  himself  to  spend. 

Like  to  some  ancient  church  of  Christ, 

From  worldly  taint  kept  free. 
Lay  this  delicious  isle  of  love 

Amid  its  summer  sea. 

But  now  the  work  he  had  to  do 

Was  done ;  and  ere  his  day 
Approached  its  noon,  his  strength,  his  life. 

Was  wearing  fast  away. 

They  saw  his  cheek  grow  thin  and  pale ; 

His  loving  eye  grow  dim; 
And  with  surpassing  tenderness 

They  sorrowed  over  him. 

Old  men,  and  youths,  and  women  meek, 

And  children  wild  and  young. 
Followed  his  steps  with  watchful  care. 

And  weeping  round  him  hung. 

In  flowery  thickets  of  the  hills 

Sad  mourners  knelt  in  prayer. 
That  God  this  servant  so  revered. 

This  friend  beloved  would  spare. 

And  round  about  his  feet  they  sat. 

Observant,  meek,  and  still, 
To  gather  up  his  latest  words, 

To  do  his  slightest  will. 

Now  all  this  while  good  Marien 

Had  wandered  far  and  wide, 
Through  divers  realms,  for  many  a  year, 

The  hand  of  Heaven  her  guide. 

And  now  unto  the  glorious  isle 

She  came ;  but  on  the  shore 
She  saw  no  wandering  company, 

As  she  had  seen  before. 

'T  was  Sabbath  eve,  and  o'er  the  isle 

A  solemn  stillness  lay  ; 
A  stillness,  how  unlike  the  calm 

Of  many  a  Sabbath  day  ! 


A  hush,  as  of  suspended  breath, 
Ere  some  great  grief  began ; 

For  the  mournful  people  silently 
Stood  round  the  dying  man. 

Through  the  still  vales  went  Marien, 
And  came  at  length  to  where, 

'Mid  flowering  trees,  knelt  many  a  one 
In  agony  of  prayer. 

Onward  she  went,  not  many  steps. 
With  heart  of  mournful  ruth, 

When,  like  a  dying  angel  laid. 
She  saw  the  holy  youth. 

With  closed  eyes  and  pallid  lips 

He  lay,  as  one  whose  life 
Meeteth  with  death,  yet  waiteth  still 

The  last  conflicting  strife. 

Beside  him  knelt  she  on  the  turf. 

And  spoke  in  accents  low 
Words  of  strong  love,  which  like  new  life 

Seemed  through  the  frame  to  go. 

He  raised  himself,  and  blessing  God, 

That  He  of  him  had  care. 
And  now  in  his  dark  trial-hour. 

Had  sent  his  angel  there ; 

With  low-toned  voice,  more  musical 
Than  softest  lute  could  make. 

Looking  upon  his  weeping  friends 
With  fervent  love,  he  spake. 

"  Oh  friends,  beloved  friends !  weep  not, 

Kor  be  oppressed  with  woe  ; 
'Tis  of  His  will,  who  docth  right, 

That  I  am  called  to  go! 

"  Fain  would  I  tarry,  but  the  cry 

Hath  sounded  in  mine  ear, 
'  Haste  to  depart,  the  Lord  hath  need 

Of  thee  no  longer  here !' 

" Even  like  the  Master  vihom  I  serve, 

I  pray  ye  not  to  grieve ; 
But  as  ye  have  believed  in  me, 

AJso  in  Him  believe! 

"I  go,  but  leave  j'ou  not  forlorn, 
As  sheep  without  a  guide  ;  — 

For  Christ  the  unfailing  Comforter 
Shall  still  with  you  abide ! 

"  Oh  weep  not,  friends ;  a  better  home 

Awaits  me,  and  I  go. 
But  to  that  home  which  is  prepared 

For  ye  who  love  me  so! 
Farewell,  farewell!    Unto  my  God, 

And  unto  yours,  I  go!" 

The  Sabbath  sun  went  down  amid 

A  golden,  cloudless  sky; 
And  the  freed  spirit,  cleansed  from  sin. 

Arose  to  God  on  high. 

Beneath  the  trees  where  he  had  died. 

They  buried  him,  and  there 
En  wove  the  flowery  boughs  to  form 

A  quiet  house  of  prayer. 

104 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


95 


Long  time  with  them  dwelt  Marian, 

Until  she  was  sent  forth, 
At  the  Lord's  bidding  lo  perform 

New  service  on  the  earth. 

Good  S[)eed  to  thee,  thou  blessed  child, 

May  angels  guide  thy  bark, 
'Mid  slumbrous  calm,  'mid  tempests  wild. 

And  o'er  the  waters  dark ! 

Good  speed  to  thee,  thou  blessed  cliild  — 

The  angel  of  the  poor  — 
And  win  from  sorrow  and  from  sin 

The  world  from  shore  to  shore  ! 


OLD    CHRISTMAS 


Now  he  who  knows  old  Christmas, 
He  knows  a  carle  of  worth  ; 

For  he  is  as  good  a  fellow. 
As  any  upon  the  earth  I 

He  comes  warm  cloaked  and  coated. 
And  buttoned  up  lo  the  chin, 

And  soon  as  he  comes  a-nigli  the  door. 
We  open  and  let  him  in. 

We  know  that  he  will  not  fail  us. 
So  we  sweep  the  hearth  up  clean ; 

We  set  him  the  old  armed  chair. 
And  a  cushion  whereon  to  lean. 

And  with  sprigs  of  holly  and  ivy 
We  make  the  house  look  gay, 

Just  out  of  an  old  regard  to  him, — 
For  it  was  his  ancient  way. 

We  broach  the  strong  ale  barrel, 
And  bring  out  wine  and  meat  ; 

And  thus  have  all  things  ready. 
Our  dear  old  friend  to  greet. 

And  soon  as  the  time  wears  round, 
The  good  old  carle  we  see. 

Coming  a-near ;  —  for  a  creditor 
Less  punctual  is  than  he! 

He  comes  with  a  cordial  voice 
That  does  one  good  to  hear  ; 

He  shakes  one  heartily  by  the  hand. 
As  he  hath  done  many  a  year. 

And  after  the  little  children 
He  asks  in  a  cheerful  tone. 

Jack,  Kate,  and  little  Annie, — 
He  remembers  them  every  one! 

What  a  fme  old  fellow  he  is. 
With  his  faculties  all  as  clear. 

And  his  heart  as  warm  and  light 
As  a  man's  in  his  fortieth  year ! 

What  a  fine  old  fellow,  in  troth ! 

Not  one  of  your  griping  elves, 
Who,  with  plenty  of  money  to  spare. 

Think  only  about  themselves ! 
O 


Not  he!  for  he  loveth  the  children; 

And  holiday  begs  ihr  all ; 
And  comes  with  his  (Kjckots  full  of  gifts, 

For  the  great  ones  and  the  small ! 

With  a  present  for  every  servant ;  — 
For  in  giving  he  dolh  not  tire  ;  — 

From  the  red-iiu-ed,  jovial  butler. 
To  the  girl  by  the  kitchen-fire. 

And  he  tells  us  witty  old  stories; 

And  singeth  wilii  might  and  main; 
And  we  talk  of  the  old  man's  visit 

Till  the  day  that  he  comes  again ! 

Oh  he  is  a  kind  old  fellow. 
For  though  that  beef  be  dear, 

He  giveih  the  parish  paupers 
A  good  dinner  once  a  year! 

And  all  the  workhouse  children 
He  sets  them  down  in  a  row, 

And  giveth  them  rare  plum-pudding. 
And  two-pence  a-piece  also. 

Oh,  could  you  have  seen  those  paupers, 
Have  heard  those  children  young. 

You  would  wish  with  them  that  Christmas 
Came  oft  and  tarried  long! 

He  must  be  a  rich  old  fellow,  — 
What  money  he  gives  away! 

There  is  not  »  lord  in  England 
Could  equal  him  any  day! 

Good  luck  unto  old  Christmas, 

And  long  life,  let  us  sing, 
For  he  dolh  more  good  unto  the  poor 

Than  many  a  crowned  king! 


THE    TWELFTH    HOUR 


Mv  friends,  the  spirit  is  at  peace; 

Oh  do  not  trouble  me  with  tears; 
Petition  rather  my  release, 

Nor  covet  for  me  length  of  years. 
Which  are  but  weariness  and  woe; 
Resign  me,  friends,  before  I  go! 

I  know  how  strong  are  human  ties  ; 

I  know  how  strong  is  human  fear; 
But  visions  open  to  mine  eyes, 

And  words  of  power  are  in  mine  ear; 
My  friends,  my  friends,  can  ye  not  see. 
Nor  hear  what  voices  speak  to  me  ? 

"Thou  human  soul,"  they  seem  to  say, 
"  We  are  commissioned  from  above. 

Through  the  dark  ix)rtal  lo  convey 
Thee  to  the  paradise  of  love ; 

Thou  need'st  not  shrink,  thou  necd'st  not  fear; 

We,  thy  sure  help,  are  gathered  near! 
105 


96 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  Thy  weakness  on  our  strength  confide ; 

Thy  dolibt  upon  our  steadfast  trust; 
And  rise  up,  pure  and  glorified, 

From  thine  infirm  and  sinful  dust. 
Rise  up,  rise  up!  liie  eternal  day 
Begins  to  dawn —  why  wilt  thou  stay? 

"  Look  forth  —  the  day  begins  to  dawn ; 

The  future  operteth  to  Ihy  view ; 
The  veil  of  mystery  is  undrawn ; 

The  old  things  are  becoming  new; 
The  night  of  time  is  passing  by  : 
Poor  trembler,  do  not  fear  to  die ! 

"  Come,  come !  the  gates  of  pearl  unfold : 
The  eternal  glory  shines  on  thee  ! 

Body,  relax  thy  lingering  hold. 

And  set  the  struggling  spirit  free !" 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done!  —  before  my  sight 

Opens  the  awful  infinite  : 

I  see,  I  hear,  I  live  anew ! 

Oh  friends,  dear  friends,  —  adieu,  adieu ! 


THE  BLIND  BOY  AND  HIS  SISTER. 


'Oh  brother,"  said  fair  Annie, 

To  the  blind  boy  at  her  side ; 
"  Would  thou  couWst  see  the  sunshine  lie 
On  hill  and  valley,  and  the  sky 
Hung  like  a  glorious  canopy 

O'er  all  things  far  and  wide ! 

"  Would  thou  could'st  see  the  waters 

In  many  a  distant  glen; 
The  mountain  flocks  that  gaze  around  ; 
Nay,  even  this  patch  of  stony  ground, 
These  crags,  with  silver  lichen  crowned, 

I  would  that  thou  could'st  ken! 

"  Would  thou  could'st  see  my  face,  brother, 

As  well  as  I  see  thine; 
For  always  what  I  cannot  see 
It  is  but  half  a  joy  to  me. 
Brother,  I  often  weep  for  thee. 

Yet  thou  dost  ne'er  repine  !" 

"And  why  should  I  repine,  Annie?" 
Said  the  blind  boy  with  a  smile; 

"I  ken  the  blue  sky  and  the  grey; 

The  stmny  and  the  misty  day ; 

The  moorland  valley  stretched  away 
For  many  and  many  a  mile! 

"  I  ken  the  night  and  day,  Annie, 

For  all  ye  may  believe; 
And  often  in  my  spirit  lies 
A  clear  light  as  of  mid-day  skies ; 
And  splendours  on  my  vision  rise, 

Like  gorgeous  hues  of  eve. 

"I  sit  upon  the  stone,  Annie, 
Beside  our  cottage  door. 
And  people  say,  '  that  boy  is  blind,' 
And  pity  me,  although  I  find 


A  world  of  beauty  in  my  mind, 
A  never-ceasing  store. 

"  I  hear  you  talk  of  mountains, 

The  beautifid,  the  grand  ; 
Of  splintered  peaks  so  grey  and  tall ; 
Of  lake,  and  glen,  and  waterfall ; 
Of  flowers  and  trees ;  —  I  ken  them  all ;  - 

Their  difference  understand. 

"  The  harebell  and  the  gowan 

Are  not  ahke  to  me, 
Are  different  as  the  herd  and  flock. 
The  blasted  pine-tree  of  the  rock. 
The  waving  birch,  the  broad,  green  oak. 

The  river  and  the  sea. 

"  And  oh,  the  heavenly  music. 

That  as  I  sit  alone. 
Comes  to  mine  inward  sense  as  clear 
As  if  the  angel  voices  were 
Singing  to  harp  and  dulcimer 

Before  the  mighty  Throne  I 

"  It  is  not  as  of  outward  sound, 
Of  breeze,  or  singing  bird  ; 

But  wondrous  melody  refined ; 

A  gift  of  God  unto  the  blind  ; 

An  inward  harmony  of  mind. 
By  inward  senses  heard  ! 

"  And  all  the  old-world  stories 

That  neighbours  tell  o'  nights ; 
Of  fairies  on  the  fairy  mound. 
Of  brownies  dwelling  under  ground, 
Of  elves  careering  round  and  round. 
Of  fays  and  water-sprites  ; 

"All  this  to  me  is  pleasantness, — 

Is  all  a  merry  show ; 
I  see  the  antic  people  play, — 
Brownie  and  kelpie,  elf  and  fay. 
In  a  sweet  country  far  away, 

Yet  where  I  seem  to  go. 

"  But  better  far  than  this,  Annie, 
Is  when  thou  read'st  to  me 

Of  the  dear  Saviour  meek  and  kind. 

And  how  he  healed  the  lame  and  blind. 

Am  I  not  healed  ?  —  for  in  my  mind 
His  blessed  form  I  see! 

"Oh,  love  is  not  of  sight,  Annie, 
Is  not  of  outward  things ; 

For,  in  my  inmost  soul  I  know. 

His  pity  for  all  mortal  woe; 

His  words  of  love,  spoke  long  ago. 
Unseal  its  deepest  springs! 

"  Then  do  not  mourn  for  me,  Annie, 
Because  that  I  am  blind;  — 

The  beauty  of  all  outward  sight; 

The  wondrous  shows  of  day  and  night; 

All  love,  all  fiiith,  and  all  delight. 
Are  strong  in  heart  and  mind !" 
106 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


THE  SPIRIT'S  QUESTIONINGS. 


Where  shall  I  meet  thee, 
Thou  beautiful  one  ? 

Where  shall  1  find  thee, 
For  aye  who  art  gone  ? 

What  is  the  shape 

To  Ihy  clear  spirit  given  ? 
Where  is  thy  home 

In  the  infinite  heaven  ? 

I  see  thee,  but  still 

As  thou  wert  upon  earth, 
In  thy  bodied   delight. 

In  thy  wonder  and  mirth! 

But  now  thou  art  one 
Of  the  glorified  band 

Who  have  touched  the  shore 
Of  the  far  spirit-land  ! 

And  thy  shape  is  fair. 
And  thy  locks  are  bright. 

In  the  living  stream 
Of  the  quenchless  light. 

And  thy  spirit's  thought 

It  is  pure,  and  free 
From  darkness  and  doubt 

And  from  mystery ! 

And  thine  ears  have  drunk 

The  awful  tone 
Of  the  First  and  Last, 

Of  the  Ancient  One  ! 

And  the  dwellers  old 
Thy  steps  have  met. 

Where  the  lost  is  found, 
And  the  past  is  yet. 

Where  shall  I  find  thee, 
For  aye  who  art  gone  ? 

Where  shall  I  meet  thee. 
Thou  beautiful  one? 


POOR  CHILD'S   HYMN. 


We  are  poor  and  lowly  born ; 

With  the  poor  we  bide ; 
Labour  is  our  heritage, 

Care  and  want  beside. 
What  of  this  ?  our  blessed  Lord 

Was  of  lowly  birth,- 
And  poor,  toiling  fishermen 

Were  his  friends  on  earth ! 

We  are  ignorant  and  young; 

Simple   children  all  ; 
Gifted  with  but  humble  powers. 

And  of  learning  small. 


What  of  this  ?  our  blessed  Lord 
Loved  such  as  we;  — 

How  he  blessed  the  little  ones 
Sitting  on  his  knee  ! 


A    DREAM. 


Hoar  with  the  lapse  of  ages  seemed 
The  silent  land  toward  which  I  drew; 

And  yet  within  myself  I  deemed 
The  dwellers  in  that  land  were  few. 

A  strong  conviction  seemed  to  rest 
Upon  my  heart  that  I  was  then 

In  the  sole  portion  of  the  earth, 

Since  creation's  perfect  birth, 
Had  held  the  sons  of  men  ; 

And  I  was  on  a  marvelling  quest 

Of  that  small  colony  of  the  blest. 

How  lone,  how  silent !  not  a  sound 
In  earth  or  air,  from  wind  or  flood  ; 

But  o'er  the  bare  and  barren  ground 
Brooded  an  endless  solitude. 

It  was  an  awful  thing  to  tread 

O'er  grey  and  parched  and  mighty  plains. 

Where  never  living  thing  was  seen, 

Where  the  live  heart  had  never  been : 
The  blood  ciiilled  in  my  veins, — 

Yet  still  I  felt  in  spirit  led 

Across  that  wilderness  of  dread. 

But  lo!  that  deadness  of  the  world, 
Which  seemed  of  an  eternal  power, 

Like  a  light  vapour  was  unfurled. 
And  I  walked  over  fern  and  flower  ; 

Hills,  robed  in  light  celestial  blue. 
Bounded  that  amplitude  of  plain  ; 

And  round  me  there  were  lofty  trees. 

Yet  moveless,  soundless  to  the  breeze  ; 
And  not  a  wild  bird's  strain. 

Nor  cry  of  beast,  could  still  undo 

The  spell  which  silence  o'er  me  threw. 

But  man  was  there.     Not  far  aside. 
One  I  beheld  who  strongly  toiled  ; 

He  seemed  a  youth  of  solemn  pride. 
Of  noble  form,  but  dimmed  and  soiled 

With  rural  labour  and  with  care. 
And  he  clove  wood  for  sacrifice. 

I  listened  for  his  sounding  stroke. 

There  was  no  sound  ;  and  now  the  smoke 
Did  from  the  pile  arise ; 

And  he  gazed  on  it  with  an  air 

Less  marked  by  pleasure  than  despair. 

But  then  a  lovelier  vision  sprung 

Before  me  ;  and  between  the  tall 
And  shadowy  trees,  a  low  cloud  hung. 

So  low,  it  scarcely  hung  at  all ; 
'Twas  like  no  cloud  which  sails  the  sky; 

Around  it  all  was  clearly  seeij; 
It  mixed  not  with  the  ambient  air; 
Rolled  on  itself  comi)act  and  fair, 
107 


98 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  rested  on  the  scene, 
More  still  and  motionless  than  lie 
The  clouds  of  summer  in  the  sky. 

Beside  it  stood  a  hoary  seer, 

And  through  my  heart  a  whisper  ran, 
"  God,  or  his  angel  shrouded  here 

Holds  converse  with  this  holy  man." 
Dark  was  that  cloudy  dwelling-place  ; 

No  glory  on  it  seemed  to  dwell ; 
Yet  still  on  every  thing  around, 
On  tree,  on  shrub,  and  heathy  ground, 

A  streaming  radiance  fell ; 
And  on  that  patriarch's  awful  face 
Glowed  with  intense,  unearthly  grace. 

Propped  on  his  staff,  in  peace  he  stood, 

Sandaled,  and  girded  in  his  vest. 
And  his  full  beard  in  silver  flowed 

Far  down  his  pure  and  quiet  breast ; 
His  eye  was  on  the  cloud,  as  one 

Who  listens  to  momentous  things. 
And  seems  with  reverence  to  hear, 
Yet  with  more  confidence  than  fear. 
What  some  great  herald  brings. 

But  as  I  gazed,  a  little  boat. 

Swift,  without  rudder,  oars,  or  sail, 

Down  through  the  ambient  air  afloat, 
Bore  onward  one  who  seemed  to  hail 

The  patriarch,  —  and  he  turned  his  head  ; 
He  turned  and  saw  a  smiling  boy, 

Smiling  in  beauty  and  in  youth. 

With  eyes  in  which  eternal  truth 
Lay  with  eternal  joy. 

He  touched  that  old  man's  snowy  head. 

And  boat,  youth,  cloud,  and  patriarch.fled  ! 

A  multitude  -of  dreams  have  passed 
Since  this,  and  perished  as  they  came  ; 

But  in  my  mind  imprinted  fast 
This  lives,  and  still  remains  the  same. 

The  beauty  of  that  gliding  car; 

The  mystery  of  the  cloud  and  sage ; 

Those  plains  in  arid  drought  so  stern  ; 

That  solemn  hush,  that  seemed  etern;  — 
In  memory's  living  page, 

Still  stand  in  light,  more  real  far 

Than  thousands  of  our  day-dreams  are  ! 


THE  BOY  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  ISLE. 

AN  OLD  SEAMAN'S  STORY.- 


PART  I. 


I'll  tell  ye,  if  ye  hearken  now, 
A  thing  that  chanced  to  me  — 

It  must  be  fifty  years  agone  — 
Upon  the  southern  sea. 


First-mate  was  I  of  the  Nancy, 

A  tight  ship  and  a  sound; 
We  had  made  a  prosperous  voyage, 

And  then  were  homeward  bound. 

^Ve  were  sailing  on  the  Tropic  seas, 
Before  the  trade-wind's  power ; 

Day  after  day,  without  delay, 
Full  thirteen  knots  an  hour. 

The  sea  was  as  a  glassy  lake. 

By  a  steady  gale  impressed ; 
There  was  nought  for  any  man  to  do 

But  just  what  liked  him  best. 

And  yet  the  calm  was  wearisome  ; 

The  dull  days  idly  sped  ; 
And  sometimes  on  a  flute  I  played, 

Or  else  a  book  I  read. 

And  dallying  thus  one  afternoon, 

I  stood  upon  the  deck  ; 
When  far  oflf^  to  the  leeward, 

I  saw  a  faintish  speck. 

Whether  't  was  rock,  or  fish,  or  cloud. 

At  first  I  did  not  know; 
So  I  called  unto  a  seaman. 

That  he  might  look  also. 

And  as  it  neared,  I  saw  for  sure 

That  it  must  be  a  boat ; 
But  my  fellow  swore  it  was  not  so, 

But  a  large  bamboo  afloat. 

We  called  a  third  unto  us  then, 
That  he  the  sight  might  see  ; 

Then  came  a  fourth,  a  fifth,  a  si.xth, 
But  no  two  could  agree. 

"  Nay,  't  is  a  little  boat,"  I  said, 
"And  it  roweth  with  an  oar!" 

But  none  of  them  could  see  it  so. 
All  differing  as  before. 

"  It  Cometh  on ;  I  see  it  plain ; 

It  is  a  boat!"  I  cried, 
"A  little  boat  o'erlaid  with,  pearl. 
And  a  little  child  to^uide!" 

And  sure  enough,  a  boat  it  was. 

And  worked  with  an  oar ; 
But  such  a  boat  as  't  was,  no  man 

Had  ever  seen  before. 

Within  ft  sate  a  little  child, 

The  fairest  e'er  was  seen ; 
His  robes  were  like  the  amethyst, 

His  mantle  of  sea-green. 

No  covering  wore  he  on  his  head. 
And  the  hdir  that  on  it  grew 

Showered  down  in  thick  and  wavy  locks 
Of  the  sunniest  golden  hue. 

The  rudest  man  on  board  our  ship 
Blest  God  that  sight  to  see ; 

For  me  I  could  do  nought  but  weep, 
Such  power  had  it  on  me. 

108 


HYMNS  AND  FU IE-SIDE  VERSES. 


99 


There  sat  he  in  his  pretty  boat, 

Like  an  angel  from  the  sky, 
Regarxling  us  in  onr  great  ship, 

Wiih  wonder  in  his  eye. 

The  little  oar  slid  from  his  hand  ; 

His  sweet  lijis  were  apart; 
Within  my  soul  I  felt  his  joy  ; 

His  wonder  in  my  heart. 

And  as  we  tokened  him  to  come, 

His  little  boat  he  neared. 
And  smiled  at  all  our  friendly  words, 

Nor  seemed  the  least  afeared. 

"  Come  hither  a-board  !"  the  captain  said  ; 

And  without  fear  of  ill, 
He  sprang  into  the  lordly  ship, 

With  frank  and  free  good  will. 

He  was  no  son  of  the  merman  ; 

No  syren  full  of  guile ; 
But  a  creature  like  the  cherubim. 

From  some  unknown-of  isle. 

And  strange  to  tell,  his  pleasant  speech 

Was  English,  every  word  ; 
And  yet  such  English,  sweet  and  pure. 

As  his  I  never  heard. 

There  were  three,  he  said,  who  dwelt  with  him 

Within  a  tamarind-grove ; 
His  parents  and  his  sister  young,  — 

A  family  of  love. 

His  father,  he  said,  had  made  his  boat 

From  out  a  large  sea-shell  ; 
"And  what  a  wondrous  tale,"  said  he, 

"  I  shall  this  evening  tell!" 

His  robes,  he  said,  his  mother  had  wove 

From  roots  of  an  Indian-tree  ; 
And  he  laughed  at  the  clothes  the  seamen  wore, 

With  the  merriest  mockery. 

When  the  little  child  had  stayed  with  us, 

May-be  an  hour  or  so, 
He  smiled  farewell  to  all  on  board, 

And  said  that  he  would  go. 

"  For  I  must  be  back  again,"  said  he, 

"  For  me  they  all  will  wait  ; 
I  must  be  back  again."  quoth  he, 

"  Or  ever  the  day  be  late  I" 

"  He  shall  not  go  I"  the  captain  said  ; 

"  Haul  up  his  boat  and  oar! 
The  pretty  boy  shall  sail  with  us 

To  the  famous  English  shore ! 

"Thou  shah  with  me,  my  pretty  boy; 

I  '11  find  thee  a  new  mother;  — 
I  've  children  three  at  home,  and  thou 

To  them  shalt  be  a  brother !" 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  shall  go  back!"  he  said ; 

"  For  thee  I  do  not  know ;  — 
I  must  be  back  again,"  he  cried, 

"  Before  the  sun  be  low !" 
Then  sprang  unto  the  vessel's  side, 

And  made  as  he  would  go. 
10 


The  captain  was  a  strong,  stern  man ; 

None  liked  him  overwell ; 
And  to  a  seaman  standing  near. 
Said  he,  with  voice  and  look  austere, 

"Haul  up  yon  cockle-shell! 
And  you,  my  boy,  content  you. 

In  this  good  ship  to  dwell !" 

As  one  who  gladly  would  believe 

Some  awful  threat  a  joke. 
So  heard  the  child,  with  half  a  smile, 

The  words  the  captain  spoke. 

But  when  he  saw  them  seize  his  boat, 

And  put  his  oar  away. 
The  smile  was  gone,  and  o'er  his  face 

Quick  passed  a  pale  dismay. 

And  then  a  passion  seized  his  frame, 

As  if  he  were  possessed  ; 
He  stamped  his  little  feet  in  rage. 

And  smote  upon  his  breast. 

'Twas  a  wicked  deed  as  e'er  was  done  — 

I  longed  to  set  him  free  ; 
And  the  impotence  of  his  great  grief 

Was  a  grievous  sight  to  me. 

At  length,  when  rage  had  spent  itself, 

His  lofty  heart  gave  way, 
And,  falhng  on  his  pretty  knees, 

At  the  captain's  feet  he  lay. 

"  Oh  take  me  back  again !"  he  cried, 

"  Let  me  not  tarry  here. 
And  I  'li  give  thee  sea-apples, 

And  honey  rich  and  clear ; 

"  And  fetch  thee  heavy  pearl-stones 

From  deep  sea-eaves  below  ; 
And  red  tree-gold  and  coral-tree, 

If  thou  wilt  let  me  go ! 

"  Or  if  I  must  abide  with  thee,  — 

In  thy  great  ship  to  dwell. 
Let  me  but  just  go  back  again. 

To  bid  them  all  farewell  I" 

And  at  the  word  "farewell"  he  wept. 

As  if  his  heart  would  break  ; 
The  very  memory  of  his  tears 

Sore  sad  my  heart  doth  make. 

The  captain's  self  was  almost  moved 

To  hear  his  woful  cry  ; 
And  there  was  not  within  the  ship 

One  man  whose  eyes  were  dry. 

When  the  captain  saw  the  seamen's  grief, 

An  angry  man  W'as  he, 
And  shut  his  heart  against  the  child. 

For  our  great  sympathy. 

Down  from  the  deck  he  took  him 

To  his  cabin  all  alone  : 
We  saw  him  not  for  many  a  day. 

But  only  heard  his  moan. 

109 


100 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


PART  II. 

It  was  a  wicked  deed,  and  Heaven 

All  wickedness  doth  hate ; 
And  vengeance  on  the  oppressor, 

It  Cometh  soon  or  late, — 

As  you  will  see.     There  something  was, 

Even  from  the  very  night 
Whereon  the  captain  stole  the  child, 

On  board  that  was  not  right. 

From  out  the  cabin  evermore. 

Where  they  were  all  alone, 
We  heard,  oh  piteous  sounds  to  hear, 

A  low  and  quiet  moan  ; 
And  now  and  then  cries  sad  enough 

To  move  a  heart  of  stone. 

The  captain  had  a  conscious  look. 

Like  one  who  doeth  wrong. 
And  yet  who  striveth  all  the  time 

Against  a  conscience  strong. 

The  seamen  did  not  work  at  all 

With  a  good  will  or  a  free  ; 
And  the  ship,  as  she  were  sullen  too, 

Went  slowly  over  the  sea. 
'Twas  then  the  captain  from  below 

Sent  down  in  haste  for  me. 

I  found  him  lying  on  his  bed. 

Oppressed  with  fever-pain ; 
And  by  his  death-struck  face,  I  saw 

That  he  would  not  rise  again, — 
That  he,  so  lately  hale  and  strong. 

Would  never  rise  again. 

"  I  have  done  wickedly,"  said  he, 
"  And  Christ  doth  me  condemn  ;  — 

I  have  children  three  on  land,"  groaned  he, 
"  And  woe  will  come  to  them  ! 

"  I  have  been  weighed,  and  wanting  found ; 

I  've  done  an  evil  deed  !  — 
I  pray  thee,  mate,  'tis  not  too  late. 

Take  back  this  child  with  speed  ! 

"I  have  children  three,"  again  groaned  he, 
"  And  I  pray  that  this  be  done !  — 

Thou  viilt  have  order  of  the  ship 
When  I  am  dead  and  gone  :  — 

I  pray  thee  do  the  thing  I  ask, 
That  mercy  may  be  won  I" 

I  vowed  to  do  the  thing  he  asked. 

Upon  the  Testament ; 
And  true  enough,  that  very  day 

To  his  account  he  went. 

I  took  the  little  child  away. 

And  set  him  on  my  knee. 
In  the  free  fresh  air  upon  the  deck. 

But  he  spoke  no  word  to  me. 

I  feared  at  first  that  all  his  grief 
Had  robbed  him  of  his  speech, 

And  that  I  ne'er  by  word  or  look. 
His  sunken  soul  could  reach. 


At  length  he  woke  from  that  dead  woe, 
Like  one  that  long  hath  slept. 

And  cast  his  arms  about  ray  neck, 
And  long  and  freely  wept. 

I  clasped  him  close  unto  my  breast. 

Yet  knew  not  what  to  say, 
To  wile  him  from  the  misery 

That  on  his  spirit  lay. 

At  length  I  did  bethink  me 
Of  Jesus  Christ ;  and  spake 

To  that  poor  lamb  of  all  the  woe 
He  suffered  for  our  sake. 

"For  me  and  thee,  dear  child,"  I  said, 
"  He  suffered,  and  be  sure 

He  will  not  lay  a  pang  on  thee 
Without  he  give  the  cure !" 

Like  as  the  heavy  clouds  of  night 
Pass  from  the  coming  day. 

So  cleared  the  sullen  weight  of  woe 
From  his  dear  soul  away. 

Oh  happy  hours  of  converse  sweet ;  — 
The  Christian's  hope  he  knew. 

And  with  an  eager  heart  he  gained 
That  knowledge  sweet  and  new. 

And  ever  by  my  side  he  kept. 
Loving,  and  meek,  and  still: 

But  never  more  to  him  returned 
His  bold  and  wayward  will:  — 

He  had  been  tried  and  purified 
From  every  taint  of  ill. 

PART  III. 

The  eve  whereon  the  captain  died 

I  turned  the  ship  about. 
And  said  unto  the  seamen  good, 

"  We  'II  find  the  island  out." 

So  back  unto  the  place  we  came. 
Where  we  the  child  had  found ; 

And  two  full  days  with  anxious  watch, 
We  sailed  it  all  around. 

And  on  the  third,  at  break  of  day, 

A  far-off  peak  was  seen ; 
And  then  the  low-lands  rose  to  view. 

All  woody,  rich,  and  green. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  child  he  fell. 
When  the  mountains  came  in  view. 

And  tears  ran  streaming  from  his  eyes,- 
For  his  own  isle  he  knew. 

And,  with  a  wildly-piercing  tone, 
He  cried,  "Oh  mother  dear. 

Weep  not,  —  I  come,  my  mother!" 
Long,  long  ere  she  could  hear. 

And  soon  we  saw  a  mountain-top 
Whereon  a  beacon  burned ; 

Then  as  the  good  ship  neared  the  land, 
An  answer  was  returned. 

110 


HY.MNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


101 


"Oh  give  to  me  my  boat!"  he  cried, 

And  give  to  me  mine  oar  !" 
Just  then  we  saw  another  boat 

Pushed  from  the  island-shore. 

A  carved  boat  of  sandal-wood, 

Its  sail  a  silken  mat, 
Alt  richly  wrought  in  rainbow-dyes, 

And  three  within  her  sat. 

Down  from  the  ship  into  the  sea 

The  little  boy  he  sprung; 
And  the  mother  gave  a  scream  of  joy. 

With  which  the  island  rung. 

Like  some  sea-creature  beautiful 

He  swam  the  ocean-tide, 
And  ere  we  w^ondered  at  his  skill 

He  clomb  the  shallop's  side. 

Next  moment  in  his  mother's  arms 

He  lay,  O  sweet  embrace ! 
Looking  from  her  dear  bosom  up 

Into  her  loving  face. 

The  happiest  and  the  sweetest  sight 
That  e'er  mine  eyes  will  see, 

Was  the  coming  back  of  this  poor  child 
Unto  his  family  I 

—  Now  wot  ye  of  his  parentage  ? 

Sometime  I'll  tell  you  it; 
Of  meaner  matter  many  a  time 

Has  many  a  book  been  writ. 

'T  would  make  a  pleasant  history 
Of  joy  scarce  touched  by  w'oe. 

Of  innocence  and  love  ;  but  now 
This  only  must  you  know. 

His  mother  was' of  English  birth. 
Well-born,  and  young,  and  fair  ; 

In  the  wreck  of  an  East-Indiaman 
She  had  been  saved  there. 

His  father  was  the  island's  chief. 

Goodly  as  man  can  be  ; 
Adam,  methinks,  in  Paradise 

Was  such  a  one  as  he. 

'T  is  not  for  my  weak  speech  to  tell 
The  joy  so  sweet  and  good. 

Of  these  kind,  simple  islanders. 
Nor  all  their  gratitude. 

Whate'er  the  island  held  they  gave ; 

Delicious  fruit.s  and  wines. 
Rich-tinted  shells  from  out  the  sea. 

And  ore  from  out  their  mines. 

But  I  might  not  stay  ;  and  that  same  day 

Again  we  turned  about. 
And,  with  the  wind  that  changed  then 

Went  from  the  harbour  out. 

— 'T  is  joy  to  do  an  upright  deed  ; 

'T  is  joy  to  do  a  kind  ; 
And  the  best  reward  of  v4rtuous  deeds 

Is  the  peace  of  one's  own  mind. 


But  a  blessing  great  went  with  the  ship, 

And  with  the  freight  she  bore  ; 
The  pearl-shells  turned  to  great  account, 

So  did  the  island's  ore;  — 
But  I  someway  lost  my  reckoning. 

Nor  found  the  island  more. 

And  how  the  child  became  a  man, 

Or  what  to  him  befel. 
As  I  never  trod  the  island  more. 

Is  not  for  me  to  tell. 


EASTER   HYMNS. 

HYMN  I. 
THE  TWO  MARYS. 

Oh  dark  day  of  sorrow. 
Amazement  and  pain ; 
When  the  promise  was  blighted 
The  given  was  ta'en ! 

Wh.-^n  the  master  no  longer 
A  refuge  should  prove  ; 
And  evil  was  stronger 
Than  mercy  and  love ! 

Oh  dark  day  of  sorrow. 
Abasement  and  dread, 
When  the  Master  beloved 
Was  one  with  the  dead ! 

We  sate  in  our  anguish 
Afar  off  to  see. 
For  we  surely  believed  not 
This  sorrow  could  be ! 

But  the  trust  of  our  spirits 
Was  all  overthrown ; 
And  we  wept,  in  our  anguish. 
Astonished,  alone! 

At  even  they  laid  him 
With  aloes  and  myrrh, 
111  fine  linen  wound,  in 
A  new  sepulchre. 

There,  there  will  we  seek  him: 
Will  wash  him   with  care ; 
Anoint  him  with  spices : 
And  mourn  for  him  there. 

Oh  strangest  of  sorrow  ! 
Oh  vision  of  fear ! 
New  grief  is  around  us  — 
The  Lord  is  not  here! 


HYMN   II. 

THE  ANGEL. 

Women,  why  shrink  ye 
With  wonder  and  dread  ?  — 
Seek  not  the  living 
Where  slumbers  the  dead ! 
Ill 


102 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Weep  not,  nor  tremble  ; 

And  be  not  dismayed  ; 

HYMN  IV. 

The  Lord  hath  arisen ! 

See  where  he  was  laid  ! 

THE  ELEVEN. 

The  Lord  is  ascending !  — 
Rich  welcomes  to  give  him  : 

The  grave-clothes,  behold  them ; 

The  spices;  the  bier; 

See,  angels  descending  !  — 

The  napkin  that  bound  him;  — 

The  heavens  receive  him ! 

But  he  is  not  here  ! 

See,  angels,  archangels 

Death  could  not  hold  him; 

Bend  down  to  adore  !  — 

The  grave  is  a  prison 

The  Lord  hath  ascended, 

That  keeps  not  the  living ; 

We  see  him  no  more ! 

The  Christ  has  arisen! 

The  Master  is  taken  ; 

The  friend  hath  departed 

Yet  we  are  not  forsaken, 

HYMN  in. 

Nor  desolate-hearted ! 

The  Master  is  taken ; 

THE  LORD  JESUS. 

The  holy,  the  kind  ; 

Why  are  ye  troubled  ? 

But  the  joy  of  his  presence 

Why  weep  ye  and  grieve? 

Remainelh  behind  ! 

What  the  prophets  have  written 

Our  hearts  burned  within  us 

Why  slowly  believe  ? 

To  hear  but  the  word 

'Tis  I,  be  not  doubtful '. 

Which  he  spake,  ere  our  spirits 

Why  ponder  ye  so? 

Acknowledged  the  Lord  ! 

Behold  in  my  body 

The  Lord  hath  ascended  ! 

The  marks  of  my  woe  ! 

Our  hope  is  secure. 

We  trusted  not  lightly;  — 

The  willing  hath  suffered  ; 

The  chosen  been  slain  ; 

The  promise  is  sure ! 

The  end  is  accomplished  ! 

The  Lord  hath  ascended ; 

Behold  me  again ! 

And  we,  his  true-hearted, 

Go  forth  with  rejoicing. 

Death  has  been  conquered  — 

Though  he  hath  departed! 

The  grave  has  been  riven  — 

For  sin  a  remission 

Hath  freely  been  given  ! 

CORN-FIELDS. 

Fearless  in  spirit, 

In  the  young  merry  time  of  spring, 

Yet  meek  as  the  dove, 

When  clover  'gins  to  burst ; 

Go  preach  to  the  nations 

When  blue-bells  nod  within  the  wood. 

This  gospel  of  love. 

And  sweet  Way  whitens  first; 

When  merle  and  mavis  sing  their  fill. 

For  the  night  of  the  mighty 

Green  is  the  young  com  on  the  hill. 

Shall  o'er  you  be  cast ; 

And  I  will  be  with  you. 

But  when  the  merry  spring  is  past. 

My  friends,  to  the  last. 

And  summer  groweth  bold. 

And  in  the  garden  and  the  field 

I  go  to  the  father. 

A  thousand  flowers  unf()ld  ; 

But  I  will  prepare 

Before  a  green  leaf  yet  is  sere, 

Your  mansions  of  glory. 

The  young  corn  shoots  into  the  ear. 

And  welcome  you  there. 

But  then  as  day  and  night  succeed. 

And  summer  vveareth  on, 

There  life  never-ending; 

And  in  the  flowery  garden-beds 

There  bliss  that  endures; 

The  red-rose  groweth  wan. 

There  love  never-changing, 

And  holly-hock  and  sunflowers  tali 
O'ertop  the  mossy  garden  wall : 

My  friends,  shall  be  yours  ! 

But  the  hour  is  accomplished ! 

When  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze, 

My  children,  we  sever  — 

From  pastures  dry  and  brown. 

But  be  ye  not  troubled. 

Goes  floating,  like  an  idle  thought, 

I  am  with  you  for  ever! 

The  liiir,  white  thistle-down  ; 

112 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


103 


O,  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will, 
Upon  the  golden  harvest-hill '. 

What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  Hold  new-shorn. 
And  see  all  round  on  sun-lit  slopes 

The  piled-up  shocks  of  corn, 
And  send  ihe  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  liurvesl-liekls  of  yore. 

I  feel  the  day ;  I  see  the  field  ; 

The  quivering  of  the  leaves 
And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 

Binding  the  yellow  sheaves  ; 
And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 
To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 
And  reapers  many  a  one. 

Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke, 
And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 

And  Ruth,  the  Moabitess  fair. 

Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Again,  1  see  a  little  child, 
His  mother's  sole  delight  ; 

God's  living  gift  of  love  unto 
The  kind,  good  Shunamite  ; 

To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield. 

And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 

The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills  ; 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  agone 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see. 
And  the  dear  Saviour  take  his  way 
'Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath-day. 

O  golden  fields  of  bending  corn. 
How  beautiful  they  seem  !  — 

The  reaper-fjlk,  the  piled-up  sheaves. 
To  me  are  like  a  dream  ; 

The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 

Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there ! 


THE   TWO   ESTATES. 

The  children  of  the  rich  old  man  no  carking  care 

they  know, 
LiKe  lilies  in  the  sunshine  how  beautiful  they  grow ! 

And  well  may  they  be  beautiful;  in  raiment  of  the 

best. 
In  velvet,  gold,  and  ermine,  their  little  forms  are  drest. 

With  a  hat  and  jaunty  feather  set  lightly  on  their 
head. 

And  golden  hair,  like  angels'  locks,  over  their  shoul- 
ders spread. 

And  well  may  they  be  beautiful ;  they  toil  not,  neither 

spin, 
Nor  dig,  nor  delve,  nor  do  they  aught  their  daily 

bread  to  win. 

10*  P 


They  eat  from  gold  and  silver  all  luxuries  wealth 

can  buy ; 
They  sleep  on  beds  of  softest  down,  in  chambers  rich 

and  high. 

They  dwell  in  lordly  houses,  with  gardens  round 

about, 
And  servants  to  attend  them  if  they  go  in  or  out. 

They  have  music  for  the  hearing,  and  pictures  for 

the  eye, 
And  exquisite  and  costly  things  each  sense  to  gratify. 

No  wonder  they  are  beautiful!  and  if  they  chance 

to  die, 
Among  dead  lords  and  ladies,  in  the  chancel  vault 

they  lie. 

With  marble  tablets  on  the  wall  inscribed,  that  all 

may  know. 
The  children  of  the  rich  man  are  mouldering  below. 


The  children  of  the  poor  man,  around  the  humble 

doors 
They  throng  of  city  alleys  and  solitary  moors. 

In  hot  and  noisy  factories  they  turn  the  ceaseless 

wheel, 
And  eat  with  feeble  appetite  their  coarse  and  joyless 

meal. 

They  rise  up  in  the  morning,  ne'er  dreaming  of  de- 
light ; 

And  weary,  spent,  and  heart-sore,  they  go  to  bed  at 
night. 

They  have  no  brave  apparel,  with  golden  clasp  and 

gem; 
So  their  clothes  keep  out  the  weather  they're  good 

enough  for  them. 

Their  hands  are  broad  and  horny ;  they  hunger,  and 

are  cold ; 
They  learn  what  toil  and  sorrow  mean  ere  they  are 

five  years  old. 

— The  poor  man's  child  must  step  aside  if  the  rich 

man's  child  go  by; 
And  scarcely  aught  may  minister  to  his  little  vanity. 

And  of  what  could  he  be  vain  ?  —  his  most  beautiful 

array 
Is  what  the  rich  man's  children  have  worn  and  cast 

away. 

The  finely  spun,  the  many-hued,  the  Jieu;  are  not  for 
him. 

He  must  clothe  himself,  with  thankfulness,  in  gar- 
ments soiled  and  dim. 

He  sees  the  children  of  the  rich  in  chariots  gay  go  bv. 
And  "  what  a  heavenly  life  is  their's,"  he  sayoth With 
a  sigh. 

Then  straightway  to  his  work  he  goeth,  for  ftebk- 

though  he  be, 
His  daily  toil  must  still  be  done  to  help  the  family. 
113 


104 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Thus  live  the  poor  man's  children ;  and  if  they  chance 

to  die, 
In  plain,  uncostly  coffins,  'mong  common  graves  they 
.      lie; 

Nor  monument  nor  head-stone  their  humble  names 
declare :  — 

But  thou,  O  God,  wilt  not  forget  the  poor  man's  chil- 
dren there .' 


LIFE'S    MATINS. 

At  that  sweet  hour  of  even. 
When  nightingales  awake. 

Low-bending  o'er  her  first-born  son, 
An  anxious  mother  spake. 

"  Thou  child  of  prayer  and  blessing. 
Would  tliat  my  soul  could  know, 

What  the  unending  future  holds 
For  thee  of  joy  or  woe. 

"Thy  life,  will  it  be  gladness, 
A  sunny  path  of  flowers;  — 

Or  strift,  with  sorrow  dark  as  death. 
Through  weary,  wintry  hours? 

"  Oh  child  of  love  and  blessing, 
Young  blossom  of  life's  tree  — 

My  spirit  trembles  but  to  think 
What  time  may  make  of  thee! 

"Yet  of  the  unveiled  future 
Would  knowledge  might  be  given!" 

Then  voices  of  the  unseen  ones 
Made  answer  back  from  heaven. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

"Tears  he  must  shed  unnumbered; 

And  he  must  strive  with  care. 
As  strives  in  war  the  armed  man : 

And  human   woe   must  bear. 

"  Must  learn  that  joy  is  mockery; 

That  man  doth  mask  his  heart ; 
Must  prove  the  trusted  faithless; 

And  see  the  loved  depart! 

"Must  feel  himself  alone,  alone; 

Must  weep  when  none  can  see; 
Tlien  lock  his  grief,  like  treasure  up, 

For  lack  of  sympathy. 

"Must  prove  all  human  knowledge 

A  burden,  a  deceit; 
And  many  a  flattering  friendship  find 

A  dark  and  hollow  cheat. 

"  Well  may'st  thou  weep,  fond  mother; 

For  what  can  life  bequeath. 
But  tears  and  sighs  unnumbered, 

But  watching,  change,  and  deatli !" 


SECOND  VOICE. 

"  Rejoice,  rejoice,  fond  mother, 

Thou  hast  given  birth. 
To  this  immortal  being, 

To  this  sweet  child  of  earth! 

"The  pearl  within  the  ocean. 

The  gold  within  the  mine, 
Have  not  a  thousandth  part  the  worth 

Of  this  fair  child  of  thine! 

"Oh  fond  and  anxious  mother. 

Look  up  with  joyful  eyes. 
For  a  boundless  wealth  of  love  and  power 

In  that  young  spirit  lies  ! 

"  Love  to  enfold  all  natures 

In  one  benign  embrace ; 
Power  to  diffuse  a  bl&ssing  wide 

O'er  all  the  human  race  I 

"  Bless  God  both  night  and  morning ; 

Be  thine  a  joyful  heart; 
For  the  child  of  mortal  parents  hath 

With  the  Eternal  part! 

"The  stars  shall  dim  their  brightness; 

And  as  a  parched  scroll 
The  earth  shall  fade,  but  ne'er  shall  fade 

The  undying  human  soul  ! 

"  Oh  then  rejoice  fond  mother. 

That  thou  hast  given  birth 
To  this  immortal  being. 

To  this  fair  child  of  earth  !" 


THIS  WORLD  AND  THE  NEXT. 

How  goodly  is  the  earth  I 
Look  round  about  and  see 

The  green  and  fertile  field ; 
The  mighty  branched  tree; 

The  little  flowers  out-spread 
In  such  variety ! 

Behold   the  lovely  things 

That  dance  on  airy  wings ; 

The  birds  whose  summer  pleasure 

Is  not  of  stinted  measure  ; 

The  grassy  vales,  the  hills  ; 

The  flovver-ombordered  rills ; 

The  clouds  that  lie  at  rest 

Upon  the  noonday's  breast ; 
Behold  all  these  and  know. 
How  goodly  is  the  earth! 

How  goodly  is  the  earth  ! 

Its  mountain-tops  behold  ; 
Its  rivers  broad  and  strong ; 

Its  solemn  forests  old  ; 

Its  wealth  of  flocks  and  herds; 
Its  precious  stones  and  gold ; 
114 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


105 


Behold  the  radiant  isles 
With  which  old  ocean  smiles; 
Behold  the  seasons  run 
Obedient  to  the  snn; 
The  gracious  showers  descend  ; 
Life  springing  without  end  : 
By  day  the  glorious  liglii ; 
The  starry  |x)mp  by  night;  — 
Behold  all  these,  and  know 
How  goodly  is  the  earth ! 

How  goodly  is  the  earth  ! 

Yet  if  this  earth  be  made 
So  goodly  wherein  all 

That  is  shall  droop  and  fade; 
Wherein  the  glorious  light 

Hath  still  Its  fellow,  sliade; — • 
So  goodly,  where  is  strife 
Ever  'twixt  death  and  life ; 
A\'here  trouble  dims  the  eye ; 
Where  sin  hath  mastery ; 
How  much  more  bright  arid  fair, 
Will  be  that  region,  where 
The  saints  of  God  shall  rest 
Rejoicing  with  the  blessed;  — 

Where  pain  is  not,  nor  death, — 
The  Paradise  of  God  ! 


A    LIFE'S    SORROW. 

AN  OLD  MANS  NARRATIVE. 

My  life  hath  had  its  curse ;  and  I  will  tell 

To  you  its  dark  and  troubled  history. 
Brethren  you  are  ;  oh  then  as  brethren  dwell, 

Linked  soul  to  soul  in  blessi^d  unity  ; 

Like  the  rejoicing  branches  of  a  tree, 
All  braving  storm,  all  sharing  sunny  weather, 
All  putting  on  their  leaves,  and  withering  all  together. 

I  had  a  brother.     As  a  spring  of  joy 
Was  he  unto  the  gladness  of  my  youth  ; 
And  in  our  guileless  confidence,  each  boy. 
Vowed  a  sweet  vow  ol'  everlasting  truth, 
All  sympathetic  love,  all  generous  ruth  ; 
Alas!  that  years  the  noble  heart  should  tame, 
And  the  boy's  virtue  put  the  man  to  shame ! 

I  was  the  elder ;  and  as  years  passed  on     ' 
Men  paid  invidious  homage  to  the  heir ; 

And  pride,  which  was  the  sin  of  angels,  won 
Our  human  hearts  ;  their  guilt  I  will  not  spare  : 
If  I  was  proud,  the  boy  began  to  wear 

A  lip  of  scorn,  and  paid  me  back  my  pride, 

With  arrowy  wit  that  wounded  and  defied. 

Still  he  was  dear  to  me,  and  I  would  gaze 
With  yearning  heart  upon  him  as  he  went 

Past  me  in  silent  pride,  and  inly  praised 
His  godlike  form,  and  the  fair  lineament 
Of  his  fine  countenance,  as  eloquent 

As  if  it  breathed  forth  music  ;  and  his  voice 

Oh  how  its  tones  could  soften  and  re'oice ! 


Strange  was  it,  that  a  brother,  thus  my  pride, 
Grew  to  my  friendship  so  estranged  and  cold  ; 

Strange  was  it,  that  kind  spirits  erst  allied 
By  kindred  fellowship,  so  proved  of  old, 
Were  sundered  and  to  separate  interests  sold  ! 

I  know  not  how  it  was ;  but  pride  was  strong 

In  either  breast,  and  did  the  other  wrong. 

There  was  another  cause  —  we  fiercely  strove 
In  an  ambitious  race; — but  worse  than  all, 
We  met,  two  rival  combatants  in  love: 
My  brother  was  the  victor,  and  my  fall. 
Maddening  my  jealous  pride,  turned  love  to  gall. 
There  was  no  lingering  kindness  more.     We  parted. 
Each  on  his  separate  way,  the  sevcred-hearted. 
For  years  we  met  not ;  met  not  till  we  stood. 

Silent  and  moody,  by  our  father's  bed. 
Each  with  his  hatred  seemingly  subdued 
Whilst  in  the  presence  of  that  reverent  head  : 
Surely  our  steadfast  rancour  might  have  fled 
When  that  good  father  joined  our  hands  and  smiled. 
And  died  believing  we  were  reconciled  I 
And  so  we  might  have  been ;  but  there  were  those 

Who  found  advantage  in  our  longer  hate  ; 
Who  stepped  between  our  hearts  and  kept  us  foes, 
And  taught  that  hatred  was  inviolate  :  — 
Fools  to  be  duped  by  such  !     Rut  ah,  too  late 
True  knowledge  and  repentance  come;  and  back 
I  look  in  woe  upon  life's  blighted  track  ! 

We  were  the  victims  of  the  arts  we  scorned  ; 
We  were  like  clay  within  the  potter's  hand  : 

And  so  again  we  parted.    He  adorned 
The  courtly  world  :  his  wit  and  manners  bland 
The  hearls  of  men  and  women  could  command. 

I  too  ran  folly's  roiuid,  till  tired  of  pleasure, 

I  sought  repose  in  tranquil,  rural  leisure. 

Ere  long  he  left  his  native  land,  and  went 

Into  the  East  with  pomp  and  power  girt  round. 

And  so  years  past :  the  morn  of  life  was  spent. 
And  manhood's  noon   advanced   with  splendour 

crowned  ; 
They  said  'mid  kingly  luxury  without  bound. 

He  dwelt  in  joy  ;  and  that  his  bles.-!ings  ever 

Flowed  like  that  land's  unmeasured,  bounteous  river. 

And  the  world  worshipped  him,  for  he  was  great  — 
Great  in  the  council,  greater  in  the  field. 

And  I  too  had  my  blessings,  for  I  sate 
Amid  my  little  ones :  the  fount  unsealed 
Of  my  heart's  wronged  affections  seemed  to  yield 

A  tenfold  current :  and  my  babes,  like  light 

Unto  the  captive's  gaze,  rejoiced  my  sight. 

I  dwelt  within  my  home  an  altered  man  ; 
Again  all  tenderness  and  love  was  sweet, 

'T  was  as  if  fresh  existence  had  began,' 

Since  pleasarit  welcomes  wore  sent  forth  to  greet 
My  coming,  and  the  sound  of  little  feet 

Was  on  my  floor,  and  bright  and  loving  eyes 

Beamed  on  me  without  feigning  a  disguise. 

As  the  chill  snows  of  winter  melt  away 

Before  the  genial  spring,  so  from  my  heart 
Passed  hatred  and  revenge;  and  I  could  pray 
115 


106 


HOVVITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  pardon,  pardoning  all ;  my  soul  was  blessed 
With  answered  love,  and  hopes  whereon  to  rest 
My  joy  in  years  to  come  ;  I  asked  no  more. 
The  cup  of  that  rich  blessedness  ran  o'er. 

Alas !  even  then  the  brightness  of  my  life 
Again  grew  dim;  my  fount  of  joy  was  dried  ; 

My  soul  was  doomed  to  bear  a  heavier  strife 
Than  it  had  borne!  —  my  children  at  my  side 
In  their  meek,  loving  beauty,  drooped  and  died  — 

First  they,  and  then  their  mother  !     Did  I  weep  ? 

jVo,  tears  are  not  lor  griefs  intense  and  deep! 

Ah  me !  those  weary  days,  those  painful  nights, 
When  voices  from  the  dead  wore  in  mine  ear. 

And  I  had  visions  of  my  lost  delights. 
And  saw  the  lovely  and  the  loving  near, 
Then  woke  and  knew  my  home  so  dim  and  drear! 

What  marvel  if  I  prayed  that  I  might  die, 

In  my  soul's  great,  unchastened  misery ! 

I  had  known  sorrow,  and  remorse,  and  shame, 
But  never  knew  I  misery  till  that  time; 

And  in  my  soul  sprang  up  the  torturing  blame. 
That  they  had  died  for  my  unpardoned  crime ! 
Then  madness  followed ;  and  my  manhood's  prime 

Passed  like  a  dark  and  hideous  dream  away, 

Without  a  memory  left  of  night  or  day. 

I  dwelt  within  my  childhood's  home,  and  yet 
I  wist  not  of  each  dear  familiar  place ; 

My  soul  was  in  a  gloomy  darkness  set, 
Engulphed  in  deadness  for  a  season's  space. 
At  length  light  beamed  ;  a  ray  of  heavenly  grace 

Upon  my  bowed  and  darkened  spirit  lay, 

Heahng  its  wounds  and  giving  power  to  pray. 

I  rose  a  sorrowing  man,  and  yet  renewed  : 
Resigned,  although  abashed  to  the  dust; 

I  felt  that  God  was  righteous,  true,  and  good, 
And  though  severe  in  awful  judgment,  just ; 
Therefore  in  him  I  put  undoubting  trust, 

And  walked  once  more  among  my  fellow-men. 

Yet  in  their  vain  joys  mingling  not  again. 

My  home  was  still  a  solitude  ;  none  sought 
Nor  found  in  me  companion  ;  yet  I  pined 

For  something  which  might  win  my  weary  thought 
From  its  deep  anguish  ;  some  strong,  generous  mind, 
Round  which  my  lorn  affections  might  be  twined  : 

Some  truthful  heart  on  which  mine  own  might  lean. 

And  still  from  life  some  scattered  comfort  glean. 

The  dead,  alas  !  I  sorrowed  for  the  dead, 
Until  well-nigh  my  madness  had  relumed  ; 

Till  memory  of  ihetn  grew  a  thins;  of  dread, 
And  therefore  towards  a  living  friend  I  yearned. 
My  brother  !  then  my  soul  unto  iliee  turned  ; 

Then  pined  I  for  Ihy  spirit's  buoyant  play. 

Like  the  chained  caplive  for  the  light  of  day  ! 

The  kindness  of  his  youth  name  back  to  me  ; 
I  saw  his  form  in  visions  of  the  riight; 

I  seemed  to  hear  his  foolsteps  light  and  free 
Upon  my  flodrs  ;  the  memoried  delight 
Of  his  rich  voice  came  back  with  sweeter  might! 

Perchance  'twas  madness  —  so  I  onpii  thought, 

For  with  insatiate  zeal  in  mc  it  wrought. 


"  I  will  arise,"  I  cried,  like  him  of  yore. 
The  conscience-stricken  prodigal,  and  lay 

Myself,  as  in  the  dust,  his  face  before. 

And,  '  I  have  sinned,  my  brother!'  I  will  say  — 
'  Forgive,  forgive!'    The  clouds  shall  pa.^s  away, 

And  I  will  bancjuet  on  his  love  ;  and  rest 

My  weary  soul  on  his  sustaining  breast !" 

I  gathered  up  my  strength  ;  I  asked  of  none 
Council  or  aid  ;  I  crossed  tWe  desert  sea; 

The  purpose  of  my  soul,  to  all  unknown, 
Was  yet  supporting  energy  to  me. 
I  was  like  one  from  cruel  bonds  set  free, 

Who  walks  exulting  on,  yet  fellelh  not 

The  all-sufficing  gladness  of  his  lot. 

Through  the  great  cities  of  the  East  I  passed 
Into  the  kingdom  where  he  reigned  supreme ; 

I  came  unto  a  gorgeous  palace,  vast 
As  the  creation  of  a  poet's  dream  :  — 
My  strength  gave  way.  how  little  did  I  seem' 

I  felt  like  Joseph's  brethren,  mean  and  base, 

I  turned  aside  and  dared  not  meet  his  face. 

Hard  hy  there  was  a  grove  of  cypress  trees ; 
A  place,  as  if  for  mourning  spirits  made  ; 

Thither  I  sped,  my  burdened  heart  to  ease. 
And  weep  unseen  within  the  secret  shade. — 
A  mighty  woe  that  cypress  grove  displayed  ! 

Oh  let  me  weep !  you  will  not  say  that  tears 

Wrung  by  that  sorrow  can  be  stanched  by  years. 

There  wa.s  a  tomb ;  a  tomb  as  of  a  king ; 
A  gorgeous  palace  of  the  unconscious  dead. 

My  heart  died  in  me,  like  llie  failing  wing 
Of  the  struck  bird,  as  on  that  wall  I  read 
My  brother's  name !     Feeling  and  memory  fled  ; 

The  flood-gates  of  my  misery  gave  way. 

And  senseless  on  the  marble  floor  I  lay. 

I  lay  for  hours  ;  and  when  my  sense  returned 
The  day  was  o'er ;  no  luoon  was  in  the  sky, 

But  the  thick-strewn,  eternal  planets  burned 
In  their  celestial  beauty  steadfastly  ;  — 
It  seemed  each  star  was  as  a  heavenly  eye 

Looking  upon  ray  sorrow; — thus  I  deemed, 

And  sate  within  the  tomb  till  morning  beamed. 

—  For  this  I  crossed  the  sea  :  in  those  far  wilds, 
Through  perils  numberless,  for  this  I  went! 

What  followed  next  I  tell  not:  as  a  child's 
Again  my  soul  was  feeble  ;  too  much  spent 
To  suffer  as  of  old,  or  to  lament. 

I  came  back  to  the  scenes  where  life  began. 

By  griefs,  not  years,  a  bowed  and  aged  man. 

I  murmur  not;  but  with  submissive  will 
Resign  to  woe  the  evening  of  my  day  ; 
On  the  great  morrow  love  will  have  its  fill ; 
God  will  forgive  our  poor  repentant  clay, 
Nor  thrust  us  from  his  paradise  away  ! 
But  brethren,  be  ye  warned  !    Oh  do  not  sever 
Your  kindred  hearts,  which  should  be  linked 
For  ever ! 

116 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


107 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  AND  THE  NEW. 

My  old  friend,  he  was  a  good  old  friend, 
And  I  thought,  like  a  fool,  his  face  to  mend ; 
I  got  anotlier;  but  ah  I  to  my  cost 
I  found  him  unhke  the  one  I  had  lost! 
I  and  my  friend,  we  were  bred  together:  — 
He  had  a  smile  like  the  summer  weather; 
A  kind  warm  heart ;  and  a  hand  as  free :  — 
My  friend,  he  was  all  the  world  to  me! 

I  could  sit  with  him  and  crack  many  a  joke, 

And  talk  of  old  times  and  the  village  folk; 

He  had  been  with  us  at  the  Christmas  time; 

He  knew  every  tree  we  used  to  climb; 

And  where  we  played;  and  what  befell, 

My  dear  old  friend  remembered  well. 

It  did  me  good  but  to  see  his  face ; 

And  I  've  put  another  friend  in  his  place! 

I  wonder  how  such  a  thing  could  be. 

For  my  old  friend  would  not  have  slighted  me ! 

Oh  my  fine  new  friend,  he  is  smooth  and  bland, 

JVith  a  jewelled  ring  or  two  on  his  hand; 

He  visits  my  lord  and  my  lady  fair; 

He  hums  the  last  new  opera  air. 

He  takes  not  the  children  on  his  knee ; 

My  faithful  hound  reproacheth  me. 

For  he  snarls  when  my  new  friend  draweth  near, 

But  my  good  old  friend  to  the  brute  was  dear! 

I  wonder  how  I  such  thing  could  do. 

As  change  the  old  friend  for  the  new ! 

My  rare  old  friend,  he  read  the  plays. 

That  were  written  in  Master  Shakspeare's  days; 

He  found  in  them  wit  and  moral  good  :  — 

My  new  friend  thinks  them  coarse  and  rude :  — 

And  many  a  pleasant  song  he  sung. 

Because  they  were  made  when  we  were  young ; 

He  was  not  too  grand,  not  he,  to  know 

The  merry  old  songs  made  long  ago. 

He  writ  his  name  on  the  window-pane ;  — 

It  was  cracked  by  my  rlew  friend's  riding-cane  ! 

My  good  old  friend,  "  he  tirled  at  the  pin," 
He  opened  the  door  and  entered  in  ; 
We  all  were  glad  to  see  his  face 
As  he  took  at  the  fire  his  'customed  place, 
And  the  little  children,  loud  in  glee. 
They  welcomed  him  as  they  welcomed  me. 
He  knew  our  griefs,  our  joys  he  shared  ; 
There  cannot  be  friend  with  him  compared  ; 
We  had  tried  him  long,  had  found  him  true! 
Why  changed  I  the  old  friend  for  the  new' 

My  new  friend  comelh  in  lordly  state; 

He  peals  a  startling  ring  at  the  gate ; 

There  's  hurry  and  pomp,  there  's  pride  and  din, 

And  my  new  friend  bravely  entereth  in. 

I  bring  out  the  noblest  wines  for  cheer, 

I  make  him  a  feast  that  cosieth  dear ; 

But  he  knows  not  what  in  mv  heart  lies  deep;  — 

He  may  laugh  with  me,  but  never  shall  weep, 


For  there  is  no  bond  between  us  twain  ; 
And  I  sigh  for  my  dear  old  friend  again ; 
And  thus,  too  late,  I  bitterly  rue 
That  I  changed  the  old  friend  for  the  new ! 


MABEL  ON  MIDSUMMER  DAY. 

A  STORY  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 
PART  I. 

"  Arise,  my  maiden,  Mabel," 

The  mother  said,  "arise, 
For  the  golden  sun  of  Midsummer 

Is  shining  in  the  skies. 

"Arise,  my  little  maiden. 

For  thou  must  speed  away. 
To  wait  u[X)n  thy  grandmother 

This  livelong  summer  day. 

"  And  thou  must  carry  with  thee 

This  wheaten  cake  so  fine  ; 
This  new-made  pat  of  butter; 

This  little  flask  of  wine! 

"  And  tell  the  dear  old  body, 

This  day  I  cannot  Come, 
For  the  good  man  went  out  ye.ster-morn, 

And  he  is  not  come  home. 

"  And  more  than  this,  poor  Amy 

Upon  my  knee  doth  lie  ; 
I  fear  me,  with  this  fever-pain 

That  httle  child  will  die! 

"And  thou  can'st  help  thy  grandmother; 

The  table  thou  can'st  spread  ; 
Can'st  feed  the  little  dog  and  bird. 

And  thou  can'st  make  her  bed. 

"  And  thou  can'st  fetch  the  water. 

From  the  lady-well  hard  by  ; 
And  thou  can'st  gather  from  the  wood 

The  fagots  brown  and  dry. 

"  Can'st  go  down  to  the  lonesome  glen, 

To  milk  the  mother-ewe; 
This  is  the  work,  my  Mabel, 

That  thou  wilt  have  to  do. 

"  But  listen  now,  my  Mabel, 

This  is  Midsummer-day, 
When  all  the  fairy  people 

From  elf  land  come  away. 

"And  when  thou  art  in  lonesome  glen, 

Keep  by  the  nmning  burn, 
And  do  not  pluck  the  strawberry  flower, 

Nor  break  the  lady-fern. 

"  But  think  not  of  the  fairy  folk, 

Lest  mischief  should  befall ; 
Think  only  of  poor  Amy, 

And  how  thou  lov'st  us  all. 

117 


108 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  Yet  keep  good  heart,  my  Mabel, 

If  thou  the  fairies  see. 
And  give  them  kindly  answer 

If  they  should  speak  to  thee. 

•'  And  when  into  the  fir-wood 
Thou  go'st  for  fagots  brown, 

Do  not,  like  idle  children. 
Go  wandering  up  and  down. 

But,  fill  thy  little  apron. 
My  child,  with  earnest  speed  ; 

And  that  thou  break  no  living  bough 
Within  the  wood,  take  heed. 

"  For  they  are  spiteful  brownies 

Who  in  tiie  wood  abide, 
So  be  thou  careful  of  this  thing. 

Lest  evil  should  betide. 

"But  think  not,  little  Mabel, 
Whilst  thou  art  in  the  wood. 

Of  dwarfish,  wilful  brownies. 
But  of  the  Father  good. 

"  And  when  thou  goest  to  the  spring. 

To  fetch  the  water  thence. 
Do  not  disturb  the  little  stream. 

Lest  this  should  give  offence. 

"  For  the  queen  of  all  J,he  fairies 
She  loves  that  water  bright ; 

I  've  seen  her  drinking  there  myself 
On  many  a  summer  night. 

"  But  she's  a  gracious  lady. 
And  her  thou  need'st  not  fear  ; 

Only  disturb  thou  not  tlie  stream. 
Nor  spill  the  water  clear !" 

"  Now  all  this  I  will  heed,  mother, 

Will  no  word  disobey. 
And  wait  upon  the  grandmother 

This  livelong  summer  day  !" 

PART  11. 

Away  tripped  little  Mabel, 
With  the  vvheaten  cake  so  fine; 

With  the  new-made  pat  of  butter. 
And  the  little  tlask  of  wine. 

And  long  before  the  sun  was  hot. 
And  morning  mists  had  cleared. 

Beside  the  good  old  grandmother 
The  willing  chdd  appeared. 

And  all  iier  mother's  message 
She  told  with  right  good-will. 

How  that  the  father  was  away. 
And  the  little  child  was  ill. 

And  then  she  swept  the  hearth  up  clean. 
And  then  the  table  spread  ; 

And  next  she  fed  the  dog  and  bird  ; 
And  then  she  made  the  bed. 

"  And  go  now,"  said  the  grandmother, 
"  Ten  paces  down  the  dell. 

And  bring  in  water  for  the  day  : 
Thou  know'st  the  lady-well  I" 


The  first  time  that  good  Mabel  went. 

Nothing  at  all  saw  she. 
Except  a  bird  —  a  sky-blue  bird  — 

That  sate  upon  a  tree. 

The  next  time  that  good  Mabel  went. 

There  sate  a  lady  bright 
Beside  the  well,  —  a  lady  small. 

All  clothed  in  green  and  white. 

A  curtsey  low  made  Mabel, 

And  then  she  stooped  to  fill 
Her  pitcher  at  the  sparkling  spring, 

But  no  drop  did  she  spill. 

"  Thou  art  a  handy  maiden," 

The  fairy  lady  said  ; 
"  Thou  hast  not  spilled  a  drop,  nor  yet 

The  fair  spring  troubled ! 

"  And  for  this  thing  which  thou  hast  done. 

Yet  may'st  not  understand, 
I  give  to  thee  a  better  gift 

Than  houses  or  than  land. 

"  Thou  shalt  do  well,  whate'er  thou  dost. 

As  thou  hast  done  this  day ; 
Shall  have  the  will  and  power  to  please. 

And  shalt  be  loved  alwayl'' 

Thus  having  said,  she  passed  from  sight, 

And  nought  could  Mabel  see. 
But  the  little  bird,  the  sky-blue  bird, 

Upon  the  leafy  tree. 

—  "  And  now  go,"  said  the  grandmother, 

"  And  fetch  in  fagots  dry  ; 
All  in  the  neighbouring  fir-wood. 

Beneath  the  trees  they  lie." 

Away  went  kind,  good  Mabel, 

Into  the  fir-wood  near. 
Where  all  the  ground  was  dry  and  brown. 

And  the  grass  grew  thin  and  sere. 

She  did  not  wander  up  and  down, 

Nor  yet  a  live  branch  pull. 
But  steadily,  of  the  fallen  boughs 

She  picked  her  apron  full. 

And  when  the  wild -wood  brownies 

Came  sliding  to  her  mind. 
She  drove  them  thence,  as  she  was  told. 

With  home-thoughts  sweet  and  kind. 

But  all  that  while  the  brownies 

Within  the  fir-wood  still. 
They  watched  her  how  she  picked  the  wood, 

And  strove  to  do  no  ill. 

"  And  oh,  but  she  is  small  and  neat," 
Said  one,  "  'twere  shame  to  spite 

A  creature  so  demure  and  meek, 
A  creature  harmless  quite!" 

"  Look  only,"  said  another, 

"At  her  little  gown  of  blue; 
At  the  kerchief  pinned  about  her  head. 

And  at  her  little  shoe  I" 

118 


HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES. 


109 


"  Oh,  but  she  is  a  comely  child," 

Said  a  third,  "  and  we  will  lay 
A  good-luck-penny  in  her  path, 

A  boon  for  her  this  day,  — 
Seeing  she  broke  no  living  wood  ; 

No  live  thing  did  alTray." 

With  that  the  smallest  penny, 

Of  the  finest  silver  ore. 
Upon  the  dr\'  and  slippery  path. 

Lay  Mabel's  feet  before. 

With  joy  she  picked  the  penny  up, 

The  fairy  penny  good; 
And  with  her  fagots  dry  and  brown 

Went  wondering  from  the  wood. 

•■  Now  she  has  that,"  said  the  brownies, 

"  Let  flax  be  ever  so  dear. 
Will  buy  her  clothes  of  the  very  best, 

For  many  and  many  a  year'." 

—  ".And  go,  now,"  said  the  grandmother, 
"  Since  falling  is  the  dew, 

Go  down  unto  the  lonesome  glen, 
And  milk  the  mother-ewe !" 

All  down  into  the  lonesome  glen. 
Through  copses  thick  and  wild  ; 

Through  moist,  rank  grass,  by  trickling  streams, 
Went  on  the  willing  child. 

And  when  she  came  to  lonesome  glen, 

She  kept  beside  the  burn, 
And  neither  plucked  the  strawberry-flower, 

Nor  broke  the  lady-fern. 

And  while  she  milked  the  mother-ewe 

Within  the  lonesome  glen, 
She  wished  that  little  Amy 

Were  strong  and  well  again. 

And  soon  as  she  had  thought  this  thought, 

She  heard  a  coming  sound. 
As  if  a  thousand  fairy-folk 

Were  gathering  all  around. 

And  then  she  heard  a  little  voice, 

Shrill  as  the  midge's  wing. 
That  spake  aloud,  "  a  human  child 

Is  here  —  yet  mark  this  thing! 

"The  lady-fern  is  all  unbroke. 

The  strawberry-flower  unta'en  ! 
What  shall  be  done  for  her,  who  still 

From  mischief  can  refrain  ?" 

"  Give  her  a  fairy-cake  I"  said  one, 
"Grant  her  a  wish  I"  said  three  ; 
The  latest  wish  that  she  hath  wished," 
Said  all,  ii  whate'er  it  be  !" 

—  Kind  Mabel  heard  the  words  they  spake. 
And  from  the  lonesome  glen. 

Unto  the  good  old  grandmother 
Went  gladly  back  again. 


Thus  happened  it  to  Mabel 
On  that  ]\Iidsummer-day, 

And  these  three  fairy-blessings 
She  took  with  her  away. 

—  'Tis  good  to  make  nil  duty  sweet, 

To  be  alert  and  kind  ; 
'Tis  good,  like  little  Mabel, 

To  have  a  willing  mind-! 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

AwAivE,  arise,  good  Christians, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay; 
Remember  Christ  our  Saviour 

Was  born  upon  this  day! 

The  self-same  moon  was  shining 

That  now  is  in  the  sky, 
When  a  holy  band  of  angels 

Came  down  from  God  on  high. 

Came  down  on  clouds  of  glory, 

Arrayed  in  shining  light, 
Unto  the  shepherd-people. 

Who  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 

And  through  the  midnight  silence 

The  henvenly  host  began, 
"Glory  to  God  the  highest; 

On  earth  good-will  to  man ! 

"Fear  not,  we  bring  good  tidings. 

For,  on  this  happy  morn. 
The  promised  one,  the  Saviour, 

In  Bethlehem  town  is  born  I" 

Up  rose  the  joyful  shepherds 
From  the  ground  whereon  they  lay, 

As  ye  should  rise,  good  Christians, 
To  hail  this  blessed  day ! 

Up  rose  the  simple  sliepherds. 

All  with  a  joyful  mind ; 
"  And  let  us  go,  with  speed,"  said  they, 

"This  holy  child  to  find  I" 

Not  in  a  kingly  palace 
The  son  of  God  they  found,    • 

But  in  a  lowly  manger 
W^here  oxen  fed  around. 

The  glorious  king  of  heaven  ; 

The  Lord  of  all  the  earth, 
In  mercy  condescended 

To  be  of  humble  birth 

There  worshipped  him  the  wise  men. 

As  prophets  had  foretold  ; 
And  laid  their  gifts  before  him. 

Frankincense,  myrrh,  and  gold. 

Long  looked  the  simple  shepherds, 

With  holy  wonder  stirred, 
Tlien  praised  CJod  for  all  the  things 

Which  they  had  seen  and  heard. 
119 


110 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  homeward  went  rejoicing 

'Mid  the  mighty,  'mid  the  mean, 

I^pon  that  Christmas  morn, 

Little  children  may  be  seen. 

Declaring  unto  every  one, 

Like  the  flowers  that  spring  up  fair, 

That  Jesus  Christ  was  born. 

Bright  and  countless,  everywhere ! 

That  he  was  born,  —  the  Saviour, 

In  the  far  isles  of  the  main ; 

The  promised  one  of  old  ; 

In  the  desert's  lone  domain ; 

That  they  had  seen  the  son  of  God 

In  the  savage  mountain-glen, 

To  every  one  they  lold. 

'Mong  the  tribes  of  swarthy  men ; 

And,  like  unto  the  shepherds, 

Wheresoe'er  a  foot  hath  gone : 

We  wander  far  and  near. 

Wheresoe'er  the  sun  hath  shone 

And  bid  ye  wake,  good  Christians, 

On  a  league  of  peopled  ground. 

The  joyful  news  to  hear. 

Little  children  may  be  found ! 

Awake,  arise,  good  Christians, 

Blessings  on  them !  they  in  me 

Let  nothing  you  dismay. 

Move  a  kindly  sympathy, 

Remember  Christ  the  Saviour 

With  their  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears ; 

Was  born  upon  this  day ! 

With  theif  laughter  and  their  tears; 

With  their  wonder  so  intense. 

-^== 

And  their  small  experience! 

Little  children,  not  alone 

LITTLE    CHILDREN. 

On  the  wide  earth  are  ye  known, 

Sporting  through  the  forest  wide  ; 

'Mid  its  labours  and  its  cares. 

Playing  by  the  water-side  ; 

'Mid  its  sufferings  and  its  snares. 

Wandering  o'er  the  heathy  fells ; 

Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  strife, 

Down  within  the  woodland  dells; 

In  the  world  of  love  and  life. 

All  among  the  mountain  wild, 

Where  no  sinful  thing  hath  trod ; 

Dwelleth  many  a  little  child  ! 

In  the  presence  of  your  God. 

In  the  baron's  hall  of  pride  ; 

Spotless,  blameless,  glorified. 

By  the  poor  man's  dull  fireside  : 

Little  children,  ye  abide! 

Mvtf^  nvcti  ffU^tvu,  mxt^  otUtv  eouwttfi  KfiitiQn. 


JOHN  HENRY  AND  WILLIAM  GODFREY 
HOWITT, 

THESE    POEMS, 

SOME  OF   WHICH   THEY   WERE   THE   FIRST   TO   READ  AND 
APPROVE, 

ARE    INSCRIBED, 
•  BY 

THEIR  AFFECTIONATE  AUNT. 


PREFACE. 


This  volume  has  been  written  literally  among 
Birds  and  Flowers ;  and  has  been  my  pleasant  occu- 
pation through  the  last  summer  months ;  and  now  it 
is  completed,  my  earnest  wish  is,  that  it  may  convey 
to  many  a  young  heart  a  relish  for  the  enjoyment  of 
quiet,  country  pleasures  ;  a  love  for  every  living  crea- 
ture, and  that  strong  sympathy  whicli  must  grow  in 
every  pure  heart  for  the  great  human  family. 

West-End  Cottage,  Esher, 
September  2Sth,  I8J7. 


THE  STORMY  PETEREL. 

O  STORMY,  Stormy,  Peterel, 

Come  rest  thee,  bird,  awhile ; 

There  is  no  storm,  believe  me, 
Anigh  this  summer  isle. 

Come,  rest  thy  waving  pinions; 

Alight  thee  down  by  me  ; 
And  tell  me  somewhat  of  the  lore 

Thou  learnest  on  the  sea ! 

Dost  hear  beneath  the  ocean 

The  gathering  tempest  form? 

See'st  thou  afar  the  little  cloud 
That  grows  into  the  storm  ? 

IIow  is  it  in  the  billowy  depths  — 
Doth  sea-weed  heave  and  swell  ? 

And  is  a  sound  of  coming  woe 

Rung  from  each  caverned  shell  ? 

Dost  watch  the  stormy  sunset 
In  tempests  of  the  west ; 

And  see  the  old  moon  riding  slow 

With  the  new  moon  on  her  breast  • 
120 


BIRDS  A.ND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


Ill 


Dost  mark  the  billows  heaving 

Before  tlie  coming  gnle  ; 
And  scream  for  joy  of  every  sound 

That  turns  the  seaman  pale? 

Are  gusty  tempests  rairlh  to  thee  ? 

Lov'st  thou  the  lightning's  flash  ; 
The  booming  of  the  mountain  waves  — 

The  thunder's  deafening  crash  ? 

O  stormy,  stormy  Pelerel, 
Thou  art  a  bird  of  woe  .' 

Yet  vvould  I  thou  could'st  tell  me  half 
Of  the  misery  thou  dost  know  ! 

There  was  a  ship  went.down  last  night,- 

A  good  ship  and  a  fair; 
A  costly  freight  within  her  lay, 

And  many  a  soul  was  there  ! 

The  night-black  storm  was  over  her, 
And  'neath  the  caverned  wave: 

In  all  her  strength  slie  perished. 
Nor  skill  of  man  could  save. 

The  cry  of  her  great  agony 
Went  upward  to  the  sky ; 

She  perished  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Nor  human  aid  was  nigh. 

But  thou,  O  stormy  Peterel, 

Went'st  screaming  o'er  the  foam; — 
Are  there  no  tidings  from  that  ship 

Which  thou  canst  carry  home  ? 

Yes !  He  who  raised  the  tempest  up, 
Sustained  each  drooping  one ; 

And  God  was  present  in  the  storm, 
Though  human  aid  was  none! 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  GARDEN. 

Ah  yes,  the  poor  man's  garden  ! 

It  is  great  joy  to  me, 
This  little,  precious  piece  of  ground 

Before  his  door  to  see ! 

The  rich  man  has  his  gardeners, — 
His  gardeners  young  and  old ; 

He  never  takes  a  spade  in  hand, 
Nor  %vorketh  in  the  mould. 

It  is  not  with  the  poor  man  so, — 
Wealth,  servants,  he  has  none; 

And  all  the  work  that's  done  for  him 
Must  by  himself  be  done. 

All  day  upon  some  weary  task 
He  toileth  with  good  will ; 

And  back  he  comes,  at  set  of  sun, 
His  garden-plot  to  till. 

The  rich  man  in  his  garden  walks, 
And  'neath  his  garden  trees; 

Wrapped  in  a  dream  of  other  things. 
He  seems  to  take  his  ease. 
11  Q 


One  moment  he  beholds  his  flowers. 
The  next  they  are  forgot : 

He  eateth  of  his  rarest  fruits 
As  though  he  ate  them  not. 

It  is  not  with  the  jioor  man  so  ;  — 
He  knows  each  inch  of  ground, 

And  every  single  plant  and  flower 
That  grows  within  its  bound. 

He  knows  where  grow  his  wall-flowers, 
And  when  they  will  be  out; 

His  moss-rose,  and  convolvulus 
That  twines  his  pales  about. 

He  knows  his  red  sweet-williams  ; 

And  the  stocks  that  cost  him  dear, — 
That  well-set  row  of  crimson  stocks. 

For  he  bought  the  seed  last  year. 

And  though  unto  the  rich  man 
The  cost  of  flowers  is  nought, 

A  sixpence  to  a  poor  man 

Is  toil,  and  care,  and  thought. 

And  here  is  his  potatoe-bed. 

All  well-grown,  strong,  and  green  ; 
How  could  a  rich  man's  heart  leap  up 

At  anything  so  mean ! 

But  he,  the  poor  man,  sees  his  crop, 
And  a  thankful  man  is  he. 

For  he  thinks  all  through  the  winter 
How  rich  his  board  will  be 

And  how  his  merry  little  ones 
Beside  the  fire  will  stand, 

Each  with  a  large  potatoe 

In  a  round  and  rosy  hand. 

The  rich  man  has  his  wall-fruits. 

And  his  delicious  vines; 
His  fruit  for  every  season  ; 

His  melons  and  his  pines. 

The  poor  man  has  his  gooseberries ; 

His  currants  white  and  red ; 
His  apple  and  his  damson  tree. 

And  a  little  strawberry-bed. 

A  happy  man  he  thinks  himself, 
A  man  that's  passing  well, — 

To  have  some  fruit  for  the  children. 
And  some  besides  to  sell. 

Around  the  rich  man's  trellissed  bower 
Gay,  costly  creepers  run ; 

The  poor  man  has  his  scarlet-beans 
To  screen  him  from  the  sun. 

And  there  before  the  little  bench, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  bower. 

Grow  southern-wood  and  lemon-thyrae, 
Sweet-pea  and  gilliflower; 

And  pinks  and  clove-carnations. 
Rich-scented  side  by  side ; 

And  at  each  end  a  holly-hock. 

With  an  edge  of  London-pride.    , 
121 


112 


IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  here  comes  the  old  grandmother, 
When  her  day's  work  is  done  ; 

And  here  they  bring  the  sickly  babe 
To  cheer  it  in  the  sun. 

And  here,  on  Sabbath-mornings, 
The  good  man  comes  to  get 

His  Sunday  nosegay,  moss-rose  bud, 
VVliite  pink,  and  mignonette. 

And  here,  on  Sabbath-evenings, 

Until  the  stars  are  out, 
With  a  little  one  in  either  hand. 

He  walketh  all  about. 

For  though  his  garden-])lot  is  small. 

Him  doth  it  satisfy ; 
For  there  's  no  inch  of  all  his  ground 

That  does  not  fill  his  eye. 

It  is  not  with  the  rich  man  thus  ; 

For  though  his  grounds  are  wide. 
He  looks  beyond,  and  yet  beyond. 

With  soul  unsatisfied. 

Yes .'  in  the  poor  man's  garden  grow 
Far  more  than  herbs  and  flowers ;  — 

Kind  thoughts,  contentment,  peace  of  mind, 
And  joy  for  weary  hours. 


THE  APPLE-TREE, 

Let  them  sing  of  bright  red  gold  ; 

Let  them  sing  of  silver  fair; 
Sing  of  all  that 's  on  the  earth, 

All  that 's  in  the  air; 
All  that 's  in  the  sunny  air. 

All  that 's  in  the  sea; 
And  I  'II  sing  a  song  as  rare 

Of  the  apple-tree ! 
The  red-bloomed  apple-tree ; 
The  red-cheeked  apple-tree ; 
That 's  the  tree  for  you  and  me. 

The  ripe,  rosy  apple-tree  I 

Learned  men  have  learned  books. 

Which  they  ponder  day  and  night ; 
Easier  leaves  than  theirs  I  read, — 

Blossoms  pink  and  white ; 
Blossom-leaves  all  pink  and  white, 

Wherein  I  can  see 
Charactered,  as  clear  as  light. 

The  old  apple-tree; 
The  gold-cheeked  apple-tree ; 
The  red-streaked  apple-tree ; 
All  the  fruit  that  groweth  on 

The  ripe,  rosy  apple-tree ! 

Autumn  comes,  and  our  good-man 

Soon  as  harvest-toil  is  o'er, 
Speculates  on  apple-crops  — 

Be  they  less  or  more ; 
I  could  tell  him  ;  less  or  more 

Is  well-known  to  me  ; 
I  have  eyes  that  see  the  core 

Of  the  apple-tree ; 


The  old,  mossy  apple-tree ; 
The  young,  glossy  apple-tree ; 
Scathed  or  sound,  the  country  round, 
I  know  every  apple-tree  I 

Winter  comes,  as  winter  will. 

Bringing  dark  days,  frost,  and  rime ; 
But  the  apple  is  in  vogue 

At  the  Christmas-time; 
At  the  merry  Christmas-time 

Folks  are  full  of  glee  ; 
Then  they  bring  out  apples  prime. 

Of  the  primest  tree  ; 
Then  you  the  roast-apple  see 
While  they  toast  the  apple-tree. 
Singing,  with  a  jolly  chime. 

Of  the  brave  old  apple-tree ! 


THE   HERON. 

Lo  I  there  the  hermit  of  the  waste, 

The  ghost  of  ages  dim. 
The  fisher  of  the  solitudes. 

Stands  by  the  river's  brim ! 

Old  Heron,  in  the  feudal  times. 

Beside  the  forest  stream. 
And  by  the  moorland  waters. 

Thus  didst  thou  love  to  dream. 

And  over  towers  and  castles  high. 

And  o'er  the  armed  men. 
Skirmishing  on  the  border-lands. 

Or  crouching  in  the  glen ; 

Thy  heavy  wings  were  seen  to  flit. 
Thy  azure  shape  was  known 

To  pilgrim  and  to  anchorite. 

In  deserts  scorched  and  lone. 

Old  Heron,  in  those  feudal  times 
Thou  wast  in  dangerous  grace, 

Secured  by  mandates  and  by  laws 
All  for  the  royal  chase. 

No  meaner  head  might  plot  thy  death 
Than  one  which  wore  a  crown; 

No  meaner  hand  might  loose  the  shaft. 
From  the  skies  to  strike  thee  down. 

And  out  came  trooping  courtly  dames, 

And  men  of  high  degree. 
On  steeds  caparisoned  in  gold. 

With  bridles  ringing  free. 

Came  king  and  queen  ;  came  warrior  stout ; 

Came  lord  and  lady  iiiir. 
All  gallant,  beautiful,  and  bold. 

Into  the  autumn  air. 

The  abbot  and  the  bishop  grave. 

The  monk  with  crown  new-shorn, 

Who  sore  did  rue  their  ravaged  stew* 
In  the  last  Lent  forlorn. 


*  Fish-pond. 


122 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


113 


The  keepers  with  their  dogs  in  leash ; 

The  falconers  before, 
Who  proudly  on  their  sturdy  wrists 

The  hooded  tercel  bore. 

And  in  thy  solitary  haunts 

By  stream  or  sedgy  mere, 
.The  laugh,  the  shout,  the  cries  of  dogs 

And  men,  came  to  thine  ear. 

And  starting  from  thy  reverie, 

And  springing  from  the  bent, 

Into  the  air,  from  joyous  hearts, 
Another  shout  was  sent. 

Up,  up,  into  the  azure  skijjs 

On  circling  pinions  strong. 
Fair  eyes  pursued  thy  mounting  course 

While  the  falcon  sped  along. 

Up,  up,  into  the  azure  skies 

Thy  strenuous  pinions  go. 
While  shouts  and  cries,  and  wondering  eyes, 

Still  reach  thee  from  below ; 
But  higher,  and  higher,  like  a  spirit  of  fire. 

Still  o'er  thee  hangs  thy  foe  ; 

Thy  cruel  foe,  still  seeking 

With  ope  down-plunging  aim. 

To  strike  thy  precious  life 

For  ever  from  thy  frame ! 

But  doomed  perhaps,  as  down  he  darts 

Swift  as  the  rushing  wind. 
Impaled  upwu  thy  up-turned  beak. 

To  leave  his  own  behind. 

Old  Heron,  all  tho.se  times  are  past, 
Those  jocund  troops  are  fled  ; 

The  king,  the  queen,  the  keepers  green, 
The  dogs,  the  hawks  are  dead  ! 

In  many  a  minster's  solemn  gloom, 

In  shattered  abbeys  lone, 
Lie  all  thy  crowned  enemies. 

In  midnight  vaults  of  stone  I 

The  towers  are  torn,  the  gates  outworn. 

Portcullis,  moat,  and  mound 
Are  vanished  all,  or  faintly  mark 

Some  rarely-trodden  ground. 

O'er  all  those  abbeys,  convents,  all 
Those  chantries  and  crosses. 

Where  thou  didst  glide  past  in  thy  pride, 
Grow  tawny  ferns  and  mosses. 

Where  banners  waved,  the  ivy  grows ; 

Baronial  times  are  o'er! 
The  forests  now  arc  cornfields  green. 

Green  is  the  lakelet's  shore. 

Where  grew  the  furze,  now  runs  the  fence  ; 

Where  waved  tlie  wild-rush  free, 
And  whistled  moorland-grasses  sere, 

Fat  cattle  roam  the  lea. 


The  bow  is  gone,  the  hawk  is  thrown 

For  ever  from  the  hand  ; 
And  now  we  live  a  bookish  race. 

All  in  a  cultured  land. 

Yet  here  and  there  some  remnant 
Of  those  old  woodland  times  ; 

Some  waste  lies  brown  ;  some  fi)rest  spreads; 
Some  rocky  streamlet  chimes. 

And  there,  beside  the  waters. 

On  moorland  and  on  wold, 
I  find  thee  watching  still. 

Thou  fisherman  of  old. 

Oh  fair,  fair  is  the  forest. 

When  summer  is  in  prime ! 
And  I  love  to  lie  by  mountain  lake, 

On  its  slopes  of  heath  and  thyme ! 

In  the  thyme  so  richly  fragrant, 

In  the  heath  that  blooms  so  fair, 

And  list  the  quaint  bird-voices 

From  the  moorland  and  the  air. 

All  those  that  lead  their  sweetest  lives 

Far  from  the  haunt  of  men. 
Are  sending  forth  their  gladness 
In  many  a  wild  cry  then. 

The  curlew  and  the  plover. 

The  gor-cock  on  the  brae, 
Send,  with  the  singing  of  the  lark, 

Their  voices  far  away  I 

The  coot  and  moor-hen  from  the  reeds. 

Or  where  the  waters  run 
Crystal  and  warm  and  glittering, 

O'er  the  pebbles  in  the  sun. 

And  from  the  air,  in  circling  flight. 

Comes  suddenly  the  crowd 
Of  all  the  wild-duck  army. 

With  pinions  rustling  loud  ; 

And,  dashing  down  into  the  lake. 

The  splashing  waters  bound 
In  drops  and  showers  of  silver. 

And  in  snow-flakes  all  around. 

Such  is  the  joy  that  wakens, 

That  clamours,  and  that  lives, 

In  all  the  winged  creatures. 

Where  nature  still  survives;  ' 

Where  nature  still  survives 

In  her  regions  wild  and  free  ; 
So  lives  in  all  her  creatures. 

Old  fisherman,  but  thee  I 

Whene'er  I  meet  thee.  Heron, 

By  river  broad  and  deep, 
\\liere  mountain-torrents  rim  and  moan 

Or  [wnded  waters  sleep; 

By  tarns  u|X)n  the  naked  hills; 

In  stony  regions  grey. 
Or  wading  in  the  sounding  sea 

Amid  the  hi.ssing  spray: 

123 


114 


HOWITTS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whene'er  I  see  thee,  Heron, 

Thy  cheer  is  silent  still; 
Solemnly  watching  by  the  wave, 
Or  o'er  the  dusky  hill, 

Waving  thy  shadowy  wings 
In  motion  grave  and  slow, 

Like  a  spirit  of  the  solemn  past 
That  museth  on  its  woe ! 

Like  one  that  in  all  present  joy 
Finds  no  congenial  tone. 

For  his  heart  is  in  the  perished  past. 
And  seeketh  that  alone! 

Then  hail  to  thee,  old  Heron, 

Flit  on  from  dream  to  dream; 

Be  yet  the  watcher  on  the  shore, 
The  spirit  of  the  stream  ; 

For  still  at  sight  r,i'  thee  come  back 
The  storied  times  of  old  ; 

The  jovial  hawking-train,  the  chase, 
The  sturdy  bowmen  bold. 

Still  wandering  over  cultured  fields. 
Or  'mid  the  human  throng. 

Come  back  the  feudal  castle, 
The  harper  and  his  song. 

And  it  is  pleasant  thus  to  dream 
In  this  kingdom  of  the  I'ree, 

Psow  laws  are  strong  and  roads  are  good, 
Of  outlaw  'neath  his  tree. 

Now  knowledge  falls  like  sunshine, 
And  peace  walks  in  our  towns  — 

Oh  pleasant  are  the  feudal  days 

And  the  bloody  strife  of  crowns  ! 

Then  hail  to  thee,  old  Heron ! 

Flit  on  to  lakes  and  streams  ; 
And  by  their  waters  dreaming. 

Still  prompt  these  pleasant  dreams  I 


THE    ROSE    OF    MAY. 

Ah  there  's  the  lily,  marble  pale, 
The  bonny  broom,  the  cistus  frail, 
The  rich  sweet-pea.  the  iris  blue, 
The  larkspur  with  its  peacock  hue ; — 
Each  one  is  fair,  yet  hold  I  will 
That  the  rose  of  May  is  fairer  still. 

'Tis  grand  'nealh  palace-walls  to  grow  ; 
To  blaze  where  lords  and  ladies  go; 
To  hang  o'er  marble  founts,  and  shine 
In  modern  gardens  trim  and  fine;  — 
But  the  rose  of  May  is  only  seen 
Where  the  great  of  other  days  have  been. 

The  house  is  mouldering  stono  by  stone  ; 
The  garden- walks  are  overgrown  ; 
The  flowers  are  low,  the  weeds  are  high  ; 
The  fountain-stream  is  choked  and  dry  ; 
The  dial-stone  with  moss  is  green. 
Where'er  the  rose  of  May  is  seen. 


The  rose  of  May  its  pride  display 'd 
Along  the  old  stone  balustrade  ; 
And  ancient  ladies,  quaintly  dight, 
In  its  pink  blossoms  took  delight. 
And  on  tiie  steps  would  make  a  stand. 
To  scent  its  sweetness,  fan  in  hand. 

Long  have  been  dead  those  ladies  gay  ; 
Their  very  heirs  have  passed  away  ; 
And  their  old  portraits,  prim  and  tall. 
Are  mouldering  in  the  mouldering  hall ; 
The  terrace  and  the  balustrade 
Lie  broken,  weedy,  and  decayed. 

But,  lithe  and  tall,  the  rose  of  May 
Shoots  upward  through  the  ruin  grey. 
With  scented  flower,  and  leaf  pale-green. 
Such  rose  as  it  hath  ever  been  ; 
Left,  like  a  noble  deed,  to  grace 
The  memory  of  an  ancient  race  ! 

What  exact  species  of  rose  this  is  I  do  not  know; 
it  appears  not  to  be  approved  of  in  modem  gardens, 
— at  least  if  it  be,  it  is  so  mu(;h  altered  by  cultivation 
as  to  have  lost  much  of  its  primitive  character.  I 
saw  it  in  three  different  situations  in  Nottingham- 
shire. In  the  small  remains  of  gardens  and  old  laby- 
rinthine shrubbery  at  Awthorpe  Hall, — which,  when 
we  were  there,  had  just  been  taken  down, — the  resi- 
dence of  the  good  Colonel  John  Hutchinson  and  his 
sweet  wife  Lucy  ; — in  the  very  gardens  which,  as 
she  relates  in  his  life,  he  laid  out  and  took  so  much 
pleasure  in.  It  was  growing  also,  with  tall  shoots 
and  abundance  of  flowers,  in  the  most  f()rlorn  of  gar- 
dens at  an  old  place  called  Burton  Grange,  a  house 
so  desolate  and  deserted  as  to  have  gained  from  a 
poetical  friend  of  ours  the  appropriate  name  of  The 
Dead  House.  It  was  a  dreary  and  most  lonesome 
place ;  the  very  bricks  of  which  it  was  built  were 
bleached  by  long  exposure  to  wind  and  weather; 
there  seemed  no  life  within  or  about  it.  Kvery  trace 
of  furniture  and  wainscot  was  gone  from  its  interior, 
and  its  principal  rooms  were  the  de|iositories  oi'  old 
ploughs  and  disused  ladders  ;  yel  still  its  roof,  floors, 
and  windows  were  in  decent  repair.  It  had  once 
upon  a  tmie  been  a  well-conditioned  house  ;  had  been 
moated,  and  its  garden-wall  had  been  terminated  by 
stately  stone  pillars  surmounted  by  well-cut  urns,  one 
of  which,  at  the  time  we  were  there,  lay  overgrown  ' 
with  grass  in  the  ground  beneath  ;  the  other,  after  a 
similar  fall,  had  been  replaced,  but  with  the  wrong 
end  uppermost.  To  add  still  more  to  its  lonesome- 
ness,  thick,  wild  woods  encompassed  it  on  three  sides, 
whence  of  an  evening,  and  often  too  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  came  the  voices  of  owls  and  other  gloomy 
wood -creatures. 

"There's  not  a  flower  in  the  garden,"  said  a  wo- 
man who,  with  her  husband  and  child,  we  found,  to 
our  astonishment,  inhabiting  what  had  once  been  the 
scullery, — "  not  a  flower  but  fever-few  and  the  rose 
of  May,  and  you  '11  not  think  it  worth  getting."  She 
was  mistaken ;  I  was  delighted  to  find  this  sweet  and 
favourite  rose  in  so  ruinous  a  situation. 

Again,  we  found  it  in  the  gardens  of  .\nnesley  Hall, 
124 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


115 


that  most  poetical  of  old  mansions ;  and  the  ancient 
housekeeper,  at  that  time  its  sole  inhabitant,  pointed 
out  this  (lower  with  a  parti(!iilur  emphasis.  "And 
here's  the  rose  ol"  May,"  said  she,  drawing  out  a 
slender  spray  i'rom  a  tangle  of  jessamine  that  hung 
about  the  stone-w  ork  of  the  terrace ;  "  a  main  pretty 
thing,  though  there 's  little  store  set  by  it  novv-a- 
days!" 


THE    DOR-HAWK. 

Fern-owl,  Churn-owl,  or  (.Joat-sucker, 

Aight-jar,  Uor-haw k,  or  whate'er 
Be  thy  name  among  a  dozen, — 
AVhip-poor-Will's  and  Who-are-you's  cousin, 
Chuck-Will's-widow  's  near  relation, 
Thou  art  at  thy  night  vocation. 

Thrilling  the  still  evening  air ! 

In  the  dark  brown  wood  beyond  us, 

Where  the  night  lies  dusk  and  deep; 

Where  the  fox  his  furrow  niakclh, 

Where  the  tawny  owl  awaketh 
Nightly  from  his  day-long  sleep; 

There  Dor-hawk  is  thy  abiding. 

Meadow  green  is  not  for  thee  ; 
While  the  aspen  brandies  shiver, 
'Mid  the  roaring  of  the  river, 

Comes  thy  chirring  voice  to  me. 

Bird,  thy  form  I  never  looked  on. 

And  to  see  it  do  not  care  ; 
Thou  hast  been,  and  thou  art  only 
As  a  voice  of  forests  lonely, 

Heard  and  dwelling  only  there. 

Bringing  thoughts  of  dusk  and  shadow  ; 

Trees  liuge-branclied  in  ceaseless  change; 
Pallid  night-moths,  spectre-seeming; 
All  a  silent  land  of  dreaming. 

Indistinct  and  large  and  strange. 

Be  thou  thus,  and  thus  I  prize  thee 

More  tlian  knowing  thee  face  to  face, 
Head  and  beak  and  leg  and  feather. 
Kept  from  harm  of  touch  and  weather. 
Underneath  a  fine  glass-case. 

I  can  read  of  thee,  and  find  out 

How  thou  (liest,  fast  or  slow ; 
Of  thee  in  the  north  and  south  too. 
Of  thy  great  moustachioed  mouth  too. 

And  thy  Latin  name  also. 

But,  Dor-hawk,  I  love  thee  better 

While  thy  voice  unto  me  .'seems 
Coming  o'er  the  evening  meadows. 
From  a  dark  brown  land  of  shadows, 
Like  a  plea.sant  voice  of  dreams! 

This  singular  bird,  which  is  found  in  every  part 
of  the  old  world,  as  well  in  the  cold  regions  of  Sibe- 
ria, as  in  the  hot  jungles  of  India,  and  the  lion-haunted 
forests  of  Africa,  has,  as  we  have  said,  a  large  class 
11* 


of  relations  also  in  America :  the  Whip-poor- Will, 
the  Willy-come-gn,  the  Work-away,  and  the  Who- 
are-you  ?  being  all  of  the  same  family.  In  Africa 
and  among  the  American  Indians  these  birds  are 
looked  upon  with  reverence  or  fear;  li)r,  by  some 
they  are  supposed  to  be  haunted  by  the  dead,  and  by 
others  to  be  obedient  to  gloomy  or  evil  spirits.  The 
Dor-Hawk  of  our  own  country  has  been  subject  to 
slander,  as  his  name  of  the  goatsucker  shows.  This 
name  originated  of  course  in  districts  where  goats 
were  used  for  milking,  and  furnished,  no  doubt,  an 
excuse  for  the  false  herd,  who  stole  the  milk  and 
blamed  the  bird. 

The  Dor-Hawk,  like  the  owl,  is  not  seen  in  the 
day;  and  like  it  also,  is  an  inhabitant  of  witd  and 
gloomy  scenes ;  heathy  tracks  abounding  in  fern  ; 
moors,  and  old  woods.  It  is  so  regular  in  tiie  time 
of  beginning  its  nightly  cry,  that  good  old  Gilbert 
White  declares,  it  appeared  to  him  to  strike  up  ex- 
actly when  the  report  of  the  Portsmouth  evening  gun 
was  heard.  lie  says  also,  that  its  voice,  which  re- 
sembles the  loud  purring  of  a  cat,  occasions  a  singu- 
lar vibration  even  in  solid  buildings  ;  for  that,  as  he 
and  some  of  his  neighbours  sate  in  a  hermitage  on  a 
steep  hill-side,  where  they  had  been  taking  tea,  a 
Dor-Hawk  alighted  on  the  little  cross  at  the  top,  and 
uttered  his  cry,  making  the  walls  of  the  building 
sensibly  vibrate,  to  the  wonder  of  all  the  company. 

I  can  give  no  anecdotes  of  the  bird  from  my  own 
experience.  I  know  him  best  by  his  voice,  heard 
mostly  from  scenes  of  a  wild  and  picturesque  char- 
acter, in  the  gloom  and  shadow  of  evening,  or  in  the 
deep  calm  of  summer  moonlight.  I  heard  him  first 
in  a  black,  solemn-looking  wood,  betw'een  Houghton 
Tower,  and  Pleasington  Priory,  in  Lancashire.  Since 
then  I  have  become  familiar  with  his  voice  in  the 
pleasant  woods  of  Winter-down,  and  Claremonl,  m 
Surrey. 


THE  OAK-TREE. 

Sing  for  the  Oak-Tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 
Sing  for  the  Oak-tree, 

That  groweth  green  and  good  ; 
That  groweth  bioad  and  branching 

Within  the  forest  shade  ; 
That  groweth  now,  and  yet  shall  grow 

When  we  are  lowly  laid ! 

The  Oak-Tree  was  an  acorn  once. 

And  fell  upon  the  earth ; 
And  sun  and  showers  nourished  it, 

And  gave  the  Oak-tree  birth. 
The  little  sprouting  Oak-Tree  I 

Two  leaves  it  had  at  first, 
Till  sun  and  showers  had  nourished  it, 

Then  out  the  branches  burst. 

The  little  sapling  Oak-Tree! 

Its  root  was  like  a  thread. 
Till  the  kindly  earth  had  nourished  it. 

Then  out  it  freely  spread  : 

125 


116 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


On  this  side  and  on  that  side 

It  grappled  with  the  ground  ; 
And  in  the  ancient,  rifled  rock 
Its  firmest  footing  found. 

The  winds  came,  and  the  rain  fell; 

The  gusty  tempests  blew ; 
All,  all  were  friends  to  the  Oak-Tree, 

And  stronger  yet  it  grew. 
The  boy  that  saw  the  acorn  fall. 

He  feeble  grew  and  grey ; 
But  the  Oak  was  still  a  thriving  tree, 

And  strengthened  every  day! 

Four  centuries  grows  the  Oak-Tree, 

Nor  doth  its  verdure  fail  ; 
Its  heart  is  like  the  iron-wood. 

Its  bark  like  plated  mail. 
-Now,  cut  us  down  the  Oak-Tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 
And  of  its  timbers  stout  and  strong 

We  'II  build  a  vessel  good  ! 

The  Oak-Tree  of  the  forest 

Both  east  and  west  shall  fly  ; 
And  the  blessings  of  a  thousand  lands 

Upon  our  ship  shall  lie .' 
For  she  shall  not  be  a  man-of-war. 

Nor  a  pirate  shall  she  be :  — 
But  a  noble.  Christian  merchant-ship, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea. 

Then  sing  for  the  Oak-Tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 
Sing  for  the  Oak-Tree, 

That  groweth  green  and  good  ; 
That  groweth  broad  and  branching 

Within  the  forest  shade  ; 
That  groweth  now,  and  yet  shall  grow, 

When  we  are  lowly  laid ! 


THE  CAROLINA  PARROT. 

Parrots,  with  all  their  cleverness,  are  not  capa- 
ble of  keeping  up  a  dialogue  ;  otherwise  we  might 
suppose  something  like  the  following  to  be  in  charac- 
ter with  their  humour  and  experience. 

Poll's  Mistress. 

I  've  heard  of  imp,  I  've  heard  of  sprite ; 

Of  fays  and  fiiiries  of  the  night ; 

Of  that  renowned  fiend  Hobgoblin, 

Running,  racing,  jumping,  hobbhng  ; 

Of  Puck,  brimful  of  fun ;  also 

Of  roguish  Robin  Goodfellow. 

I  've  seen  a  hearth  where,  as  is  told. 

Came  Ilobthrush  tn  the  days  of  old, 

To  make  the  butter,  mend  the  linen. 

And  keep  tiie  housewife's  wheel  a-spinning. 

I  've  heard  of  pigmies,  pixies,  lares, 

Shoirim,  geraediin,  aiul  fairies:  — 

And,  Parrot,  on  my  honest  word, 

I  hardly  think  thou  art  a  bird  ; — 


Thou  art  some  pixy,  quaint  and  queer; 

•Thou  art  not  canny.  Poll,  I  fear  I 

Look  at  that  impish  leer  of  ihme  ; 

List  to  thy  scream,  thy  shout,  thy  whine. 

And  none  will  doubt  but  thou  must  be 

A  creature  of  the  faery. 

Or  tell  me.  Poll,  art  thou  not  kin 

To  Jack  o'  lanlhern  ?  Come,  begin  ! 

Answer  me.  Poll,  was  't  'mong  the  fairies 

Thou  learnt  thy  many  strange  vagaries  ? 

Speak,  pretty  Poll ! 

Poll. 

Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  tell  you  all. 
You've  got  some  company,  I  see  ;  a  short  gentleman 

and  a  tall; 
Many  ladies,  too,  altogether  two  or  three  dozens, 
I  should  not  wonder  if  they  are  some  of  your  uncles 

and  cousins! 
Pray  am  not  I  a  very  fine  bird. 
Green,  and  yellow,  and  scarlet  ?  — 

Upon  my  word ! 
That  man  has  a  coat  on  like  our  Captain  ! 

Captain. 

Poll,  hoW'  do  you  do,  my  dear  ? 
You  look  well ;  it 's  fine 'living  here! 

Poll. 

Ha,  Captain,  how  do  you  do  ? — Captain,  your  health, 

I  say  ; 
Captain,  I  '11  have  the   pleasure  of  drinking  your 

health  to-day !  ha !  ha  !  ha ! 
I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you  ! — You  remember,  perhaps. 
That  wood  in  Carolina,  the  guns  and  all  the  traps; — 
To  be  sure  you  do  ! — Ladies,  I  'm  a  Carolina  bird, — 
Some  come  from  the  East  Indies,  from  the  Cape,  too, 

I  have  heard  ; 
But  I  'm  of  Carolina  —  to  the  Big-bone  lick  I  've 

been, — 
Now  in  that  country  there  is  something  to  be  seen! 
Our  Captain  knows  l/iat  .'  Ay,  Captain,  I  say, 
Do  you  remember  crossing  the  Cedar  Swamp  one 

particular  day. 
When  I  got  out  of  your  pocket  and  flew  away  ? 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  How  it  makes  me  laugh! 
You  'd  a  pretty  chase  after  me  ! — ha  !  ha !  a  pretty 

chase ! 
And  I  sat  in  the  hiccory  trees,  laughing  in  your  face! 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  how  1  did  laugh. 
What  cypress-berries,  cockle-burrs,  and  beech-nuts 

grew  there! 
You  may  look  all  this  country  over,  and  find  none 

anywhere. 
And  what  fun  it  was — me,  and  a  thousand  beside. 
To  fly  in  the  merry  sunshine  through  those  forests 

wide. 
And  build  our  nests  —  Oh,  what  nests  we  had!  — 
Did  you  ever  see  one  of  our  nests,  Captain  ?    Eh,  my 

ladT' 

Captain. 

I  've  heard  of  nests  of  cinnamon, 
With  the  great  Phoenix  set  thereon ; 
126 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


117 


And  swallows'  nests,  so  rich  and  sweet, 
Of  wliich  the  Chinese  people  eat; 
But  of  j/oi/r  nests  I  never  heard, 
What  kiiul  are  they,  I  pray  thee,  bird  ? 

Parrot. 

Nests !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  what  sort  of  nests  should  they  be  ? 
You  may  fancy  if  you  please,  but  you  '11  never  know 

from  me  I 
I  never  blab,  not  I !  What  sort  of  nest  is  built  ? 
Ha  I  ha  I  ha  I    with  sheets  and  blankets  and  a  fine 

Marseilles  i|iiilt !  ha!  ha!  ha! 
Put  it  down  in  your  little  book,  —  a  four-post  bed,  I 

say, 
With  damask  moreen  hangings,  and  made  every  day ! 

ha  !  ha !  ha ! 
Oh,  how  it  makes  me  laugh  I  ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 
I  shall  split  my  sides  with  laughing  some  of  these 

days  '.  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Captain. 

Come,  now,  you  silly  prate-a-pace 
Tell  us  about  that  Big-bone  place, 
AVhere  our  acquainlance  first  began  ; 
And  of  those  swamps,  untrode  by  man, 
Where  you  came,  impudent  and  merry, 
For  cockle-burr  and  hackle-berry. 

Parrot. 

Of  the  Big-bone  lick,  did  you  say  ? — Aj',  we  used  to 

go  there, 
A  Parrot 's  very  fond  of  salt!  I  really  declare 
I  've  seen  ten  thousand  of  us  there  altogether,  — 
A  beautiful  sight  it  was,  in  fine  summer  weather. 
Like  a  grand  velvet  carpet,  of  orange,  green,  and 

yellow. 
Covering  the  ground  !  Ah,  Captain  !  my  good  fellow, 
I  had  reason  to  rue  the  day  you  came  there  with  your 

gun! 
I  would  laugh  if  I  could,  but  to  me  it  was  no  fun — 

heigh-ho  ! 
No  fun  at  all.  Captain,  heigh-ho  ! 

Captain. 

Nay,  Poll,  cheer  up,  you  're  better  here 
Than  at  the  Big-bone  lick,  my  dear! 

Parrot. 

Captain,  how  you  talk  !  we  Parrots  love  each  other — 

There  you  shot  dozens  of  us, — my  father  and  my  mo- 
ther,— 

I  shall  not  forget  it  in  a  hurry, — what  wailing  and 
crying, — 

What  flying  round  and  round  there  was  I  What  com- 
forting the  dying ! 

Vou,  3-ourself,  laid  down  your  gun, — overcome  by  the 
sight. 

And  said  you  would  not  shoot  again,  at  least  that 
night  ! 

Heigh-ho!  I  am  just  ready  to  cry  ! 
And  I  think  I  shall  cry  befJire  I  have  done!     (She 
cries  like  a  child.) 


There,  now,  I  am  better  I  but  my  throat  is  quite  hot ; 
Can't  I  have  a  glass  of  water  ? — {She  coughs.)     Bless 

me,  what  a  cold  1  've  got ! 
Do,  shut  that  window,  Jenny,  or  we  shall  all  die  of 

cold  ; 
And  mend  the  fire,  can't  you,  as  you  already  have 

been  told  ! 
And  let 's  have  a  cup  of  tea,  for  I  'm  just  tired  to 

death. 
What  a  shocking   cold  it  is!  and  I'm  so  short  of 

breath  ! — (She  coughs  afiain.) 
(She  speafis  in  another  voice.) 
Tea  's  ready,  if  you  please.     Heady  is  it  ? 

With  the  water  in  the  pot  ? 
Yes,  ma'am!  Well,  then,  I'll  go  and  have  my  tea, 

while  the  muflin's  hot! 

Exit  Poll. 

The  Parrot  of  which  we  have  been  reading,  may 
be  supposed  to  have  been  the  one  of  which  so  inter- 
esting an  account  is  given  by  Wilson  in  his  American 
Ornithology,  it  was  taken  at  the  Big-bone  lick, 
where  he  witnessed  the  extreme  affection  and  strong 
sympathy  which  the  parrots  have  for  each  other,  and 
of  which  we  have  imagined  our  bird  to  speak.  Its 
merriment,  too,  respecting  the  nests  of  the  tribe,  may 
pass  as  natural,  considering  the  little  light  Wilson 
could  obtain  on  the  subject,  and  the  vivacious  mock- 
ery of  the  bird's  disposition,  even  if  it  had  had  the 
power  of  giving  him  the  requisite  information. 

The  parrot  has  been  made  to  speak  of  her  travels 
with  "  the  Captain"  through  the  morasses  and  cedar- 
swamps,  and  of  the  trouble  she  gave  him,  "  w  hen 
many  a  time,"  says  he,  (Wilson)  "  I  was  tempted  to 
abandon  it."  "  And  in  this  manner,"  he  goes  on  to 
say,  "  I  carried  it  upwards  of  a  thousand  miles  in  my 
pocket,  where  it  was  exposed  all  day  to  the  jolting 
of  the  horse,  but  regularly  liberated  at  meal-times 
and  in  the  evening,  at  which  it  always  expressed 
great  satisfaction."  The  Chickasaw  and  the  Chac- 
taw  Indians,  among  w  horn  he  was  travelling,  collect- 
ed about  him  whenever  he  stopped,  men,  women, 
and  children,  laughing  greatly  at  his  novel  compa- 
nion. Kelinkij  was  the  name  the  Cliick.isavvs  called 
the  parrot;  but  hearing  the  name  of  Poll,  they  im- 
mediately adopted  it,  and  through  Poll's  medium,  he 
and  the  Indians  always  became  very  sociable.  "On 
arriving,"  says  Wilson,  "at  Mr.  Dunbar's,  below 
Natchez,  I  procured  a  cage,  and  placed  it  under  the 
piazza,  where,  by  its  call,  it  soon  altracicd  the  pass- 
ing flocks,  such  is  the  attachment  they  have  for  each 
other.  Numerous  parlies  fre()iienlly  alighted  on  the 
trees  immediately  above,  keeping  up  a  continual  con- 
versation with  the  prisoner.  One  of  these  I  wound- 
ed slightly  in  ihe  wing,  and  the  pleasure  Poll  express- 
ed on  meeting  with  this  new  companion,  was  reiil'v 
amusing.  She  crept  close  up  to  it,  as  it  hung  on  the 
side  of  the  cage;  chattered  to  it  in  a  loud  tone  of 
voice,  as  if  sympathising  in  its  misfortunes;  scratched 
about  its  head  and  neck  with  her  bill;  and  boih,  at 
night,  nestled  as  close  as  possible  to  each  other,  some- 
times Poll's  head  being  thrust  amoncr  the  plumacrp  of 
the  other.  On  the  death  of  this  companion,  she  ap- 
1-27 


118 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


peared  restless  and  inconsolable  for  several  days.  On 
reaching  New  Orleans,  I  placed  a  looking-glass  in- 
side the  place  where  she  usually  sat,  and  the  instant 
she  perceived  her  image,  ail  her  Ibrmer  fondness 
seemed  to  return,  so  that  she  could  scarcely  absent 
herself  from  it  for  a  moment.  It  was  evident  that 
she  was  completely  deceived.  Always  when  even- 
ing drew  on,  and  often  during  the  day,  she  laid  her 
head  close  to  that  of  the  image  in  the  glass,  and  be- 
gan to  doze  with  great  composure  and  satisfaction. 
In  a  short  time  she  had  learned  to  know  her  name ; 
to  answer  and  come  when  called  on  ;  to  climb  up 
my  clothes,  sit  on  my  shoulder,  and  eat  from  my 
mouth.  I  took  her  with  me  to  sea,  determined  to 
persevere  in  her  education."  And,  to  give  an  end- 
ing rather  different  to  Mr.  VVilsoii's,  here  we  have 
presented  her  to  our  readers  in  the  possession  of  an 
English  lady,  and  with  her  education,  for  a  Parrot, 
very  complete. 


THE   RAVEN. 

Raven  on  the  blasted  tree. 

Sitting  croaking  dolefully, 

I  would  have  a  word  with  thee ! 

Raven,  thou  art  silent  now 
On  the  splintered  forest  bough. 
Glancing  on  me  thy  bright  eye, 
I  shall  ask,  —  do  thou  reply  I 
In  that  fer-gone,  awful  time. 
When  the  earth  was  purged  of  crime, 
And  old  Noah  and  the  seven 
In  the  gopher-ark  were  driven. 

R.IVEX. 

I  was  there. 

POET. 

I  know  it,  bird. 
And  when  rain  no  more  was  heard 
Plashing  down  in  torrent-s  wild ; 
When  the  face  of  heaven  grew  mild, 
And  from  mountain-summits  brown 
The  subsiding  floods  went  down, 
And  the  prisoned  creatures  fain 
Scented  the  young  earth  again; 
Wherefore  when  tiie  patriarch  forth 
Sent  thee  to  look  round  the  earth 
And  bring  tidings  to  his  door, 
Cam'st  thou  to  the  ark  no  more  ? 

RAVEN. 

Narrow  was  the  ark,  but  wide 
And  fair  the  earth  on  every  side ; 
And  all  around  in  glens  and  plains 
Lay  of  life  the  lorn  remains; 
Man  and  beast  and  bird,  like  seed 
Scattered  on  the  harvest  mead : 
How  could  I  return  to  bear 
Tidings?    I  was  feasting  there! 

POET. 

Raven,  ha!  I  thought  the  same. 
But  in  after  times  ye  came, 


To  the  e5cjled  prophet  good 
Bringing  him  his  daily  food. 

RAVE.N. 

Yes,  —  by  Cherith-brook  there  grew 
Mighty  cedars  not  a  few ; 
And  a  raven-tree  was  there 
Spreading  iorth  its  branches  bare: 
'T  was  our  home,  when  thither  ran 
From  the  king  an  awful  man. 
Robed  and  sandaled  as  in  haste. 
With  a  girdle  round  his  waist; 
Strongly  built,  with  brow  severe, 
And  the  bearing  of  a  seer. 
Down  by  Cherith-brook  he  lay; 
And  at  morn  and  set  of  day 
Thus  a  voice  unto  us  said, 
"By  you  must  this  man  be  fed  ; 
Bring  him  flesh,  and  bring  him  bread  I' 
And  by  us  he  was  supplied. 
Duly  morn  and  eventide. 
Until  Cherith-brook  was  dried ! 

POET. 

Wondrous  miracle  of  love! 


Doth  it  thus  thy  spirit  move  ? 
Deeper  truth  than  this  shall  reach  thee, 
Christ  he  bade  the  raven  teach  thee : 
They  plough  not,  said  he,  nor  reap, 
Nor  have  costly  hoards  to  keep; 
Storehouse  none,  nor  barn  have  they, 
Yet  God  feeds  them  every  day  ! 
Fret  not  then  your  souls  with  care 
What  to  eat,  or  what  to  wear, 
He  vvho  hears  the  ravens'  cry 
Looketh  with  a  pitying  eye 
On  his  human  family. 

POET. 

Raven,  thou  art  spirit-cheering; 
What  thou  say'st  is  worth  the  hearing: 
Never  more  be  it  averred 
That  thou  art  a  doleful  bird! 


FLOWER  COMPARISONS. 

An  cousin  Blanche,  let's  see 
What 's  the  flower  resembling  thee  ! 
With  those  dove-like  eyes  of  thine, 
And  thy  fair  hair's  silken  twine; 
With  thy  low,  broad  forehead,  white 
As  marble,  and  as  purely  bright ; 
With  thy  mouth  so  calm  and  sweet. 
And  thy  dainty  hands  and  feet ; 
What 's  the  flower  most  like  to  thee  ? 

Blossom  of  the  orange-tree  ! 

Where  may  the  bright  flower  be  met 
That  can  match  w.  ith  Margaret,  — 
]\largaret  stately,  staid,  and  good. 
Growing  up  to  womanhood; 

128 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


119 


Loving,  thoughtful,  wise,  and  kind. 
Pure  in  heart  and  strong  in  mind  I 
Kyes  deep-blue  as  is  the  sky 
When  the  iiill  intHtii  sails  on  hii^h  ; 
Eyebrow  true  and  liirehead  fair, 
And  dark,  richly-braided  hair. 
And  a  queenly  head  well  set. 
Crown  my  maiden  Margaret. 
\Vhere  's  the  flower  that  thou  canst  find 
Match  for  her  in  form  and  mind  ? 

Fair  white  lilies,  having  birth 
In  their  native  genial  earth  ;  — 
These,  in  scent  and  queenly  grace. 
Match  thy  maiden's  form  and  face  ! 

Now  for  madcap  Isabel  — 
What  shall  suit  her,  pr'ythee  tell ! 
Isabel  is  brown  and  wild ; 
Will  be  evermore  a  child ; 
Is  all  laughter,  all  vagary. 
Has  the  spirit  of  a  fairy. 
Are  you  grave?  —  The  gipsy  sly 
Turns  on  you  her  merrj-  eye. 
And  you  laugh,  despite  your  will. 
Isabel  is  never  still, 
Always  doing,  never  done. 
Be  it  mischief,  work,  or  fim. 
Isabel  is  short  and  brown. 
Soft  to  touch  as  eider-down  ; 
Tempered,  like  the  balmy  south. 
With  a  rosy,  laughing  mouth ; 
Cheeks  just  tinged  with  peachy  red, 
.And  a  graceful  Hebe-head; 
Hair  put  up  in  some  wild  way. 
Decked  with  a  hedge-rose's  spray. 
Now,  where  is  the  bud  or  bell 
That  may  match  with  Isabel  ? 

Streaky  tulip  jet  and  gold. 
Dearly  priced  whenever  sold  ; 
Rich  in  colour,  low  and  sweet, 
This  for  Isabel  is  meet 

Last  for  Jeanie,  grave  and  mild  — 
Jeanie  never  was  a  child  I 
Sitting  on  her  mother's  knee, 
Hers  was  thoughtful  infancy; 
Growing  up  so  mtek  and  good. 
Even  from  her  babyhood. 
All  her  mother's  labour  sharing; 
For  the  house  and  children  caring  ; 
To  her  bed  in  silence  creeping; 
Rising  early,  little  sleeping; 
Learning  soon  of  care  and  need  ; 
Learning  late  to  write  and  read; 
To  all  hardships  reconciled, 
For  she  was  a  poor  man's  child  I 
What 's  the  lowly  flower  of  earth 
Match  for  Jeanie's  humble  worth  ? 

Soon  poor  Jeanie's  flower  is  met. — 
TJie  meek,  precious  violet  I 
R 


LITTLE    STREAMS. 

Little  streams,  in  light  and  shadow 
Flowing  through  the  pasture  meadow  ; 
Flowing  by  the  green  way-side  ; 
Through  the  iijrest  dim  and  wide: 
Through  the  hamlet  still  and  small ; 
By  the  (cottage  ;  by  the  hall ; 
By  the  ruined  abbey  still ; 
Turning,  here  and  there,  a  mill ; 
Bearing  tribute  to  the  river; 
Little  streams,  I  love  you  ever ! 

Summer  music  is  there  flowing  ; 
Flowering  plants  in  them  are  growing ; 
Happy  life  is  in  them  all, 
Creatures  innocent  and  small ; 
Little  birds  come  down  to  drink 
Fearless  on  their  leafy  brink  ; 
Noble  trees  beside  them  grow'. 
Glooming  them  with  branches  low. 
And  between,  the  sunshine  glancing. 
In  their  little  waves  is  dancing. 

Little  streams  have  flowers  a  many, 
Beautiful  and  fair  as  any; 
Typha  strong,  and  green  bur-reed  ; 
Willow-herb  with  colton-seed  ; 
Arrow-head  with  eye  of  jet. 
And  the  water-violet; 
There  the  flowering  rush  you  meet, 
And  the  plumy  meadow-sweet ; 
And  in  places  deep  and  stilly, 
Marble-like,  the  water-lily. 

Little  streams,  their  voices  cheery 

S<3und  forth  welcomes  to  the  weary, 

Flowing  on  from  day  to  day 

Without  stint  and  without  stay. 

Here,  upon  their  flowery  bank. 

In  the  old-times  Pilgrims  drank  ; 

Here  have  seen,  as  now,  pass  by 

Kingfisher  and  dragon-fly; 

Those  bright  things  that  have  their  dwelling 

Where  the  little  streams  are  welling. 

Down  in  valleys  green  and  lowly, 
Murmuring  not  and  gliding  slowly  ; 
Up  in  mountain  hollov\s  wild, 
P' retting  like  a  peevish  child  ; 
Through  the  hamlet,  where  all  day 
In  their  waves  the  children  play, — 
Running  west,  or  running  east. 
Doing  good  to  man  and  beast, 
Always  giving,  weary  never, 
Little  streams,  I  love  you  ever  ! 


THE  WOLF. 

Think  of  the  lamb  in  the  fields  of  May- 
Cropping  the  dewy  flowers  fiir  play  ; 
Think  of  the  sunshine,  warm  and  clear; 
Of  the  bending  corn  in  golden  ear; 

129 


120 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  little  children  singing  low 

Through  flowery  meadows  as  they  go ; 

Of  cooing  doves,  and  the  hum  of  bees 

'Mong  the  lime-trees'  yellow  racimes ; 

Of  the  pebbly  waters  gliding  by. 

Of  the  woodbird's  peaceful  sylvan  cry. 

Then  turn  thy  thought  to  a  land  of  snow 

Where  the  cutting  icy  wind  doth  blow  — 

A  dreary  land  of  mountains  cold, 

With  ice-crags  splintered  hoar  and  old. 

Jagged  y/hh  woods  of  storm-beat  pines. 

Where  a  cold  moon  gleams,  a  cold  sun  shines, 

And  all  through  this  distant  land  we'll  go 

In   a    dog-drawn  sledge  o'er  the  frozen  snow, 

On  either  hand  the  ice-rocks  frore. 

And  a  waste  of  trackless  snow  before! 

Where  are  the  men  to  guide  us  on  ? 

Men!  in  these  deserts  there  are  none. 

Men  come  not  here,  unless  to  track 

The  ermine  white  or  marten  black. 

Here  we  must  speed  alone.  —  But  hark  ! 

What  sound  was  that  ?    The  wild  wolf's  bark  ! 

The  terrible  wolf!  —  Is  he  anigh. 

With  his  gaunt,  lean  frame  and  his  blood-shot  eye  ? 

Yes!  —  across  the  snow  I  saw  the  track 

Where  they  have  sped  on,  a  hungry  pack; 

And  see  how  the  eager  dogs  rush  on. 

For  they  scent  the  track  where  the  wolf  has  gone. 

And  beast  and  man  are  alike  afraid 

Of  that  crudest  creature  that  e'er  was  made ! 

Oh,  the  horrible  wolves!  methinks  I  hear 

The  sound  of  their  barking  drawing  near ; 

Down  from  their  dismal  caves  they  drive, 

And  leave  behind  them  nought  alive; 

Down  from  their  caves  they  come  by  day, 

Savage  as  mad-dogs  for  their  prey  ; 

Down  on  the  tracks  where  the  hunters  roam, 

Down  to  the  peasant's  hut  they  come. 

The  peasant  is  waked  from  his  pine-branch  bed 

By  the  direst,  fiercest  sound  of  dread  ; 

A  snuffing  scent,  a  scratching  sound. 

Like  a  dog  that  rendeth  up  the  ground ; 

Up  from  his"  bed  he  springs  in  fear, 

For  he  knows  that  the  cruel  wolf  is  near. 

A  moment's  pause  —  a  moment  more  — 

And  he  hears  them  snuffing  'nealh  his  door. 

Beneath  his  door  he  sees  them  mining, 

Snuffing,  snarling,  scratching,  whining. 

Horrible  sight!  no  more  he  sees. 

With  terror  his  very  senses  freeze;  — 

Horrible  sounds !  he  hears  no  more. 

The  wild  wolves  bound  acnws  his  floor. 

And  the  next  moment  lap  his  gore ; 

And  ere  the  day  come  o'er  the  hill, 

The  wolves  are  gone,  the  place  is  still. 

And  to  none  that  dreadful  death  is  known. 

Save  to  some  ermine  hunter  lone. 

Who  in  that  death  foresees  his  own  ! 

Or  think  thee  now  of  a  battle  field, 
Where  lie  the  wounded  with  the  killed  ; 
Hundreds  of  mangled  men  they  lie; 
A  horrible  mass  of  agony  ! 


The  night  comes  down,  —  and  in  they  bound. 
The  ravening  wolves  from  the  mountains  round. 
All  day  long  have  they  come  from  far, 
Snuffing  that  bloody  field  of  war; 
But  the  rolling  drum,  and  the  trumpet's  bray. 
And  the  strife  of  men  through  the  livelong  day. 
For  a  while  kept  the  prowling  wolves  away ; 
But  now  when  the  roaring  tumults  cease. 
In  that  dreadful  hush,  which  is  not  peace. 
The  wolves  rush  in  to  have  their  will, 
And  to  lap  of  living  blood  their  fill. 
Stark  and  stiff"  the  dead  men  lie. 
But  the  living, --Oh,  woe,  to  hear  their  crj', 
When  they  feel  the  teelh  of  those  cruel  foes. 
And  hear  them  lap  up  the  blood  that  flows! 
Oh,  shame,  that  ever  it  hath  been  said. 
That  bloody  war  is  a  glorious  trade. 
And  that  soldiers  die  upon  honour's  bed  ! 
Let  us  hence,  let  us  hence,  for  horrible  war 
Than  the  merciless  wolf  is  more  merciless  far ! 


THE    PASSION-FLOWER. 

I  LOVE  sweet  flowers  of  every  sort, 
High-spired  or  trailing  low ; 

I  love  the  musky  roses  red, 
The  lilies  white  as  snow. 

The  aster  and  the  columbine. 
Sweet-pea  and  virgin-bower, 

I  love  them  all  —  but  most  I  love 
The  good  old  passion-flower ! 

Oh  yes,  the  good  old  passion-flower! 

It  bringeth  to  my  mind. 
The  young  days  of  the  Christian  church, 

Dim  ages  left  behind. 

I  see  the  bloody  streets  of  Rome  ; 

The  throng  —  the  burning  pyre, 
And  Christians  stand  with  clasped  hands 

Amid  the  raging  fire. 

I  hear  the  women,  angel-toned, 
The  men  with  courage  high. 

Preach  their  dear  Lord  amid  their  pangs,  — 
Forgive  their  foes  —  and  die. 

I  see,  far  from  the  world  apart. 

In  desprt-places  dwell. 
The  early  lathers  of  the  church, 

In  wood  or  mountain-cell. 

And  there  the  wondering  thousands  come. 

By  lovo  and   pity  brought, 
To  hear  them  tell  of  Jesus  Christ, 

And  the  new  truths  he  taught. 

I  see  the  fearless  fathers  stand. 

Amid  the  eager  tlirnng, 
Preaching  like  Paul  at  Ephesus, 

In  burning  words'  and  strong. 

—  Again  I  see  a  lonely  man. 

Of  spirit  sad  and  mild. 
Who  hath  his  little  dwelling-place 

Amid  a  region  wild. 

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121 


The  wild  flowers  of  the  desert 

Grow  round  him  thick  as  weeds, 

And,  in  their  Itcniitifiil  array. 
Of  holy  tilings  he  reads. 

The  red  is  the  dear  blood  of  Christ, 
The  white,  the  pure  from  sin. 

The  yellow  is  the  seamless  robe 
Christ  was  apparelled  in. 

All  four-leaved  flowers  bring  to  his  mind 

The  cross  wliereon  he  died  ; 
And  every  thorn  the  cruel  spear. 

That  pierced  his  blessed  side. 

I  see  him  as  he  mused  one  day 

Beneath  a  l()rest-bo\ver, 
With  clasped  hands  stand,  and  upturned  eyes, 

Before  an  open  flower ; 
Exclaiming  with  a  fervent  joy, 

"  I  have  found  the  Passion-flower ! 

"The  Passicm  of  our  blessed  Lord, 
With  all  his  pangs  and  pain. 

Set  forth  within  a  little  flower. 
In  shape  and  colour  plain  ! 

"  Behold  the  ladder,  and  the  cord 

With  which  his  limbs  were  lied  ; 

Behold  his  five  deep,  cruel  wounds 
In  hands,  and  feet,  and  side  ! 

"  Behold  the  hammer  and  the  nails  ; 

The  bloody  crown  of  thorn ; 
And  these  his  precious  tears,  when  left 

Of  God  and  man  forlorn  I 

"Up,  I  will  forth  into  the  world. 

And  take  this  flower  with  me. 
To  preach  the  death  of  Christ  to  al!. 
As  it  was  preached  to  me !" 

And  thus  the  good  old  passion-flower 
Throughout  the  world  was  sent. 

To  breathe  into  all  Christian  hearts 
It's  holy  sentiment. 

And  in  the  after-times,  when  kings  ■ 

Of  Christian  fathers  came  ; 
And  to  profess  the  faith  of  Christ 

iS'o  longer  purchased  shame  : 

When  abbeys  rose  in  towered  state; 

And  over  wood  and  dell. 
Went  sounding,  with  a  royal  voice. 

The  stately  minster-bell : 

Then  was  the  abbey-garden  made 

All  with  the  nicest  care  ; 
Its  little  borders  quaintly  cut 

In  fancies  rich  and  rare. 

And  there  they  brought  all  curious  plants, 

With  sainted  names,  a  flower 
For  every  saint's  day  of  the  year, — 

For  every  holy  hour; 
And  there  was  set,  in  pride  of  place. 

The  noble  passion-flower. 


And  there  they  kept  the  pious  monks, 

Within  a  garden  small. 
All  plants  that  had  a  healing  power, 

All  herbs  medicinal. 

And  thither  came  the  sick,  the  maimed, 
The  moonstruck  and  the  blind. 

For  holy  flower,  fi)r  wort  of  power. 
For  charmed  root  and  rind  I 

— Oh,  those  old  abbey-gardens 

With  their  devices  rich. 
Their  fountains,  and  green,  solemn  walks. 

And  saint  in  many  a  niche  ! 

I  would  I  could  call  back  again 
I'hose  gardens  in  their  pride. 

And  see  slow  walking  up  and  down. 
The  abbot  dignified. 

And  the  fat  monk  with  sleepy  eyes, 

Half  dozing  in  his  cell ; 
And  him,  the  poor  lay-brother. 

That  loved  the  flowers  so  well  ; 

That  laid  the  abbey-gardens  out. 
With  all  their  fancies  (]uaint. 

And  loved  a  little  flower  as  much 
As  his  own  patron  saint! 

That  gardened  late  and  early. 
And  twined  into  a  bower. 

Wherein  he  set  the  crucifix 

The  good  old  passion-flower ! 

Oh,  would  I  could  bring  back  again. 

Those  abbey-gardens  old. 
And  see  the  poor  lay-brother 

So  busy  in  the  mould ; 

Tying  up  his  flowers  and  thinking 
The  while,  with  streaming  eyes 

Of  Jesus  in  the  garden  ; 
Of  Eve  in  Paradise! 

—  .Mas,  the  abbey  lieth  low  ; 

The  .Abbot's  tomb  is  bare; 
And  he,  the  abbey-gardener. 

Is  all  forgotten  there; 

His  garden  is  a  pasture  field 
Wherein  the  flocks  repose  ; 

And  where  his  choicest  flowers  were  set 
The  common  clover  grows! 

But  still  we  have  the  passion-flower, 

Although  he  lieth  low, 
And  ever  may  its  holy  flowers 

In  pleasant  gardens  grow  '. 

To  garland  bower  and  window  pane. 

And  ever  bring  to  mind. 
The  young  days  of  the  Christian  church, 

Long  ages  left  behind  ! 

To  bring  the  abbey's  garden  back, 
With  its  quaint  beds  and  bowers. 

And  him  the  good  lay-brother 

That  worked  among  the  flowers. 
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HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE    REINDEER. 

Reindeer,  not  in  fields  like  ours 
Full  of  grass  and  bright  with  flowers; 
Not  in  pasture-dales  where  glide 
Never-frozen  rivers  wide; 
Not  on  hills  where  verdure  bright 
Clothes  them  to  the  topmost  height, 
Hast  thou  dwelling  ;  nnr  dost  thou 
F'eed  beneath  llie  orange-bough  ; 
Nor  doth  olive,  nor  doih  vine 
Bud  or  bloom  in  land  of  thine : 
Thou  wast  made  to  fend  and  fare 
In  a  region  bleak  and  bare ; 
In  a  dreary  land  of  snow 
Where  green  w^eeds  can  scarcelj'  grow  ! 
Where  the  skies  are  grey  and  drear; 
Where  't  is  night  for  half  the  year ; 
Reindeer,  where,  unless  for  thee, 
Human  dweller  could  not  be. 

When  thou  wast  at  first  designed 
By  the  great  Creative  Mind  — 
With  thy  patience  and  thy  speed ; 
With  thy  aid  for  human  need ; 
With  thy  gentleness ;  thy  might ; 
With  thy  simple  appetite; 
With  thy  foot  so  framed  to  go 
Over  frozen  wastes  of  snow. 
Thou  wast  made  for  sterner  skies 
Than  horizoned  Paradise. 
Thou  for  frozen  lands  wast  meant, 
Ere  the  winter's  frost  was  sent; 
And  in  love  he  sped  thee  forth 
To  thy  home,  the  frozen  north. 
Where  he  bade  the  rocks  produce 
Bitter  lichens  for  thy  use. 

What  the  camel  is,  thou  art. 
Strong  of  frame,  and  strong  in  heart  I 
Peaceful;  steadfast  to  fulfil; 
Serving  man  with  right  good-will ; 
Serving  long,  and  serving  hard ; 
Asking  but  a  scant  reward ; 
Of  the  snow  a  short  repast. 
Or  the  mosses  cropped  in  haste  ; 
Then  away!  with  all  thy  strength. 
Speeding  him  the  country's  length, 
Speeding  onward,  like  the  wind, 
With  the  sliding  sledge  behind. 
What  the  camel  is,  thou  art  — 
Doing  well  thy  needful  part; 
Through  the  burning  sand  he  goes. 
Thou  upon  the  upland  snows ; 
Gifted  each  alike,  yet  meant 
For  lands  and  labours  different ! 

Meek  Reindeer,  of  wondrous  worth  ; 
Treasure  of  the  desert  north. 
Which,  ji'  thy  good  aid  bereft, 
Ten  times  desert  must  be  left! 
Flocks  and  herds  in  other  lands, 
And  the  labour  of  men's  hands ; 


Coined  gold  and  silver  fine, 
And  the  riches  of  the  mine. 
These,  elsewhere,  as  wealth  are  known, 
Here,  't  is  thou  art  wealth  alone ! 


THE   IVY-BUSH. 

Afar  in  the  woods  of  Winter-burn, 
Beyond  the  slopes  of  feathery  fern  ; 
Beyond  the  lake,  anil  beyond  the  fen, 
Down  in  a  wild  and  sylvan  glen. 
In  the  very  heart  of  Wmter-burn  wood  ; 
Last  summer  an  ivy-bush  there  stood. 
As  strong  as  an  oak,  as  thick  as  a  yew, 
This  ivy-bush  in  the  l()rcst  grew  : 
Let  us  go  down  this  day  and  see 
If  in  Winter-burn  still  grows  this  tree. 

Now  we  are  here  :  —  the  words  I  spoke 
Were  not,  ye  see,  an  idle  joke  ! 
Stem,  branch,  and  root,  what  think  ye  all 
Of  this  ivy-bush,  so  broad  and  tall  ? 
Many  and  many  a  year  I  wis. 
The  tree  has  throve  ere  it  grew  to  this! 
Many  a  year  has  tried  its  speed. 
Since  this  old  bush  was  an  ivy-seed  ; 
And  the  woodman's  children  that  were  then, 
Long  years  ago  were  ancient  inen, 
And  now  no  more  on  earth  are  seen ; 
But  the  ivy-bush  is  hale  and  green. 
And  ere  it  sinks  in  slow  decay. 
Many  years  to  come  will  have  passed  away. 

All  round  about  'mong  its  twisting  boughs 
There  's  many  an  owl  doth  snugly  house, 
Warm  feathered  o'er,  yet  none  can  see 
How  they  winking  sit  in  the  ivy-tree. 
For  the  leaves  are  thick  as  they  can  be. 
Bu,t  at  fall  of  night,  vshen  the  stars  come  out, 
The  old  owls  begin  to  move  about ; 
And  the  ivy-bush,  like  a  busy  hive, 
Within  its  leaves  is  all  alive ; 
And  were  you  here  you  would  declare. 
That  the  very  bush  began  to  stare. 
For  in  the  dusk  of  leaves  dark-green. 
The  owl-eyes  look  out  fixed  and  keen  ; 
North  and  south,  and  round  about. 
East  and  west  the  eyes  look  out. 
And  anon  is  heard  afar  and  nigh 
How  the  ivy-bush  sends  forth  a  cry, 
A  cry  so  long,  a  cry  so  wild. 
That  it  wakes,  almost,  the  cradled  child  ; 
And  the  coach  that  comes  with  its  peopled  load, 
Man,  woman  and  babe,  up  the  hilly  road. 
They  hear  in  amaze  the  sudden  hoot 
That  shakes  the  old  bush,  branch  and  root, 
And  the  caped-up  coachman,  then  says  he, 
"  In  Winter-burn  there  grows  a  tree. 
And  in  this  tree  more  owls  abide 
Than  in  all  Winter-burn  beside ; 
And  every  night  as  we  climb  this  brow, 
The  owls  hoot  out  as  they  're  hooting  now !" 
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123 


And  when  they  hoot  and  when  they  shout, 

'Tis  woe  to  tlie  wood-mice  all  nbout, 

And  when  the  (ires  of  iheir  eyes  appear. 

The  weak  litile  birds  iliey  quake  for  fear. 

For  thov  know  that  the  owls,  wiih  a  fierce  delight. 

Riot  and  least,  like  lords,  at  night. 

Oh  bush,  of  ivy-trees  the  prime, 
Men  find  thee  out  at  winter  time. 
From  the  distant  to«n  through  frost  and  snow 
To  the  woods  of  Winler-burn  they  go ; 
And  if  care  were  killed  by  an  ivy-bough, 
What  a  killer  of  care,  old  tree,  vvert  thou ! 
And  high  in  the  hall,  with  laughter  merry. 
They  hang  thy  twigs  vvilh  llieir  powdered  berry; 
And  the  red-gemmcd  holly  they  mix  also, 
With  the  spectral  branches  of  misseltoe. 
Rare  old  tree !  and  the  cottage  small 
Is  decked  as  well  as  the  baron's  hall. 
For  the  children's  hands  are  busy  and  fain 
To  dress  up  the  little  window-pane. 
And  set  in  the  chinks  of  the  roof-tree  wood 
The  holly  and  ivy,  green  and  good. 

'Twere  well  for  us,  thou  rare  old  tree. 
Could  we  gladden  the  human  heart  like  thee ; 
Like  thee  and  the  holly,  that  thus  make  gay 
The  lowliest  cot  for  a  winter's  day  ! 


MORNING    THOUGHTS. 

The  summer  sun  is  shining 

Upon  a  world  so  bright ! 
The  dew  upon  each  grassy  blade  ; 
The  golden  light,  the  depth  of  shade, 
All  seem  as  they  were  only  made 

To  minister  delight. 

From  giant  trees,  strong  branched. 
And  all  their  veined  leaves; 

From  little  birds  that  madly  sing ; 

From  insects  fluttering  on  the  wing; 

Ay,  from  the  very  meanest  thing 
My  spirit  joy  receives. 

I  think  of  angel  voices 

When  the  birds'  songs  I  hear ; 
Of  that  celestial  city,  bright 
With  jacinth,  gold,  and  chrysolite, 
\Vhen,  with  its  blazing  pomp  of  light, 

The  morning  doth  appear  ! 

I  think  of  that  great  River 
That  from  the  Throne  flows  free ; 

Of  weary  pilgrims  on  its  brink, 

Who,  thirsting,  have  come  down  to  drink  ; 

Of  that  unfailing  Stream  I  think, 
When  earthly  streams  I  see  ! 

I  think  of  pain  and  dying, 
.As  that  which  is  but  nought. 

When  glorious  morning,  warm  and  bright, 

With  all  its  voices  of  delight. 

From  the  chill  darkness  of  the  night. 
Like  a  new  life,  is  broucht. 
12 


I  think  of  human  sorrow 
But  as  of  clouds  that  brood 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  day. 

And  the  next  moment  pass  away ; 

And  with  a  trusting  heart  I  say 
Thank  Cod,  all  things  are  good! 


THE    PHEASANT. 

The  stock-dove  builds  in  the  old  oak  wood, 

The  rook  in  the  elm-tree  rears  his  brood  ; 

The  owl  in  a  ruin  doth  hoot  and  stare ; 

The  mavis  and  merle  build  everywhere ; 

But  not  (or  these  will  we  go  to-day, 

'Tis  the  pheasant  that  lures  us  he!ice  away  ; 

The  beautiful  pheasant  that  loves  to  be 

Where  the  young,  green  birches  are  waving  free. 

Away  to  the  woods  with  the  silvery  rind, 
And  the  emerald  tre.sses  afloat  on  the  wind  ! 
For  'tis  joy  to  go  to  those  sylvan  bovvers 
When  summer  is  rich  with  leaves  and  flowers; 
And  to  see,  'mid  the  growth  of  all  lovely  things, 
The  joyous  i)heasant  inifijld  his  wings. 
And  then  cower  down,  as  if  to  screen 
His  gorgeous  purple,  gold,  and  green  ! 

The  streams  run  on  in  music  low, 

'Twill  be  joy  by  their  flowery  banks  to  go; 

'T  will  be  joy  to  come  to  the  calamus  beds. 

Where  a  broken  root  such  odour  sheds; 

And  to  see  how  the  water-sedge  uplifts 

Its  spires  and  crowns  —  the  summer's  gifts  ; 

To  see  the  loosestrife's  purple  spear. 

And  the  wind  through  the  waving  reeds  to  hear. 

Then  on  through  hazelly  lanes  away 
To  the  light  green  fields  all  clear  of  hay, 
Where  along  the  thick  hedge-side  we  greet, 
Tall  purple  vetch  and  meadow-sweet ; 
Past  old  farm-house  and  water-mill, 
Where  the  great  colt's-fbot  grows  wild  at  will ; 
Where  the  water-rat  swims  calm  and  cool. 
And  pike  bask  in  the  deep  mill-pool. 

So  on  and  away  to  the  mossy  moor. 
Stretching  on  for  many  a  mile  before, 
A  far-seen  wild,  where  all  around 
Some  rare  and  beautiful  thing  is  found  ; 
Green  mosses  many,  and  sundew  red. 
And  the  cotton-rush  vvilh  its  plumy  head  ; 
The  spicy  sweet-gale  loved  so  well. 
And  golden  wastes  of  the  asphodel ! 

Yet  on  and  on,  o'er  the  springj'  moss, — 
We  have  yet  the  bog-rush  bed  to  cross ; 
And  then  a-nigh,  all  shimmering  green 
To  the  sunny  breeze,  are  the  birch-woods  seen  — 
Than  the  green  birch-wood  a  lovelier  spot 
In  the  realms  of  fairy-land  was  not ! 
And  the  pheasant  is  there  all  life,  all  grace. 
The  lord  of  this  verdurous  dwelling-place. 
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IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh!  beautiful  bird,  in  thy  stately  pride, 
Thou  wast  made  in  a  waste  of  flowers  to  hide, 
And  to  fling  to  the  sun  the  glorious  hues 
Of  thy  rainbow-gold,  thy  green  and  blues ! 
Yes,  beautiful  pheasant,  the  birch-wood  bowers, 
Rich  many-formed  leaves,  bright-tinled  flowers. 
Broad  masses  of  shade,  and  the  sunshine  free. 
In  thy  gorgeous  beauty  are  meet  for  thee ! 


HARVEST-FIELD  FLOWERS. 

Come  down  into  the  harvest-fields 

This  autumn  morn  with  me  ; 
For  in  the  pleasant  autunm-fields 

There  's  much  to  hear  and  see; 
On  yellow  slopes  of  waving  corn 

The  autumn  sun  shines  clearly; 
And  't  is  joy  to  walk,  on  days  like  this. 

Among  the  bearded  barley. 

Within  the  sunny  harvest-fields 

We  '11  gather  flowers  enow ; 
The  poppy  red,  the  marigold. 

The  bugles  brightly  blue; 
We  '11  gather  the  white  convolvulus 

That  opes  in  the  morning  early ; 
With  a  cluster  of  nuts,  an  ear  of  wheat, 

And  an  ear  of  the  bearded  barley. 

Bright  over  the  golden  fields  of  com 

Doth  shine  the  autumn  sky  ; 
So  let 's  be  merry  while  we  may. 

For  lime  goes  hurrying  by. 
They  took  down  the  sickle  from  the  wall 

When  morning  dews  shone  pearly  ; 
And  the  mower  whets  the  ringing  scythe 

To  cut  the  bearded  barley. 

Come  then  into  the  harvest-fields  ; 

The  robin  sings  his  song; 
The  corn  stands  yellow  on  the  hills. 

And  autumn  stays  not  long. 
They  '11  carry  the  sheaves  of  corn  away  ; 

They  carried  to-day  so  early. 
Along  the  lanes,  with  a  rustling  sound. 

Their  loads  of  the  bearded  barley. 


THE    SEA-GULL. 

Oh  the  white  sea-gull,  the  wild  sea-gull, 

A  joyful  bird  is  he, 
As  he  lies  like  a  cradled  thing  at  rest. 

In  the  arms  of  a  sunny  sea  I 
The  little  waves  rock  to  and  fro. 

And  the  white  gull  lies  asleep. 
As  the  fisher's  bark,  with  breeze  and  tide. 

Goes  merrily  over  the  deep. 
The  ship,  with  her  fair  sails  set,  goes  by, 

And  her  people  sland  to  note, 
How  the  sea-gull  sits  on  the  rocking  waves 

As  still  as  an  anchored  boat. 


The  sea  is  fresh,  the  sea  is  fair. 

And  the  sky  calm  overhead. 
And  the  sea-gull  lies  on  the  deep,  deep  sea. 

Like  a  king  in  his  royal  bed ! 
Oh  the  white  sea-gull,  the  bold  sea-gull 

A  joyful  bird  is  he, 
Sitting,  like  a  king,  in  calm  repose 

On  the  breast  of  the  heaving  sea ! 
The  waves  leap  up,  the  wild  wind  blows. 

And  the  gulls  together  crowd. 
And  viheel  about,  and  madly  scream 

To  the  sea  that  is  roaring  loud  ;  — 
And  let  the  sea  roar  ever  so  loud, 

And  the  winds  pipe  ever  so  high. 
With  a  wilder  joy  the  bold  sea-gull, 

Sendeth  forth  a  wilder  cry, — 
For  the  sea-gull  he  is  a  danng  bird, 

And  he  loves  with  the  storm  to  sail; 
To  ride  in  the  strength  of  the  billowy  sea ; 

And  to  breast  the  driving  gale  ! 
The  little  boat  she  is  tossed  about. 

Like  a  sea-weed,  to  and  fro; 
The  tall  ship  reels  like  a  drunken  man, 

As  the  gusty  tempests  blow. 
But  the  sea-gull  laughs  at  the  pride  of  man. 

And  sails  in  a  wild  delight 
On  the  torn-up  breast  of  the  night-black  sea, 

Like  a  foam-cloud,  calm  and  white. 
The  waves  may  rage  and  the  winds  may  roar. 

But  he  fears  not  wreck  nor  need. 
For  he  rides  the  sea,  in  its  stormy  strength. 

As  a  strong  man  rides  his  steed  ! 

Oh  the  white  sea-gull,  the  bold  sea-gull ! 

He  makes  on  the  shore  his  nest. 
And  he  tries  what  the  inland  fields  may  be  ; 

But  he  loveth  the  sea  the  best ! 
And  away  from  land,  a  thousand  leagues 

He  goes  'mid  surging  foam  ; 
What  matter  to  him  is  land  or  shore. 

For  the  sea  is  his  truest  home ! 
And  away  to  the  north  'mong  ice-rocks  stern. 

And  among  the  frozen  snow, 
To  a  sea  that  is  lone  and  desolate. 

Will  the  wanton  sea-gull  go. 
For  he  carelh  not  for  the  winter  wild, 

Nor  those  desert-regions  chill ; 
In  the  midst  of  the  cold,  as  on  calm,  blue  seas. 

The  sea-gull  hath  its  will ! 
And  the  dead  whale  lies  on  the  northern  shores. 

And  the  seal,  and  the  sea-horse  grim, 
And  the  death  of  the  great  sea-creature  makes 

A  full,  merry  fijast  for  him ! 
Oh  the  wild  sea-gull,  the  bold  sea-gull  I 

.As  he  screams  in  his  vi  heeling  flight : 
As  he  sits  on  the  waves  in  storm  or  calm 

All  Cometh  to  him  aright  I 
All  Cometh  to  him  as  he  likelh  best ; 

Nor  any  his  will  gainsay  ; 
And  he  rides  on  the  waves  like  a  bold,  young  king. 

That  was  crowned  but  yesterday ! 

The  Cull,  notwithstanding  the  gormandizing  and 
rather  disgusting  character  given  of  it  by  Bewick, 
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125 


figures  beautifully  in  his  inimitable  wood-cuts;  giving 
the  very  spirit  of  wildness  and  freshness  to  his  sea- 
side sketches. 

The  Gull  may  occasionally  be  found  far  inland, 
domesticated  in  old-fashioned  gardens,  where  it  is  an 
indulged  and  amusing  hahilant,  feeding  on  slugs  and 
worms,  and  becoming  thus  a  usefid  assistant  to  the 
gardener.  In  this  stale  it  seems  entirely  to  throw  off 
its  wild  native  character,  and  assumes  a  sort  of  mock- 
heroic  style,  which  is  often  quite  ludicrous.  We 
have  seen  one  strutting  about  the  straight  alleys  of 
such  a  garden,  with  the  most  formal,  yet  conscious 
air  nnaginable,  glancing  first  to  one  side,  then  to  the 
other,  evidently  aware  of  your  notice,  yet  pretending 
to  be  busied  about  his  own  concerns.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  conceive  that  this  bird,  walking  "  in  his  dig- 
nified way,"  upon  his  two  stiff  little  legs,  and  so  full 
of  self  importance,  had  ever  been  a  free,  wild,  winged 
creature,  wheeling  about  and  screaming  in  the  storm, 
or  riding  gracefully  upon  the  sunshiny  waters.  His 
nature  had  undergone  a  land-change  ;  he  was  trans- 
formed into  the  patron  of  poodles,  and  tiie  conde- 
scending companion  of  an  old  black  cat.  ^V'ith  these 
creatures,  belonging  to  the  same  place,  he  w.as  on 
very  friend Iv  terms,  maintaining,  nevertheless,  an  air 
of  superiority  over  them,  v^hich  they  permitted, 
either  out  of  pure  good-nature,  or  because  their  sim- 
plicity was  imposed  upon.  They  were  all  frequently 
fed  from  the  same  plate,  but  the  ijuadrupeds  never 
presumed  to  put  in  their  noses  till  the  Gull  was  satis- 
fied, and  to  his  credit  it  may  be  told,  that  he  was  not 
insatiable,  although  a  reasonably  voracious  bird  on 
ordinary  occasions. 

We  saw  last  summer,  also,  a  Gull  well  known  to 
northern  tourists,  which  f()r  twenty  years  has  inhabit- 
ed one  of  the  inner  green-courts  at  Alnwick  Castle, 
and  has  outlived  two  or  three  companions.  It  is  an 
interesting  bird,  of  a  venerable  appearance;  but,  as 
it  has  been  described  in  books,  more  need  not  be  said 
of  it. 

In  ore  of  the  towers  of  this  same  Castle,  also,  we 
were  shown  a  pair  of  perfect  bird-skeletons,  under  a 
glass  shade,  the  history  of  which  is  mysterious.  They 
are  the  skeletons  of  a  pair  of  jackdaws,  which  had 
built  in  one  of  the  upper  towers  of  the  Castle,  and 
had  been  found  in  their  present  slate,  apparently 
nestled  together.  From  the  account  given  us  by  the 
porter,  an  intelligent  old  man,  they  appeared  not  to 
have  been  discovered  in  any  confined  place,  where 
they  might  have  died  from  starvation,  but  by  their 
own  tower,  on  the  open  roof,  as  if  they  had  been 
death-stricken  side  by  side. 


SUMMER    WOODS. 

Come  ye  into  the  summer-woods ; 

There  entereth  no  annoy  ; 
All  greenly  wave  the  chestnut  leaves, 

And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 


I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

Of  beatily  you  may  see. 
The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

And  many  a  shady  tree. 

There,  lightly  swung,  in  bowery  glades, 

The  honey-suckles  twine  ; 
There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion, 

.■^nd  the  dark-blue  columbine. 

There  grows  the  four-leaved  |)lant  "true  love,' 

In  some  dusk  woodland  spot ; 
There  grows  the  enchanter's  night-shade, 

And  the  wood  Ibrgct-me-not. 

And  many  a  merry  bird  is  there, 

Unscared  by  lawless  men ; 
The  blue-winged  jay,  the  wood-pecker. 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 

Come  down  and  ye  shall  see  them  all. 

The  timid  and  the  bold  ; 
For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 

It  is  not  to  be  told. 

And  far  within  that  summer-wood, 

Among  the  leaves  so  green. 
There  flows  a  lillle  gurgling  brook. 

The  brightest  e'er  was  seen. 

There  come  the  little  gentle  birds. 

Without  a  fear  of  ill ; 
Down  to  the  murmuring  water's  edge. 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ! 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about, 

The  merry  little  things ; 
And  look  askance  with  bright  black  eyes, 

And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 

I  've  seen  the  freakish  squirrel  drop 

Down  from  their  leafy  tree, 
The  little  squirrels  with  the  old, — 

Great  joy  it  was  to  me ! 

And  down  unto  the  running  brook, 

I've  seen  them  nimbly  go; 
And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 

A  welcome  kiiul  and  low. 

The  nodding  plants  they  bowed  their  heads. 

As  if,  in  heartsome  cheer, 
They  spake  unto  those  little  things, 

" 'Tis  merry  living  here!" 

Oh,  how  my  heart  ran  o'er  with  joy  ! 

I  saw  that  all  was  good. 
And  how  we  might  glean  up  delight 

All  round  us,  if  we  would  I 

And  many  a  wood-mouse  dwelleth  there. 

Beneath  the  old  wood-shade, 
And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do. 

Nor  is,  of  aught,  afraid. 

The  green  shoots  grow  above  their  heads. 

And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine. 
Beneath  their  feel,  nor  is  there  strife 

'Mong  them  for  mhie  and  thine. 
135 


126 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  is  enough  for  every  one, 

And  the}'  lovingly  agree; 
We  might  learn  a  lesson,  all  of  us, 
Beneath  the  green-wood  tree! 


THE   MANDRAKE. 

There  once  was  a  garden  grand  and  old, 
Its  stately  w  alks  were  trodden  by  few ; 

And  there,  in  its  driest  and  deepest  mould, 
The  dark-green,  poisonous  mandrake  grew. 

That  garden's  lord  was  a  learned  man, — 
It  is  of  an  ancient  time  we  tell, — 

He  was  grim  and  stern,  with  a  visage  wan. 
And  had  books  which  only  he  could  spell. 

He  had  been  a  monk  in  his  younger  days. 

They  said,  and  travelled  by  land  and  sea. 
And  now,  m  his  old,  ancestral  place. 

He  was  come  to  study  in  privacy. 
A  garden  it  was  both  large  and  lone, 

And  in  it  was  temple,  cave  and  mound; 
The  trees  were  with  ivy  overgrown. 

And  the  depth  of  its  lake  no  line  had  found. 

Some  said  that  the  springs  of  the  lake  lay  deep 

Under  the  fierce  volcano's  root ; 
For  the  water  would  oft-times  curl  and  leap. 

When  the  summer  air  was  calm  and  mute. 

And  all  along  o'er  its  margin  dank 
Hung  massy  branches  of  evergreen ; 

And  among  the  pebbles  upon  the  bank 
The  playful  water-snakes  were  seen. 

And  yew-trees  old.  in  the  alleys  dim. 
Were  cut  into  dragon-shapes  of  dread; 

And  in  midst  of  shadow,  grotesque  and  grim, 
Stood  goat-limbed  statues  of  sullen  lead. 

The  garden-beds  they  were  Ions:,  and  all 
With  a  tangle  of  flowers  were  overgrown  ; 

And  each  was  screened  with  an  ancient  wall. 
Or  parapet  low  of  mossy  stone. 

And  from  every  crevice  and  broken  ledge 
The  harebell  blue  and  the  wallflower  sprung 

And  from  the  wall,  to  the  water's  edge. 
Wild  masses  of  tendrilled  creepers  hung; 

For  there  was  a  moat  outside  where  slept 
Deep  waters  with  slimy  moss  grown  o'er, 

And  a  wall  and  a  tower  securely  kept 
By  a  ban-dog  fierce  at  a  grated  door. 

This  garden's  lord  was  a  scholar  wise, 
A  scholar  wise,  with  a  learned  look; 

He  studied  by  night  the  starry  skies. 
And  all  day  long  some  ancient  book. 

There  were  lords  hard  by  who  lived  by  spoil. 
But  he  did  the  men  of  war  eschew; 

There  were  lowly  serfs  who  tilled  the  soil, 
But  with  toiling  serfs  he  had  nought  to  do. 


But  now  and  then  might  with  him  be  seen, 
Two  other  old  men  with  look  profuund, 

Who  peered  'mong  the  leaves  of  the  mandrake  greea 
And  lightened  with  care  the  soil  around. 

For  the  king  was  sick  and  of  help  had  need ; 

Or  he  had  a  foe  whom  art  must  quell, 
So  he  sent  to  ihe  learned  man  with  speed 

To  gather  for  him  a  mandrake-spell. 

And  at  night  when  Ihe  moon  was  at  the  full. 
When  the  air  was  still  and  ihe  stars  were  out. 

Came  the  three  the  mandrake  root  to  pull, 
With  the  help  of  the  ban-dog  fierce  and  stout. 

Oh,  the  mandrake-root!  and  they  listened  all  three, 
For  awful  sounds,  and  they  spoke  no  word, 

And  when  the  owl  screeched  from  the  hollow  tree, 
They  said  'twas  the  mandrake's  groan  they  heard. 

And  words  they  muttered,  but  what  none  knew, 

With  motion  slow  of  hand  and  foot ; 
Then  into  the  cave  the  three  withdrew. 

And  carried  with  them  the  mandrake  root. 

They  all  were  scholars  of  hijh  degree. 
So  they  took  the  root  of  the  mandrake  fell. 

And  cut  it  and  carved  it  hideously, 
And  muttered  it  into  a  charmed  spell. 

Then  who  had  been  there,  by  dawn  of  day. 
Might  have  seen  the  two  from  the  grated  door 

Speed  forth;  and  as  sure  as  they  went  away. 
The  charmed  mandrake  root  they  bore. 

And  the  old  lord  up  in  his  chamber  sat. 

Blessing  himself,  sedate  and  mute, 
That  he  thus  could  gift  the  wise  and  great 

With  more  than  gold  — the  mandrake  root. 

The  reverence  attached  to  the  mandrake  may  be 
classed  among  the  very  oldest  of  superstitions,  for  the 
Hebrews  of  tlie  patriarchial  ages  regarded  it  as  a 
plant  of  potent  influence.  The  Greeks,  who  held  it 
in  the  same  estimation,  called  it  after  Circe,  their  cel- 
ebrated witch,  and  also  after  Atropos,  the  eldest  of 
the  three  Fates.  The  Romans  adopted  ihe  same 
opinions  respecting  it,  and  Pliny  relates  ihe  ceremo- 
nies which  were  used  in  obtaining  Ihe  root. 

In  the  middle  ages,  when  the  traditional  supersti- 
tions of  the  ancients  were  grafted  upon  the  popular 
ignorance,  the  mandrake  was  a  powerful  engine  in 
the  hands  of  the  crafty. 

It  was  believed  that  when  the  mandrake  was  taken 
from  the  earlh.  it  uttered  a  dreadfiil  shriek;  and  that 
any  human  being  who  was  presumptuous  enough  to 
remove  it,  was  suddenly  struck  dead.  Dogs,  there- 
fore, were  used  for  this  purpose.  The  earlh  was 
carefully  lightened,  and  the  plant  fhstened  to  the  ani- 
mal's tail;  he  was  then  made  to  draw  it  forth,  and 
pay  whatever  penally  the  demon  of  the  plant  thought 
fit  to  impose  upon  the  disturber  of  his  rest.  The  pre- 
tenders to  medical  skill  in  those  days  made  great  pro- 
fit by  the  little  hideous  images  which  they  fjishioned 
out  of  the  mandrake  root,  and  sold  as  charms  against 
133 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


1^7 


every  kind  of  sickness  and  misfortune.  They  were 
brought  over  from  Germany  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
the  VIH.,  under  tlie  name  of  Af/nints,  and  by  tlie 
help  of  certain  pretcmied  magical  words,  the  know- 
ledge of  which  the  credulous  obtained  at  a  great 
price,  were  said  to  increase  whatever  money  was 
placed  near  tliem.  It  was  believed,  also,  at  that  time, 
that  the  mandrake  was  produced  (ix)m  the  decaying 
flesh  of  malefactors  hung  u(X)n  the  gibbet,  and  was 
to  be  found  only  in  such  situations.  Dr.  Turner,  who 
lived  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  declares,  that 
he  had  divers  times  taken  up  the  roots  of  the  man- 
drake, but  had  never  found  them  under  the  gallows; 
nor  of  the  form  whicii  the  pedlars,  who  sold  ihem  in 
hoxes,  pretended  tiiem  to  have  been.  This  form  was 
that  of  an  ugly  little  man,  with  a  long  beard  hanging 
down  to  his  feet.  Gerard,  the  herbalist,  also,  who 
wrote  thirty  years  later,  used  many  endeavours  to 
convince  the  world  of  the  impositions  practised  upon 
them,  and  stales,  that  he  and  his  servant  frequently 
dug  up  the  roots  without  receiving  harm,  or  hearing 
any  shrieks  whatever. 

The  mandrake  grows  naturally  in  Spain,  Portugal, 
Italy,  and  the  Levant,  and  it  is  also  indigenous  to 
China.  It  was  introduced  into  this  country  about 
1564.  It  is  a  handsome  plant,  and  would,  in  particu- 
lar situations,  be  ornamental  to  our  gardens,  indepen- 
dent of  the  strange,  old  associations  connected  with 
it,  which  would  always  make  it  an  interesting  object. 
I  have  seen  it,  however,  only  in  one  garden,  that  of 
the  King  of  the  Belgians,  at  Claremont. 

"It  is,"  says  Mr.  Philli|Ts,  in  his  pleasant  garden 
companion,  the  Flora  Ifistorica,  from  which  work  the 
above  historical  notices  of  the  mandrake  have  been 
principally  taken,  "  a  species  of  deadly  nightshade, 
W'hich  grows  with  a  long  taper  root  like  the  parsnip, 
running  three  or  four  feet  deep;  these  roots  are  fre- 
quently f()rked,  which  assisted  to  enable  the  old 
quacks  to  give  it  the  shape  of  a  monster.  This  plant 
does  not  send  up  a  stalk,  but,  immediately  from  the 
crown  of  the  root  arises  a  circle  of  leaves,  which  at 
first  stand  erect,  but  when  grown  to  their  full  size, 
which  is  about  a  foot  in  length  and  five  inches  broad, 
of  an  ovate-lanceolate  shape,  waved  at  the  edges, 
these  spread  open  and  lie  on  the  ground ;  they  are 
of  a  dark-green,  and  give  out  a  fetid  smell.  About 
the  month  of  .April  the  flowers  come  out  among  the 
leaves,  each  on  a  scape  about  three  inches  long ;  they 
are  of  a  bell  shape  with  a  long  tube,  and  spread  out 
into  a  five-cleft  corolla.  The  colour  is  of  an  herba- 
ceous white,  but  frequently  has  a  tinge  of  purple. 
The  flower  is  succeeded  by  a  globular  soft  berry, 
when  full  grown,  as  large  as  a  common  cherry,  but 
of  a  yellowish-green  colour,  when  ripe  and  full  of 
pulp,  intermixed  with  numerous  reniform  seeds." 

If  any  of  my  readers  should  wish  to  cultivate  this 
plant  of  "  old  renown,"  they  should  do  it  by  sowing 
the  seed  in  autumn,  soon  after  it  is  ripe ;  as  the  seed 
kept  till  spring  seldom  produces  plants.  It  should  be 
set  in  a  light,  dry  soil,  and  of  a  go<jd  depth,  so  that 
the  root  may  not  be  chilled  or  obstructed  ;  and  care 
should  be  taken  not  to  disturb  it  when  it  has  once 
obtained  a  considerable  size. 
12*  S 


THE    HEDGE. HOG, 

Tuou  poor  little  English  ptjrcupine. 
What  a  harassed  and  weary  life  is  thine '. 
And  thou  art  a  creature  meek  and  mild. 
That  wouldst  not  harm  a  sleeping  child. 

Thou  scarce  can'st  stir  from  thy  tree-root. 
But  thy  foes  arc  up  in  hot  pursuit ; 
Thou  might'st  be  an  asp,  or  horned  snake, 
Thou  poor  little  martyr  of  the  brake  I 

Thou  scarce  can'st  put  out  that  nose  of  thine  ; 
Thou  can'st  not  show  a  single  spine, 
But  the  urchin-rabble  are  in  a  rout, 
With  terrier  curs  to  hunt  thee  out. 

The  poor  Hedgehog!  one  would  think  he  knew 
His  foes  so  many,  his  friends  so  few, 
For  when  he  comes  out,  he  's  in  a  fright. 
And  hurries  again  to  be  out  of  sight. 

How  unkind  the  world  must  seem  to  him. 
Living  under  the  thicket  dusk  and  dim. 
And  getting  his  living  among  the  roots. 
Of  the  insects  small,  and  drj'  hedge-fruits. 

How  hard  it  must  be,  to  be  kicked  about, 
If  by  chance  his  prickly  back  peep  out; 
To  be  all  his  days  misunderstood, 
When  he  could  not  harm  us  if  he  would  I 

He's  an  innocent  thing,  living  under  the  blame 
That  he  merits  not,  of  an  evil  name  ; 
He  is  weak  and  small,  —  and  all  he  needs, 
Lies  under  the  hedge  among  the  weeds. 

He  robs  not  man  of  rest  or  food, 
And  all  that  he  asks  is  quietude  ; 
To  be  left  by  him,  as  a  worthless  stone, 
Under  the  dry  hedge-bank  alone  I 

Oh,  poor  little  English  porcupine, 
What  a  troubled  and  weary  life  is  thine  I 
I  wovild  that  my  pity  thy  Cues  could  quell, 
For  thou  art  ill-used,  and  meanest  well  I 


THE   CUCKOO. 

"  Pee  !  pee  !  pee!"  says  the  merry  Pee-Bird  ; 

And  as  soon  as  the  children  hear  it, 
"The  Cuckoo  's  a-coming,"  they  say,  "  for  I  heard, 
Up  in  his  tree  the  merry  Pee-Bird, 

And  he  "11  come  in  three  days,  or  near  it !" 
The  days  go  on,  one,  two,  three; 
And  the  little  bird  singeth  "pee!  pee!  pee!" 
Then  on  the  morrow,  't  is  very  true. 
They  hear  the  note  of  the  old  Cuckoo ; 
Up  in  the  elm-tree,  through  the  day. 
Just  as  in  gone  years,  shouting  awav  ; 

"  Cuckoo,"  the  Cuckoo  doth  cry, 

And  the  little  boys  mock  him  as  ihey  go  by. 

The  wood-pecker  laughs  to  hear  the  strain. 
And  says  "  the  old  fellow  is  come  back  again  ; 
He  sitteili  again  on  the  very  same  tree. 
And  he  talks  of  himself  again  !  —  he  !  he  I  he  !" 
137 


128 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  8lock-(Joves  together  begin  to  coo 
When  ihey  hear  the  voice  of  the  old  cuckoo  ; 
"  Ho  1  ho  I"  say  they,  "  he  did  not  find 
Those  far-away  countries  quite  to  his  mind, 
Ho  \\e  's  come  again  to  see  what  he  can  do 
With  sucking  the  small  birds'  eggs,  coo-cool" 
The  black-bird,  and  throstle,  and  loud  missel-cock, 
They  sing  altogether,  the  Cuckoo  to  mock; 
"  What  want  we  with  him  ?  let  him  stay  over  sea!" 
Sings   the   bold,  piping   reed-sparrow,  "  want   him  ? 
not  we !" 
"Cuckoo!"  the  Cuckoo  shouts  still, 
"  I  care  not  for  you,  let  you  rave  as  you  will !" 
"Cuckoo!"  the  Cuckoo  doth  cry, 
And  the  little  boys  mock  him  as  they  go  by. 

"  Hark  !  hark!"  sings  the  chiff-chaff;  "  hark  !  hark  !" 

says  the  lark, 
And    the   white-throats    and    buntings    all    twitter 

"  hark!  hark !" 
The  wren  and  the  hedge-sparrow  hear  it  anon. 
And  "  hark !  liark  !"  in  a  moment  shouts  every  one. 
'•  Hark  I  hark  !  —  that  's  the  Cuckoo  there,  shouting 

amain ! 
Bless  our  lives!  why  that  egg-sucker's  come  back 
again  !" 
"Cuckoo!"  the  Cuckoo  shouts  still, 
"  1  shall  taste  of  your  eggs,  let  you  rave  as  you 

will  !" 
"Cuckoo!"  the  Cuckoo  doth  cry. 
And  the  little  boys  mock  him  as  they  go  by. 

The  water-hens  hear  it,  the  rail  and  the  smew. 
And    they  say,  —  "Why  on   land   there's  a  pretty 

to-do  ! 
Sure  the  Cuckoo  's  come  back,  what  else  can  be  the 

matter  ? 
The  pyes  and  the  jays  are  all  making  a  clatter!" 
"  Hark  !    hark !"   says  the  woodcock,  "  I   hear  him 

myselfl 
Shouting  up  in  the  elm-tree,  the  comical  elf!" 
"  Hark  !  hark  !"  cries  the  widgeon,  "  and  I  hear  him 

too. 
Shouting  loudly  as  ever,  that  self-same  Cuckoo  '." 
"  Well,  well,"  says  the  wild  duck,  "  what  is  it  to  us; 
1  've  no  spite  'gainst  the  Cuckoo ;  why  make  such  a 

fuss  ? 
Let  him  shout  as  he  listeth  —  he  comes  over  sea  — 
And  his  French  may  be  French,  't  is  no  matter  to  me ; 
I  have  no  spite  against  him,  my  soul 's  not  so  narrow, 
]  leave  all  such  whims  to  the  tomtit  and  sparrow!" 
"Cuckoo!"  the  Cuckoo  shouts  still, 
"  You  may  all  hold  your  peace,  I  shall  do  as  I  will !" 
"  Cuckoo  !"  the  Cuckoo  doth  cry. 
And  the  little  boys  mock  him  as  they  go  by. 


THE   HORNET. 

So,  there  at  last  I  've  found  you,  my  famous  old  fel- 
low ! 

Ay,  and  mighty  grand  besides,  in  your  suit  of  red 
and  yellow.' 


I  often  have  heard  talk  of  you,  but  ne'er  saw  you 

before, 
And  there  you  're  standing  sentinel  at  the  hornet- 

caslle-door  I 
Well,  what  a  size  you  are!  just  like  a  great  wasp- 
king! 
What  a  solemn  buzz  you  make,  now  you  're  upon  the 

wing ! 
My  word  !    I  do  not  wonder  that  people  fear  your 

sting ! 
So  !  so ! — Don't  be  so  angry !  Why  do  you  come  at  me 
With  a  swoop  and  with  a  hum, — Is't  a  crime  to  look 

at  ye  ? 
See  where  the  testy  fellow  goes  whiz  into  the  hole. 
And  brings  out  from  the  hollow  tree  his  fellows  in  a 

shoal. 
Hark!  what  an  awful,  hollow  boom!   How  fierce 

they  come  !  I  'd  rather 
Just  quietly  step  back,  and  stand  from  them  a  little 

farther. 
There,  now,  the  hornet-host  is  retreating  to  its  den. 
And  so,  good  Mr.  Sentinel  —  lo  !  here  1  am  again  ! 
Well !  how  the  little  angry  wretch  doth  stamp  and 

raise  his  head. 
And  flirt  his  wings,  and  seem  to  say,  "  Come  here  — 

I  '11  sting  you  dead  !" 
No,  thank  you,  fierce  Sir  Hornet,  —  that 's  not  at  all 

inviting ; 
But  what  a  pair  of  shears  the  rascal  has  for  biting  ! 
What  a  pair  of  monstrous  shears  lo  carry  at  his  head! 
If  wasp  or  fly  come  in  their  gripe,  that  moment  they 

are  dead  ! 
There !  bite  in  two  the  whip-lash,  as  we  poke  it  at 

your  chin  ! 
See,  how  he  bites  !  but  it  is  tough,  and  again  he 

hurries  in. 
Ho !  ho !  we  soon  shall  have  the  whole  of  his  vin- 
dictive race, 
With  a  hurry  and  a  scurry,  all  flying  in  our  face. 
To  potter  in  a  Hornet's  nest,  is  a  proverb  old  and 

good. 
So  it 's  just  as  well  to  take  the  hint,  and  retreat  into 

the  wood. 
Oh !  here  behind  this  hazel-bush  we  safely  may  look 

out. 
And  see  what  all  the  colony  of  hornets  is  about. 
Why  w  hat  a  furious  troop  it  is,  how  fierce  they  seem 

to  be. 
As  they  fly  now  in  the  sunshine,  now  in  shadow  of 

the  tree  ! 
And  yet  they  're  noble  insects!  their  bodies  red  and 

yellow. 
And  large  almost  as  little  birds,  how  richly  toned  and 

mellow. 
And  these  old  woods,  so  full  of  trees,  all  hollow  and 

decayed. 
Must  be  a  perfect  paradise,  for  the  hornet  legions 

made. 
Secure  from  village  lads,  and  from  gardener's  watch- 
ful eyes. 
They  may  build  their  paper-nests,  and  issue  for  sup- 
plies 

138 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


129 


To  orchards  or  to  gardens,  for  plum,  and  peach,  and 

peur,  — 
With   wasp,   (ly.  ant,  and  earwig,  they  'II  have  a 

giant's  share. 
And  you,  stout  Mr.  Sentinel,  there  standing  at  the 

door, 
Though  Homer  said  in  his  time,  "the  hornet's  soul 

all  o'er," — 
You  're  not  so  very  spiritual,  but  soon  some  sunny 

morning 
I  may  find  you  in  a  green-gage,  and  give  you  a  little 

warning. 
Or  feeding  in  a  Windsor  pear;  or  at  the  juicy  stalk 
Of  my  Negro-boy,  grand  dahlia,  —  too  heavy  much 

to  walk  ; 
Ay,  very  much  too  heavy, — that  juicy  stemdeceives, — 
"  Makes  faint   with   too  much  sweet  such  heavy- 
winged  thieves." 
Too  heavy  much  to  walk, — then,  pray,  how  can  you 

fiy'? 
No,  there  you  '11  drop  upon  the  ground,  and  there 

you  're  doomed  to  die  ' 

The  Hornet  is  an  insect  that  every  one  has  heard 
of,  because  the  fearful  effects  of  its  sting  and  its 
fierceness  are  proverbial  ;  but  it  is  by  no  means 
common  in  many  parts  of  the  country.  In  the  mid- 
land counties  hornets  are  often  talked  of,  but  rarely 
seen.  We  have  lived  in  several  of  the  midland 
counties,  and  seen  a  good  deal  of  them,  but  never 
saw  a  hornet  there.  Since  coming  to  reside  i'n  Sur- 
rey, we  have  found  plenty  of  them.  They  come 
buzzing  into  the  house,  and  are  almost  as  common 
•in  the  garden  as  wasps  themselves,  devouring  the 
fruits  above-mentioned,  and  also  as  voracious  of  the 
green,  tender  bark  of  the  dahlia,  as  ants  are  of  the 
juice  of  the  yucca.  They  peel  the  young  branches 
with  their  nippers  or  shears,  as  a  rabbit  peels  a 
young  tree;  and  wasps, and  the  great  blUe-bottle  and 
other  flies  follow  in  their  train,  and  suck  its  juice 
greedily.  In  common,  too,  with  the  wasps,  which  by 
their  side  appear  very  diminutive  insects,  they  gorge 
themselves  so  with  the  pulp  of  fruit  as  to  drop 
heavily  on  the  earth  on  being  suddenly  disturbed, 
and  are  then  easily  destroyed.  They  fretpiently 
make  their  nests  in  the  thatch  of  cottages  and  out- 
buildings, where  it  is  difficult  to  destroy  them,  as  in 
such  situations,  neither  fire,  sulphur,  nor  gunpowder 
can  be  used,  and  producing  large  swarms  there, 
they  are  dangerous  and  devouring  neighbours. 

On  Bookham  Common,  a  pleasant  wide  tract,  over- 
grown with  trees,  principally  i>aks,  and  resembling  a 
forest  with  its  fern  and  green  turfy  glade-s,  much 
more  than  a  common,  we  li)und  two  nests  within  a 
few  yards  of  each  other,  in  two  hollow  trees,  where 
Uie  sentinel,  and  indeed  the  whole  swarms,  behaved 
themselves  as  above  represented.  Whether  three  of 
these  insects  are  sufTicient  to  kill  a  horse,  as  the  old 
country  saying  avers,  ,is  doubtful ;  but,  from  their 
size,  the  irritability  of  their  nature,  and  the  appear- 
ance of  their  stings,  they  are  very  formidable  crea- 
tures indeed. 


THE  USE  OF  FI,OWERS. 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree. 

Without  a  fiowcr  at  all. 

We  might  have  had  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours, 
For  luxury,  medicine  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  had  no  flowers. 

The  ore  within  the  mountain  mine 

Refjuireth  none  to  grow ; 
Nor  doth  it  need  the  lotus-flow'er 

To  make  the  river  flow. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain ; 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall, 
And  the  herb  that  keepeth  life  in  man 

Might  yet  have  drunk  them  all. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made. 
All  dyed  with  rainbow-light, 

All  fiishioned  with  supremest  grace 
Upspringing  day  and  night:  — 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 
And  on  the  mountains  high. 

And  in  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not — 
Then  wherefore  had  tliey  birth  ? — 

To  minister  delight  to  man, 
To  beautify  the  earth; 

To  comfort  man  —  to  whisper  hope. 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim. 
For  who  so  careth  ftir  the  flowers 

Will  much  more  care  for  him  I 


THE    CARRION-CROW. 

0.\  a  splintered  bough  sits  the  Carrion-crow, 
And  first  he  croaks  loud  and  then  he  croaks  low  : 
Twenties  of  years  ago  that  bough 
Was  leafless  and  barkless  as  it  is  now. 

It  is  on  the  top  of  nn  ancient  oak 
That  the  Carrion-crow  has  perched  to  croak ; 
In  the  gloom  of  a  forest  the  old  oak  grows, — 
When  it  was  young  there  's  nobody  knows. 

'Tis  but  half  alive,  and  up  in  the  air 
You  may  see  its  branches  splintered  and  bare; 
You  may  see  them  plain  in  the  cloudy  night. 
They  are  so  skeleton-like  and  white. 

The  old  oak  trunk  is  gnarled  and  grey, 
But  the  wood  has  rotted  all  away. 
Nothing  remains  but  a  cave-like  shell, 
I  Where  bats,  and  spiders,  and  millipedes  dwell ; 

139 


130 


HOWITT'S  POEl^ICAL  WORKS. 


And  the  tawny  owl  and  the  noisy  daw, 

In  many  a  hollow  and  many  a  flaw; 

By  niglit  or  by  day,  were  yoii  there  about, 

You  might  see  them  creep  in,  or  see  them  creep  out. 

And  there,  on  the  top  of  that  ancient  oak, 
The  Carrion-crow  he  sits  to  croak  ;  — 
The  words  of  his  croaking  I  fain  would  know ; 
What  does  he  say  —  that  Carrion-crow  ? 

He  says,  and  he  's  merry  as  he  can  be,  — 
"  To-night  there  's  a  famous  feast  for  me  ; 
For  me  and  my  mate  so  beautiful. 
Where  the  hound  lies  dead  by  the  forest-pool. 

"  His  master  he  knows  not  where  he  lies, 
So  we  shall  go  down  to  peck  out  his  eyes ; 
His  master  he  raourneth,  early  and  late  ;  — 
But  'tis  joy  to  me  and  my  beautiful  mate ! 

"  And  the  miller  last  week  he  killed  his  mare, — 
She  lies  in  a  hollow,  I  know  where,  — 
There  's  an  ancient  cross  of  crumbling  stone 
Down  in  that  hollow  dank  and  lone ! 

"  The  mare  was  blind,  and  lame,  and  thin, 

And  she  had  not  a  bone  but  it  pierced  her  skin  ; 

For  twenty  years  did  she  come  and  go, — 

We  '11  be  with  her  anon  !"  croaked  the  Carrion-crow. 

"  And  there  bleats  a  lamb  by  the  thundering  linn, 
The  mother  ewe  she  has  tumbled  in  ; 
Three  days  ago  and  the  lamb  was  strong. 
Now  he  is  weak  with  fasting  long. 

"  All  day  long  he  moans  and  calls, 
And  over  his  mother  the  water  falls  ; 
He  can  see  his  mother  down  below, 
But  why  she  comes  not  he  does  not  know. 

"  His  little  heart  doth  pine  away. 
And  fainter  and  fainter  he  bleats  to-day; 
So  loud  o'er  the  linn  the  waters  brawl. 
That  the  shepherd  he  hears  him  not  at  all ! 

"Twice  I  've  been  down  to  look  at  him, 
But  he  glanced  on  me  his  eyeballs  dim ; 
And  among  the  stones  so  cold  and  bare, 
I  saw  the  raven  watching  there. 

"He'll  have  the  first  peck  at  his  black  eye, 
And  taste  of  his  heart  before  it  die  :  — 
Aha !  though  the  hungry  raven  is  there. 
As  soon  as  he  's  ready  we  '11  have  our  share  !" 

These  are  the  words  of  the  Carrion-crow, 
As  he  first  croaks  loud  and  then  croaks  low, 
And  the  spiders  and  millipedes  hear  him  croak, 
As  he  sits  up  aloft  on  the  ancient  oak. 


BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES. 

Buttercups  and  Daisies  — 

Oh  the  pretty  flowers. 
Coming  ere  the  .'spring  time 

To  tell  of  sunny  hours. 


While  the  trees  are  leafless; 

While  the  fields  are  bare, 
Buttercups  and  Daisies 

Spring  up  here  and  there. 

Ere  the  snow-drop  peepeth ; 

Ere  the  crocus  bold ; 
Ere  the  early  primrose 

Opes  its  paly  gold. 
Somewhere  on  a  sunny  bank 

Buttercups  are  bright ; 
Somewhere  'mong  the  frozen  grass 

Peeps  the  Daisy  white. 

Little  hardy  flowers 

Like  to  children  poor. 
Playing  in  their  sturdy  health 

By  their  mother's  door ; 
Purple  with  the  north-wind, 

Yet  alert  and  bold. 
Fearing  not  and  caring  not. 

Though  they  be  a-cold ! 

What  to  them  is  weather ! 

What  are  stormy  showers ! 
Buttercups  and  Daisies 

Are  these  human  flowers ! 
He  who  gave  them  hardship 

And  a  life  of  care. 
Gave  them  likewise  hardy  strength 

And  patient  hearts,  to  bear. 

Welcome  yellow  buttercups, 

Welcome  daisies  white. 
Ye  are  in  my  spirit 

Visioned,  a  delight! 
Coming  ere  the  spring-time 

Of  sunny  hours  to  tell  — 
Speaking  to  our  hearts  of  Him 

Who  doeth  all  things  well. 


THE  TITMOUSE,  OR  BLUE-CAP. 

The  merry  Titmouse  is  a  comical  fellow  ; 
He  weareth  a  plumage  of  purple  and  yellow. 
Barred  over  with  black,  and  with  white  interlace4;— 
Depend  on't,  the  Titmouse  has  excellent  taste. 

And  he,  like  his  betters  of  noble  old  blood, 
Keeps  up,  with  great  spirit,  a  family  feud ; 
A  feud  with  the  owl ; — and  why  ?  would  you  know ; — 
An  old,  by-gone  quarrel  of  ages  ago  :  — 

Perhaps  in  the  ark  might  be  taken  offence,  — 

But  I   know  not,  indeed,  of  the   where  and  the 

whence ;  — 
Only  this  is  quite  true, — let  them  meet  as  they  may. 
Having  quarrelled  long  since,  they  would  quarrel  to- 
day. 

But  we  'U  leave  them  to  settle  this  ancient  afl^air. 
And  now  look  at  his  nest,  made  with  exquisite  care. 
Of  lichen,  and  moss,  and  the  soft  downy  feather. 
And  the  web  of  the  spider  to  keep  it  together. 
110 


J 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


131 


Is  a  brick  out  of"  place  by  your  window  ? — don't  send 
For  the  man  with  the  trowel  the  fracture  to  mend, 
Through  the  dry  months  of  suinnier,  just  leave  it 

alone, 
For  the  poor  little  Titmouse  has  made  it  his  own. 

Peep  in  now,  and  look  at  that  wonderful  labour; 
And  be  glad  to  have  near  you  so  merry  a  neighbour; 
His  work  unto  him  is  no  trouble  —  behold 
For  one  moment  his  motions,  so  tricksy  and  bold. 

How  he  twists,  how  he  turns  with  a  harlequin  grace! 
He  can't  lift  a  feather  wiiha\it  a  grimace; 
He  carries  the  moss  in  his  bill  with  an  air; 
And  he  laughs  at  the  spider  he  robs  of  his  lair. 

See  his  round,  burly  head,  timt  is  like  a  Friar  Tuck, 
And  his  glancing  black  eye  that  is  worthy  of  Puck; 
Saw  vou  ever  a  merrier  creature  than  he  ? 
Oh,  no! — make  him  welcome,  as  welcome  can  be! 

His  nest  now  is  finished  wiih  fine  cobweb  thread, 
.And  the  eggs  are  laid  in  it,  white  speckled  with  red; 
Now  knock  at  the  wall,  or  rap  loud  on  the  pane, 
Hark  I  w  hat  is  that  rapping  so  briskly  again  ! 

'Tis  the  blithe  mother-bird,  all  alive  and  alert, 
As  her  mate,  every  whit,  is  she  comic  and  pert ; 
Rap  you  once,  —  she  raps  twice;  —  she  has  nothing 

to  do. 
But  to  keep  her  eggs  warm,  and  be  neighbourly  loo ! 

Oh,  what!  did  you  say  that  the  Titmouse  was  steal- 
ing. 

That  he  ate  your  pear-buds  while  he  shammed  to  be 
reeling ; 

And  nipped  off  the  apricot-bloom  in  his  fun?  — 

And  that  shortly  you  '11  end  his  career  with  a  gun! 

Oh!  hold  hack  your  hand, — 'twere  a  deed  to  repent; 
Of  your  blame  the  jxior  fellow  is  quite  innocent, — 
Stand  back  for  one  moment  —  anon  he'll  be  here. 
He  believes  you  his  friend,  and  he  thinks  not  of  fear. 

Here  he  comes ! — see  how  drolly  he  lookelh  askew  ; — 
And  now  hangs  head  dov^nward  ;  now  glances  on 

you ! 
Be  not  rash,  though  he  light  on  your  apricot-bough, — 
Though  he  touches  a  bud, — there,  he  touches  it  now ! 

There,  he 's  got  what  he  wanted,  and  off  he  has 

flown ! — 
Now  look  at  the  apricot  bud,  —  is  it  gone? 
Not  the  apricot  bud, — but  the  grub  that  was  in  it! — 
You  may  thank  him, —  he  does  you  a  service  each 

minute. 

Then  love  the  poor  Titmouse,  and  welcome  him  too, 
Great  beauty  is  there  in  his  yellow  and  blue; 
He's  a  fine  cheerful  fellow  —  so  let  him  be  free 
Of  your  garden — to  build  in  your  wall  or  your  tree! 


SUNSHINE. 

I  LOVE  the  sunshine  everywhere, — 
In  wood  and  field  and  glen ; 

I  love  it  in  the  busy  haunts 
Of  town-imj)risoned  men. 


I  love  it  when  it  streameth  in 

The  humble  collage  door. 
And  casts  the  chequered  casement  shade 

Upon  tlie  red-brick  floor. 

I  love  it  where  the  children  lie 
Deep  in  the  clovery  grass, 

To  watch  among  the  twining  roots 
The  gold-green  beetles  pass. 

I  love  it  on  the  breezy  sea. 
To  glance  on  sail  and  oar, 

While  the  great  waves,  like  molten  glass. 
Come  leaping  to  the  shore. 

I  love  it  on  the  mountain-lops. 

Where  lies  the  thawless  snow, 

And  half  a  kingdom,  bathed  in  light, 
Lies  stretching  out  below. 

And  when  it  shines  in  forest-glades. 
Hidden,  and  green,  and  cool, 

Through  mossy  boughs  and  veined  leaves, 
How  is  it  beautfnl ! 

How  beautiful  on  little  stream. 
When  Sim  and  shade  at  play. 

Make  silvery  meshes,  while  the  brook 
Goes  singing  on  its  way. 

How  beautiful,  where  dragon-flies 

Are  wondrous  to  behold, 
With  rainbow  wings  of  gauzy  pearl, 

And  bodies  blue  and  gold ! 

How  beautiful,  on  harvest  slopes. 

To  see  the  sunshme  lie ; 
Or  on  the  paler  reaped  fields, 

Where  yellow  shocks  stand  high  ! 

Oh,  yes!  I  love  the  sunshine! 

Like  kindness  or  like  mirth, 
Upon  a  human  countenance. 

Is  sunshine  on  the  earth  ! 

Upon  the  earth ;  upon  the  sea ; 

And  through  the  crystal  air. 
Or  piled-up  cloud  ;  the  gracious  sun 

Is  glorious  everywhere ! 


THE    ELEPHANT. 

Ei.EPii.wT,  thon  sure  must  be 
Of  the  Titan  progeny  ; 
One  of  that  old  race  that  sleep. 
In  the  fossil  mountains  deep ! 
Elephant,  thou  must  be  one!  — 
Kindred  to  the  Mastodon, — 
One  that  didst  in  friendship  mi.v 
With  the  huge  Megalonix; 
With  the  Mammoth  hadst  command 
O'er  the  old-world  foresl-lanil. 
Thou,    those  giant  flcrns  didsl  see, 
Taller  than  llie  tallest  tree ; 

HI 


132 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  with  up-turned  trunk  didst  browse, 
On  the  reed-palm's  lowest  boughs ; 
And  didst  see,  upcurled  from  light, 
The  ever-sleeping  ammonite  ; 
And  those  dragon-worms  at  play 
In  the  waters  old  and  grey ! 

Tell  me,  creature,  in  what  place, 

Thou,  the  IS'oah  of  thy  race. 

Wast  preserved  when  death  was  sent 

Like  a  raging  element, 

Like  a  whirlwind  passing  by, — 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Leaving  mother  earth  forlorn 

Of  her  mighty  eldest-born;  — 

Turning  all  her  life  to  stone 

With  one  universal  groan ! 

In  what  cavern  drear  and  dark. 

Elephant,  hast  thou  thine  ark  ? 

Dost  thou  in  thy  memory  hold 

Record  of  that  tale  untold  ? 

If  thou  do,  I  pray  thee  tell, 

It  were  worth  the  knowing  well. 

Elephant,  so  old  and  vast. 
Thou  a  kindly  nature  hast; 
Grave  thou  art,  and  strangely  wise. 
With  observant,  serious  eyes, 
Somewhat  in  thy  brain  must  be 
Of  an  old  sagacity. 
Thou  art  solemn,  wise  and  good  ; 
Thou  li  vest  not  on  streaming  blood ; 
Thou,  and  all  thine  ancient  frere. 
Were  of  natures  unsevere ; 
Preying  not  on  one  another ; 
Nourished  by  the  general  mother 
AVho  gave  forests  thick  and  tall. 
Food  and  shelter  for  you  all. 

Elephant,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Like  the  tiger  fierce  and  keen. 
Like  the  lion  of  the  brake, 
Or  the  deadly  rattle-snake, 
Ravenous  as  thou  art  strong. 
Terror  would  to  thee  belong; 
And  be(i)re  thy  mates  and  thee. 
All  the  earth  would  desert  be ! 
But  instead,  thou  yield'st  thy  will, 
Tractable,  and  peaceful  still ; 
Full  of  good  intent,  and  mild 
As  a  humble  lillle  child; 
Serving  with  obedience  true, 
Aiding,  loving,  mourning  too ; 
For  each  noble  sentiment 
In  thy  good,  great  heart  is  blent! 


THE   WILD    SWAN, 

Fair  flows  the  river. 

Smoothly  gliding  on  ; 
Green  grow  the  bn'rushes 

Around  the  stately  swan. 


What  an  isle  of  beauty 

The  noble  bird  hath  formed. 

The  greenest  trees  and  stateliest 
Grow  all  the  isle  around. 

Low  bend  the  branches 

In  the  water  bright. 
Up  comes  the  swan  sailing, 

Plumy  all  and  white. 
Like  a  ship  at  anchor. 

Now  he  lies  at  rest. 
And  little  waves  seem  daintily 

To  play  at)out  his  breast. 

Wild  bird  of  beauty. 

Strong,  and  glad,  and  free! 
Dwellmg  on  these  waters, — 

IIow  pleasant  it  must  be! 
Like  a  gleam  of  sunshine 

In  shadow  passing  on, — 
Like  a  wreath  of  snow,  thou  art, 

Wild  and  graceful  swan! 

Thick  grow  (he  flowers 

'Neath  the  chestnut  shade  ; 
Green  grow  the  bulrushes 

Where  thy  nest  is  made : 
Lovely  ye,  and  loving,  too, 

The  mother  bird  and  thee, 
Watching  o'er  your  cygnet  brood, 

Beneath  the  river  tree. 

Kings  made  laws  a-many. 

Laws  both  stern  and  strong. 
In  the  days  of  olden  time, 

You  to  keep  from  wrong  ; 
And  o'er  their  palace-waters 

Ye  went,  a  gallant  show, 
And  Surrey  and  his  Geraldine, 

Beheld  ye  sailing  slow. 

Tell  me,  Swan,  I  pray  thee. 

Art  of  that  high  race. 
Or  a  sylvan  creature 

From  some  far,  lone  place  ? 
Saw  ye  in  woody  Alhelney, 

True  Alfred's  care  and  pain. 
Or,  riding  out  among  his  men. 

Good  King  Canute  the  Dane  >. 

No,  from  'mid  the  icebergs. 

Through  long  ages  piled, 
Sometime  ye  were  driven 

By  the  winter  wild  ; 
From  where  the  ermine  hunters. 

On  their  far  journeys  go ; 
From  whore  the  rein-deer  sledges  speed 

Over  the  wastes  of  snow  ; 

From  northern  wildernesses. 

Wild,  and  lone,  and  drear. 
Ice-lakes,  cold  and  gleaming. 

Ye  have  hastened  here. 
The  pleasant  streams  of  England 

Your  homeward  flight  have  stayed. 
And  here  among  the  bulrushes 

Your  English  nest  is  made. 
14-2 


^IRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


133 


THE    MILL-STREAM. 

Long  trails  of  cistus-flowers 

Creep  on  the  rocky  hill ; 
And  beds  of  strong  spear-mint 

Grow  round  about  the  mill  ; 
And  from  a  mountain  tarn  above, 

As  peaceful  as  a  dream, 
Like  to  child  unruly, 
Though  schooled  and  counselled  truly, 

Foams  down  the  wild  mill-stream! 
The  wild  mill-stream  it  dasheth, 

In  merriment  away. 
And  keeps  the  miller  and  his  son 

So  busy  all  the  day  ! 

Into  the  mad  mill-stream 

The  mountain-roses  fall ; 
And  fern  and  adder's  tongue 

Grow  on  the  old  mill-wall. 
The  tarn  is  on  the  upland  moor. 

Where  not  a  leaf  doth  grow  ; 
And  through  the  mountain-gashes. 
The  merry  mill-stream  dashes 

Down  to  the  sea  below : 
But,  in  the  quiet  hollows. 

The  red  trout  groweth  prime. 
For  the  miller  and  the  miller's  son 

To  angle  when  they  've  time. 

Then  fair  befall  the  stream 

That  turns  the  mountain-mill ; 
And  fair  befall  the  narrow  road 

That  w  indeth  up  the  hill ! 
And  good  luck  to  the  countryman, 

And  to  his  old  grey  mare. 
That  upward  toileth  steadily. 
With  meal-sacks  laden  heavily, 

In  storm  as  well  as  fair  I 
And  good  luck  to  the  miller, 

And  to  the  miller's  son  ; 

And  ever  may  the  mill-wheel  turn 

While  mountain-waters  run ! 


SUMMMER. 

They  may  boast  of  the  spring-time  when  flowers  are 

the  fairest. 

And  birds  sing  by  thousands  on  every  green  tree  ; 

They  may  call   it  the   loveliest,  the  greenest,  the 

rarest ; — 

But  the  summer  's  the  season  that 's  dearest  to  me  ! 

For  the   brightness  of  sunshine  ;   the  depth  of  the 
shadows  ; 
The  crystal  of  waters  ;  the  fulness  of  green, 
And   the   rich   flowery  growth   of  the   old   pasture 
meadows, 
In  the  glory  of  summer  can  only  be  seen. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  the  green-wood  !     I  love  to  be  in  it. 
And  list  to  the  hum  of  the  never-still  hees. 

And  to  hear  the  sweet  voice  of  the  old  mother  linnet, 
Calling  unto  her  young  'mongthe  leaves  of  the  trees  I 


To  see  the  red  squirrel  frisk  hither  and  thither, 
And  the  water-rat  plunging  about  in  his  mirth  ; 

And  the  thousand  small  lives  that  the  warm  summer 
wealher. 
Calls  forth  to  rejoice  on  the  bountiful  earth! 

Then  the  mountains,  how  fair !  to  the  blue  vault  of 
heaven 
Towering  up  in  the  sunshine,  and  drinking  the 
light, 
While  adown  their  deep  chasms,  all  splintered  and 
riven. 
Fall  the  far-gleaming  cataracts  silvery  white ! 

And  where  are  the  flowers  that  in  beauty  are  glow- 
ing 
In  the  garden  and  fields  of  the  young,  merry  spring. 
Like  the  mountain-side  wilds  of  the  yellow  broom 
blowing. 
And  the  old  forest  pride,  the  red  wastes  of  the  ling  ? 

Then  the  garden,  no  longer  'tis  leafless  and  chilly. 
But  warm  with  the  sunshine  and  bright  with  the 
sheen 

Of  rich  flowers,  the  moss  rose  and  the  bright  tiger-lily, 
Barbaric  in  pomp  as  an  Ethiop  Queen. 

Oh,  the  beautiful  flowers,  all  colours  combining. 
The  larkspur,  the  pink,  and  the  sweet  mignionette. 

And  the  blue  fleur-de-lis,  in  the  warm  sunlight  shin- 
ing, 
-As  if  grains  of  gold  in  its  petals  were  set ! 

Yes,  the  summer, — the  radiant  summer 's  the  fairest. 
For  green-woods  and  mountains,  for  meadows  and 
bowers. 

For  waters,  and  fruits,  and  for  flowers  the  rarest. 
And  for  bright  shining  butterflies,  lovely  as  flowers ! 


THE    FALCON. 

Hark!  hark!  the  merry  warden's  horn 
Far  o'er  the  wooded  hills  is  borne, 
Far  o'er  the  slopes  of  ripening  corn. 

On  the  free  breeze  away  ! 
The  bolts  are  drawn ;  the  bridge  is  o'or 
The  sullen  moat,  —  and  steeds  a  score 
Stand  saddled  at  the  cas'le-door. 

For  'tis  a  merry  day  ! 

With  braided  hair,  of  gold  or  jet. 
There  's  many  a  May  and  Margaret, 
Befo're  her  stately  mirror  set, 

VV'ith  waiting-woman  by; 
There  's  scarlet  cloak,  and  hat  and  hood ; 
And  riding-dress  of  camlet  good. 
Green  as  the  leaf  within  the  wood, 

To  shroud  those  ladies  high. 

.\nd  presently  they  are  arrayed, 

And  |)laits  are  smoothed  and  folds  are  laid, 

And  all  the  merry  gabble  stayed 

That  showered  down  like  rain ; 
143 


134 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  down  the  stately  stairs  they  go, 
Where  dainty  pages  stand  a-row, 
To  greet  them  with  obeisance  low, 
And  follow  in  the  train. 

And  then  into  the  castle-hall, 

Come  crowding  gallant  knights  and  tall. 

Equipped  as  for  a  festival, 

For  they  will  hawk  to-day. 
And  then  outbreaks  a  general  din 
From  those  without,  as  those  within 
Upon  the  terrace-steps  are  seen. 

In  such  a  bright  array! 

The  kennelled  hounds'  long  bark  is  heard  ; 
The  falconer  talking  to  his  bird; 
The  neighing  steeds ;  the  angry  word 

Of  grooms  impatient  there. 
But  soon  the  bustle  is  dismissed;  — 
The  falconer  sets  on  every  wrist 
A  hooded  hawk,  that 's  stroked  and  kissed 

By  knight  and  lady  fair. 

And  sitting  in  their  saddles  free. 
The  brave,  the  fair  of  high  degree, 
Forth  rides  that  gallant  company. 

Each  with  a  bird  on  hand  ; 
And  falconers  with  their  hawking-gear. 
And  other  birds  bring  up  the  rear; 
And  country-folk  from  far  and  near 

Fall  in  and  join  the  band. 

And  merrily  thus  in  shine  and  shade. 
Gay  glancing  through  the  forest  glade. 
On  rides  the  noble  cavalcade. 

To  moorlands  wild  and  grey ; 
And  then  the  noble  sport  is  high ! 
The  jess  is  loosed,  the  hood  thrown  by ; 
And  leurre  the  jolly  falconers  cry; 
And  wheeling  round  the  falcons  fly 

Impatient  for  their  prey. 

A  moment  and  the  quarry 's  ta'en ; 
The  falconers'  cry  sounds  forth  amain  ; 
The  true  hawk  soars  and  soars  again. 

Nor  once  the  game  is  missed ! 
And  thus  the  jocund  day  is  spent. 
In  jolly  sport  and  merriment : 
And  baron  bold  were  well  content. 
To  fell  his  wood,  and  pawn  his  rent 

For  the  hawk  upon  his  wrist! 

Oh  gay  goshawk  and  tercel  bold, 
Then  might  ye  rule  it  as  ye  "  wold  ;" 
Then  sate  ye  on  a  perch  of  gold. 

And  kings  were  your  compeers! 
But  that  was  in  the  days  gone  by ; 
The  days  of  Norman  chivalry. 
When  the  low  crouched  unto  the  high  ;  — 

The  times  of  other  years ! 

Oh  gay  goshawk,  j'our  days  were  when 
Came  down  at  night  the  ruffian  men. 
To  slay  the  sleeping  children  then 
Lying  in  London  Tower; 


Yours  were  the  days  of  civil  feud ; 
Of  Rufus  slain  within  the  wood  ; 
Of  servile  John  ;  of  Robin  Hood  ; 

Of  Woodstock's  bloody  bower! 

Oh,  gay  goshawk,  you  but  belong 
To  troubadour  and  minstrel  song ; 
To  shirt  of  mail  and  hauberk  strong 

To  moat  and  castle-wall ; 
To  serf  and  barr)n,  page  and  dame  ; 
To  abbot  sleek,  as  spaniel  tame  ; 
To  kings  who  could  not  sign  their  name; 

To  times  of  wrong  and  thrall ! 

Times  are  not  now  as  they  were  then ; 

Ours  is  a  race  of  different  men. 

Who  loathe  the  sword  and  love  the  pen ; 

For  right,  notjapine,  bold. 
No  more,  as  then,  the  ladies  bright 
Work  tapestry-work  from  morn  till  night ; 
The  very  children  read  and  write. 

Like  learned  clerks  of  old! 

Oh,  Falcon  proud,  and  goshawk  gay. 
Your  pride  of  place  has  passed  away ; 
The  lone  wood  is  your  home  by  day. 

Your  resting  perch  by  night ; 
The  craggy  rock  your  castle-tower ; 
The  gay  green-wood  your  ladies'  bower ; 
Your  own  wild  will,  the  master  power 

That  can  control  your  flight ! 

Yet,  noble  bird,  old  fame  is  thine  ; 
Still  livest  thou  in  the  minstrel's  line  ; 
Still  in  old  pictures  art  the  sign 

Of  high  and  pure  degree; 
And  still,  with  kindling  hearts  we  read 
How  barons  came  to  Runymede, 
Falcon  on  wrist,  to  do  the  deed, 

That  made  all  Ensrland  free ! 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  FLOWERS 

Put  up  thy  work,  dear  mother; 

Dear  mother  come  with  me, 
For  I  've  found  within  the  garden, 

The  beautiful  sweet-pea ' 

And  rows  of  stalely  hollyhocks 

Dow'n  by  the  garden-wall, 
All  yellow,  white,  and  crimson. 

So  many-hued  and  tall ! 

And  bending  on  their  stalks,  mother. 

Are  roses  white  and  red ; 
And  pale-stemmed  balsams  all  a-blow. 

On  every  garden-bed. 

Put  up  thy  work,  I  pray  thee. 

And  come  out,  mother  dear!      * 

We  used  to  buy  these  flowers. 
But  they  are  growing  here ! 
/     144 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS.  135 


Oh,  mother!  httle  Amy 

Would  have  loved  these  flowers  to  see 
Dost  remember  how  we  tried  to  get 

For  her  a  pink  sweet-pea  ? 

Dost  remember  how  she  loved 

Those  rose-leaves  pale  and  sere  ? 

I  wish  she  had  but  lived  to  see 
The  lovely  roses  here! 

Put  up  thy  work,  dear  mother. 
And  wipe  those  tears  away ! 

And  come  into  the  garden 
Before  'tis  set  of  day ! 


THE    FLAX-FLOWER. 

0  the  little  flax-flower, 

It  growelh  on  the  hill, 
And,  be  the  breeze  awake  or  sleep. 

It  never  standeth  still. 
It  groweth,  and  it  groweth  fast ; 

One  day  it  is  a  seed. 
And  then  a  little  grassy  blade. 

Scarce  better  than  a  weed. 
But  then  out  comes  the  flax-flower, 

As  blue  as  is  the  sky  ; 
And  "'tis  a  dainty  little  thing!" 

We  say,  as  we  go  by. 

Ah,  'tis  a  goodly  little  thing, 

It  groweth  for  the  poor, 
And  many  a  peasant  blesseth  it, 

Beside  his  cottage-door. 
He  thinketh  how  those  slender  stems 

That  shimmer  in  the  sun, 
Are  rich  for  him  in  web  and  woofi 

And  shortly  shall  be  spun. 
He  thinketh  how  those  tender  flowers, 

Of  seed  will  yield  him  store  ; 
And  sees  in  thought  his  next  year's  crop 

Blue  shining  round  his  door. 

Oh,  the  little  flax-flower! 

The  mother,  then  says  she, 
"Go  pull  the  thyme,  the  heath,  the  fern 

But  let  the  flax-flower  be  ! 
It  groweth  for  the  children's  sake. 

It  groweth  for  our  own ; 
There  are  flowers  enough  upon  the  hill. 

But  leave  the  flax  alone  ! 
The  farmer  hath  his  fields  of  wheat, 

Much  cometh  to  his  share ; 
We  have  this  little  plot  of  flax, 

That  we  have  tilled  with  care. 

"Our  squire  he  hath  the  holt  and  hill. 
Great  halls  and  noble  rent ; 

We  only  have  the  flax-field. 
Yet  therewith  are  content. 

We  watch  it  morn,  we  watch  it  night, 
And  when  the  stars  are  out, 
13  T 


The  good  man  and  the  little  ones. 

They  pace  it  round  about ; 
For  it  we  wish  the  sun  to  shine, 

For  it  the  rain  to  fall ; 
^Good  lack !  for  who  is  |x)or  doth  make 
Great  count  of  what  is  small !" 

Oh,  the  goodly  flax-flower  ! 

It  groweth  on  the  hill. 
And,  be  the  breeze  awake  or  sleep, 

It  never  standeth  still ! 
It  seemeth  all  astir  with  life. 

As  if  it  loved  to  thrive ; 
As  if  it  had  a  merry  heart 

Within  its  stem  alive  ! 
Then  fair  befall  the  flax-field, 

And  may  the  kindly  showers, 
Give  strength  unto  its  shining  stem. 

Give  seed  unto  its  flowers ! 

It  is  so  rare  a  thing  now-a-days  to  see  flax  grown 
in  any  quantity,  that  my  English  readers  will  not  feel 
the  full  force  of  the  above  little  poem.  The  English 
cottager  has  not  often  ground  which  he  can  use  for 
this  purpose ;  and,  besides,  he  can  purchase  calico 
for  the  wear  of  his  family  at  a  much  cheaper  cost 
than  he  could  grow  flax.  Nor  is  the  English  woman 
"handy"  at  such  matters.  She  would  think  it  a 
great  hardship  to  till,  perhaps,  the  very  ground  upon 
which  it  was  grown  ;  to  pull  it  with  the  help  of  her 
children  only,  and,  to  her  other  household  cares  and 
occupations,  to  add  those  of  preparing,  spinning,  and 
it  might  be,  to  help  even  to  weave  it  into  good  home- 
spun cloth.  Seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  however, 
this  was  not  uncommon  in  England  ;  and  it  is  still 
common,  and  in  some  districts  even  general  in  Scot- 
land. Burns  alludes  to  the  growth  of  flax  in  many 
of  his  poems ;  and  in  the  "  Cottar's  Saturday  If  ight,'' 
the  mother  reckons  the  age  of  the  cheese  from  the 
time  of  the  flax  flowering. 

The  household  interest  which  is  taken  in  the  flax- 
field  presented  itself  strongly  to  us  in  many  a  wild 
glen,  and  in  many  a  desolate  mountain-side  in  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland,  in  the  summer  of  1836.  You 
came,  in  the  midst  of  those  stony  and  heathy  wilder- 
nesses, upon  a  few  lurfercclions,  without  windows 
and  without  chimneys  ;  the  wild  grasses  of  the  moor 
and  the  heath  itself  grew  often  ujwn  the  roof  for  all 
had  originally  been  cut  from  the  mountain-side;  and, 
but  for  the  smoke  which  issued  from  the  door,  or  the 
children  that  played  about  it,  you  might  have  doubted 
of  its  being  a  human  dwelling.  Miserable,  however, 
as  such  homes  may  appear  at  first  sight,  they  are,  as 
it  were,  the  natural  growth  of  the  mountain-moor- 
land, and  the  eye  soon  finds  in  them  much  that  is 
picturesque  and  characteristic. 

About  such  places  as  these  are  frequently,  too, 
patches  of  cultivated  ground  ;  the  one  of  potatoes, 
and  perhaps  oats  or  barley,  the  other  of  flax.  Thus 
grovv',  at  the  very  door  of  this  humble  human  tene- 
ment, the  food  and  clothing  of  the  family.  How  es- 
sential this  growth  is  to  them,  may  be  seen  from  the 
nature  of  the  ground.  It  is  frequently  the  mostdi.li. 
cult  that  can  be  conceived  to  bring  into  cultivation 
113 


136 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


one  mass,  as  it  seems,  of  stones,  with  the  scantiest    The  owl  in  hollow  oak,  the  man  in  den, 
intermixture  of  soil.     These  stones,  many  of  which  I  Chamber,  or  oflice,  dusky  and  obscure, 
•  are  of  immense  size,  are  with  infinite  toil  and  pa-    Arc  creatures  very  heavy  and  demure; 
tience  gathered  from  the  earth,  and  piled  into  walls    But  soon  their  turn  comes  round,  and  then, 
round  the  little  fields,  otherwise  the  mountain  sheep,  i  Oh,  what  sharp  claws  and  pitiless  beak  have  they 
and  perhaps  the  wild  roes,  would  soon  lay  tlie  whole  ,  To  feather,  fleece,  and  worry  up  their  prey  I 


waste.  Here  the  mother,  as  well  as  the  father,  la- 
tours,  and  indeed  the  flax  seems  especially  to  belong 
to  her,  for  she  must  spin  it  before  she  can  convert  it 
into  family  use. 

In  the  same  way  is  the  household  provided  with 
woollen  garments ;  they  are  all  home-spun  and  home- 
made, even  to  many  a  goodly  tartan.  The  "  tarry 
woo"  of  Scotland,  like  the  "  lint  flower,"  is  a  national 
thing;  the  affections,  as  well  as  the  fire-side  interests 
of  that  country  are  connected  with  them. 


THE    HOUSE-SPARROW. 

In  birds,  as  men,  there  is  a  strange  variety, 
In  both  your  dandies  and  your  pel i!s  ma'ilres ; 
Your  clowns,  your  grooms,  in  feathered  legs  or  gaiters  ; 
Your  hawks,  and  gulls,  and  harpies  to  satiety. 
On  sea  or  land  it  matters  not  an  ace  — 
You  find  the  feathered  or  unfeathered  race 
Of  bipeds,  showing  every  form  and  figure, 
But  everywhere  the  sharp-clawed  and  the  bigger  — 
Falcons  that  shoot,  and  men  that  pull  the  trigger  — 
Still  pressing  on  the  lesser  and  forlorn  ! 
'T  is  hard  to  bear,  and  yet  it  must  be  borne, 
Although  we  walk  about  in  wrath  and  scorn, 
To  see  the  hectoring,  lording,  and  commotion 
For  ever  going  on  in  earth  or  ocean  ! 


"  A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind," 
So  sang  the  noble  bard,  who,  like  the  swallow, 
Flew  through  far  climes  and  soared  where  few  can 

follow. 
'T  is  true  ;  and  therefore  still  we  find 
That  gentle  spirits  love  the  robin, 
That  comes,  as  Wordsworth  says,  "  when  winds  are 

sobbing;" 
Pecks  at  your  window  ;  sits  upon  your  spade. 
And  often  thanks  you  in  a  serenade. 
But  what  is  ii  that  brings  about  you 
That  pert,  conceited  good-for-nothing  Sparrow, 
Which  seems  to  say — "  ]  'd  do  as  well  without  you," 
Yet,  never  for  a  second. 
Night  or  day 
Will  be  away. 

Though  hooted,  shot  at,  nor  once  coaxed  or  beckoned  ? 
In  town  or  country — ^in  the  densest  alley 
Of  monstrous  London  —  in  the  loneliest  valley  — 
On  palace-roof — on  cottage-thatch. 
On  church  or  chapel  —  farm  or  shop. 
The  Sparrow  's  still  "  the  bird  on  the  house-top." 
I  think  'twas  Solomon  who  said  so. 
And  in  the  Bible  having  read  so, 
You  find  that  this  ubiquity 
Extends  itself  far  up  into  antiquity. 
Yes,  through  all  countries  and  all  ages 
While  other  birds  have  sung  in  woods  or  cages, 
This  noisy,  impudent  and  shameless  varlet 


The  conquerors   fierce  ;    those   thievish  chaps,  the    Though  neither  noble,  rich,  nor  clad  in  scarlet, 


lawyers. 

That  chirp  and  gabble,  wheedle  and  bamboozle ; 
The  jackdaw-race  of  pleaders,  the  pert  cawyers 
In  their  grey  wigs,  the  sober  rooks  that  puzzle 
Land-sharks,  and  pirates  both  of  sea  and  land  ; 
Your  cormorants  acting  the  sedate  and  grand  : 
The  singers,  and  the  Paganinis, 
Who  filch  your  fruit,  and  pocket  up  your  guineas; 
The  tomtit,  mime;  —  the  wren,  small  poet; 
The  silly  creatures  that  by  scores 
Nurse  cuckoo-imps,  that  out  of  doors 
Have  turned  their  children,  and  they  never  know  it! 

I  walk  in  cities,  'mong  the  human  herds. 
And  then  I  think  of  birds: 
I  walk  in  woods  among  the  birds,  and  then 
I  think  of  men  ! 

'Tis  quite  impossible  in  one  or  other 
To  walk  and  see  not —  man  and  bird  are  brother. 
The  owl  can't  see  in  day-light;  — 
Oh  no  I  he's  blind  and  stupid  — 
A  very  iho], —  a  blockhcail  plain  to  see  ! 
But  just  step  out  and  look  at  him  at  night. 
When  all  the  world  is  slumbering,  save  he  — 
My  word !  you  'II  find  him  then  as  brisk  as  Cupid  ! 
With  open  eyes  and  beak  that  has  the  knack 
To  snap  up  mouse  or  rabbit  by  the  back  ? 


Would  have  the  highest  place  without  the  asking. 
Upon  your  roof  the  lazy  scamp  is  basking  — 
Chirping,  scuffling,  screaming,  fighting. 
Flying  and  fluttering  up  and  down 
From  peep  of  day  to  evening  brown. 
You  may  be  sleeping,  sick,  or  writing. 
And  needing  silence  —  there  's  the  Sparrow, 
Just  at  your  window  —  and  enough  to  harrow 
The  soul  of  Job  in  iis  severest  season. 
,There,  as  it  seemeth,  for  no  other  reason 
But  to  confijund  you  ;  —  he  has  got. 
Up  in  the  leailen  gutter  burning  hot, 
F/Very  low  scape-grace  of  the  Sparrow-clan, 
Loons  of  all  ages, — grandsire.  boy  and  man, 
Old  beldame  Sparrow,  wenches  hold. 
All  met  to  wrangle,  rafTle,  rant,  and  scold. 
Send  out  your  man  !  shoot !  blow  to  powder 
The  villanous  company,  that  fiercer,  louder 
Drive  you  distracted.     There  I  bang  !  goes  the  gun, 
And  all  the  little  lads  are  on  the  run 
To  see  the  slaughter  ; — not  a  bird  is  slain  — 
There  were  some  feathers  flew  —  a  leg  was  broke, 
But  all  went  off  as  if  it  were  a  joke  — 
In  come  your  man  —  and  there  they  are  again  ! 

Of  all  the  creatures,  that  were  ever  set 
Upon  two  legs,  there  's  nothing  to  be  met, 
146 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


137 


Save  some  congeners  in  our  own  sweet  race, 

Made  of  such  matter,  cnmnion,  cocket,  base, 

As  are  these  Sparrows!  Would  that  some  magician. 

Philosopher  or  chemist  wouM  but  show  us 

What  'tis  that  constilues  the  comiwsition 

Of  certain  men  in  town,  who  drive,  or  row  us, 

Cads,  jarvies,  porters  of  a  low  degree, 

Haunters,  of  theatres,  taverns,  and  coach-doors. 

Men  all  alert  in  dust  and  miser)'; 

Men  made  to  elbow,  bustle,  cheat  or  steal. 

Careless  of  scorn,  incapable  to  feel 

Indignity  or  shame  —  vulgar  and  vain. 

Hunger  and  cold  their  ordy  sense  of  pain. 

Just  of  this  class,  amongst  all  feathered  things. 
Is  this  Jack  Sparrow.     He  's  no  bird  that  sings. 
He  makes  no  grand  pretences  ;  has  no  fine 
Airs  of  high  breeding  —  he  but  wants  to  dine. 
His  dress  is  brown,  his  body  slifT  and  stout. 
Coarse  in  his  nature,  made  to  prog  about. 
What  are  his  delicate  fancies  ?  Who  e'er  sees 
The  Sparrow  in  his  sensibilities  ? 
There  are  the  nightingales,  all  soul  and  song. 
Moaning  and  warbling  the  green  boughs  among. 
There  are  the  larks  that  on  etherial  wing. 
Sing  to  high  Heaven  as  heavenly  spirits  sing  ; 
There  are  the  merle,  the  mavis,  birds  whose  lays 
Inspired  the  minstrel  songs  of  other  days; 
There  are  the  wandering  tribes,  the  cuckoo  sweet; 
Swallows  that  singing  on  your  chimneys  meet. 
Through  spring  and  summer,  and  anon  are  flown 
To  lands  and  climes,  to  sages  yet  unknown. 
Those  are  your  poels ; — birds  of  genius  —  those 
That  have  their  nerves  and  feel  refined  woes. 
But  these  Jack  Sparrows ;  why  they  love  fir  more 
Than  all  this  singing  nonsense,  your  barn-door! 
They  love  your  cherry-tree  —  your  rows  of  peas, 
Your  ripening  corn  crop,  and  to  live  at  ease  I 
You  find  no  Sparrow  in  the  far-ofT-woods  — 
No  —  he's  not  fond  of  hungry  solitudes. 
He  better  loves  the  meanest  hamlet  —  where 
Aught 's  to  be  had,  the  Sparrow  will  be  there, 
Sturdy  and  bold,  and  wrangling  for  his  share. 
The  tender  linnet  bathes  her  sides  and  wings 
In  running  brooks  and  purest  forest-springs. 
The  Sparrow  rolls  and  scuffles  in  the  dust  — 
That  is  his  washing  or  his  proper  rust. 

Before  your  carriage  as  you  drive  to  town 
To  his  base  meal  the  Sparrow  settles  down ; 
He  knows  the  safety-distance  to  an  inch. 
Up  to  that  point  he  will  not  move  or  flinch  ; — 
You  think  your  horse  v^  ill  crush  him — no  such  thing — 
That  coachman's  whip  might  clip  his  fluttering  wing. 
Or  take  his  head  off  in  a  twink  —  but  he 
Knows  better  still  and  liveth  blithe  and  free. 

-At  home  he  plagues  the  martins  with  his  noise  — 
They  build,  he  takes  possession  and  enjoys; 
Or  if  he  want  it  not,  he  takes  it  stdl. 
Just  because  teasing  others  is  his  will. 
From  hour  to  hour,  from  tedious  day  to  day 
He  81(8  to  drive  the  rightful  one  away. 


At  home,  abroad,  w  hercver  seen  or  heard. 
Still  is  ihe  Sparrow  just  the  se'ifsame  bird  ; 
Thievish  and  clamorou.s,  hardy,  bold,  and  base. 
Unlike  all  others  of  the  feathered  race. 
The  bully  of  his  tribe  —  to  all  beyond 
The  gipsey,  beggar,  knave,  and  vagabond! 

It  may  be  thought  that  I  have  here  dealt  hard 
measure  to  the  Sparrow,  but  the  character  I  have 
given  of  him  will  be  recognised  by  those  who  know 
him,  as  true.  Covvper  calls  them,  a  thievish  race, 
that  scared  as  often  as  you  please. 

As  oft  rotiirn,  a  pert,  vorac-iniia  kind; 

and  that  every  farmer  knows  Ihem  to  be.  What 
multitudes  do  you  see  dropping  down  upon,  or  rising 
from  the  wheat  as  it  is  ripening  in  the  fields.  For- 
merly a  price  was  set  upon  their  heads  and  eggs,  by 
country  parishes.  In  many  places  a  penny  was  given 
for  a  Sparrow's  head,  and  the  same  for  three  or  four 
eggs;  but  this  is  now  done  away  wiih,  and  the  farm- 
er must  destroy  them  himself,  or  pay  dearly  for  it  in 
his  corn. 

Nothing  can  excceil  the  self-complacence  of  this 
bird.  You  see  him  build  his  nest  amongst  the  rich- 
est tracery  of  a  church  roof  or  window ;  within  the 
very  coronet  or  escutcheon  set  up  over  the  gate  of 
hall  or  palace.  We  saw  this  summer,  the  hay  and 
litter  of  his  nest  hanging  out  from  tlie  richly-cut  ini- 
tial-letters of  William  and  Mary  over  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal windows  of  Hampton  Court.  INay  he  would 
build  in  a  span-new  V.  R.  set  up  only  yesterday,  or 
in  the  queen's  very  crown  itself  though  it  were 
worth  a  kingdom,  if  it  were  only  conveniently  placed 
for  his  purpose.     lie  thinks  nothing  too  good  lor  him. 

But  the  most  provokuig  part  of  his  character  is, 
the  pleasure  which  he  takes  in  teasing,  molesting  and 
hectoring  over  birds  of  the  most  qmel  and  inoffen- 
sive nature.  He  builds  about  your  houses,  and 
thinks  no  other  bird  has  any  business  lo  do  tlie  same. 
The  martin,  which  loves  to  build  under  the  eaves  of 
our  dwellings,  after  crossing  the  seas  from  some  far 
country,  —  h.as  especially  lo  bear  his  insolence  and 
aggressions.  There  is  a  pretty  story  in  the  "  Evenings 
at  Home,"  of  two  of  these  interesting  birds,  who  had 
their  nest  usurped  by  a  Sparrow,  getting  together 
their  fellows,  and  building  him  up  in  the  nest,  where 
he  was  left  a  prisoner  amid  his  plunder.  But  tlie 
gentleness  of  the  martin  is  so  great,  that  such  an  in- 
tance  of  poetical  justice  is  more  curious,  than  likely 
to  occur  a  second  time.  But  every  summer  the 
sparrow  lords  it  over  the  martin,  and  frequently 
drives  it  away  by  its  impertinence.  We  watched 
his  behaviour  this  year  with  a  gooti  deal  of  attention. 
Two  pairs  of  martins  came  and  budt  their  nests  be- 
neath the  eaves  of  Ihe  stable,  near  each  other. 
Scarcely  were  the  nests  half  finished,  when  several 
sparrows  were  seen  watching  on  the  tiles  close  to 
them,  chirping  loudly,  and  con(^eiledly,  and  every 
now  and  then  flyinc  at  the  martins.  The  nests, 
however,  were  completed  ;  but  no  .sooner  was  this 
I  this  done,  than  the  sparrov\s  took  possession  of  them, 

1-17 


138 


HO  WITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


and  lined  them  with  coarse  hay,  which  is  an  abomi- 
nation to  the  martin,  which  lines  its  nest  with  the 
softest  feathers.  Having  witnessed  this,  we  waited 
for  about  ten  days,  by  which  time  we  supposed  the 
sparrows  would  have  laid  their  full  number  of  eggs; 
and  a  ladder  was  set  up,  in  order  to  inflict  just  re- 
tribution on  them,  by  taking  the  whole.  But  to  our 
surprise  there  were  none.  The  hay  was  therefore 
carefully  removed,  that  the  martins,  if  they  pleased, 
might  retake  possession ;  but  the  very  next  day,  the 
nest-s  were  again  filled  wiih  hay,  and  long  bents  of 
it  hung  dangling  from  the  entrance-hole.  The  spar- 
rows had,  with  wonderful  assiduity,  and  as  it  were, 
with  a  feeling  of  vindictive  spite,  relined  the  nests 
with  as  much  hay  as  they  ordinarily  carry  to  their 
own  nests  in  several  days.  Now  it  was  supposed 
they  would  really  lay  in  these  nests,  but  no  such 
thing, — they  never  did.  Their  only  object  had  been 
to  dislodge  the  martins,  for  it  was  found  that  these 
very  sparrows  had  nests  of  their  own  in  the  water- 
spouts of  the  house,  with  young  ones  in  them,  at  the 
very  time,  and  their  purpose  of  ousting  the  martins 
from  their  own  nests  being  accomplished,  the  hay  re- 
mained in  the  nests  quietly  all  summer. 

But  this  was  not  all.  The  poor  martins,  driven 
from  the  stable,  came  rww  to  the  house;  and,  as  if 
for  special  protection,  began  to  build  their  nests 
under  the  roof,  nearly  over  the  front  door.  ]\o  sooner 
was  this  intention  discovered  by  the  sparrows,  than 
they  were  all  in  arms  again.  They  were  seen 
watching  for  hours  on  the  tiles  just  above,  chirping, 
strutting  to  and  fro,  (\y\ng  down  upon  the  martins 
when  they  came  to  their  nests  with  materials,  and 
loudly  calling  upon  their  fellow  sparrows  to  help 
them  to  be  as  offensive  as  possible.  The  martins, 
however,  rendered  now  more  determined,  persisted 
in  their  building,  and  so  fiir  succeeded  as  to  prevent 
the  sparrows  getting  more  than  a  few  bents  of  hay 
into  their  nests  when  complete.  The  martins  laid 
their  eggs;  but  for  several  times  successively,  the 
sparrows  entered  in  their  absence,  and  hoisted  out  all 
the  eggs,  which  of  course  fell  to  the  ground  and  j 
were  dashed  to  pieces.  Provoked  at  this  mischievous 
propensity  of  the  sparrows,  we  had  them  now  shot  i 
at,  which  had  the  desired  effect.  One  or  two  of  j 
them  were  killed,  and  tho  rest  took  the  hint,  and 
permitted  the  martins  to  hatch  and  rear  their  young 
in  peace. 


CHILDHOOD. 

Oh,  when  I  was  a  little  child. 

My  life  was  full  of  pleasure  ; 

I  had  four-and-twenty  living  things, 
And  many  another  treasure. 


But  chiefest  was  my  sister  dear, — 
Oh,  how  I  loved  my  sister  I 

I  never  played  at  all  with  joy. 
If  from  mv  side  I  missed  hor. 


I  can  remember  many  a  time. 

Up  in  the  morning  early, — 
Up  in  the  morn  by  break  of  day, 

When  summer  dews  hung  pearly; 

Out  in  the  fields  what  joy  it  was. 

While  the  cowslip  yet  was  bending, 

To  see  the  large  round  moon  grow  dim. 
And  the  early  lark  ascending! 

I  can  remember  too,  we  rose 

When  the  winter  stars  shone  brightly  ; 
'Twas  an  easy  thing  to  shake  off  sleep, 

From  spirits  strong  and  sprightly. 

How  beautiful  were  those  winter  skies, 
All  frosty-bright  and  unclouded. 

And  the  garden-trees,  like  cypresses, 

Looked  black,  in  the  darkness  shrouded  ! 

Then  the  deep,  deep  snows  were  beautiful. 
That  fell  through  the  long  night  stilly. 

When  behold,  at  morn,  like  a  silent  plain. 
Lay  the  country  wild  and  hilly! 

And  the  fir-trees  down  by  the  garden  side, 
In  their  blackness  towered  more  stately  ; 

And  the  lower  trees  were  feathered  with  snow 
That  were  bare  and  brown  so  lately. 

And  then,  when  the  rare  hoar-frost  would  come, 
'Twas  all  like  a  dream  of  wonder. 

Where  over  us  grew  the  crystal  trees. 
And  the  crystal  plants  grew  under! 

The  garden  all  was  enchanted  land  ; 

All  silent  and  without  motion. 
Like  a  sudden  growth  of  the  stalactite. 

Or  the  corallines  of  ocean  ! 

'Twas  all  like  a  fairy  forest  then. 

Where  the  diamond  trees  were  growing. 
And  within  each  branch  the  emerald  green 

And  the  ruby  red  were  glowing. 

I  remember  many  a  day  we  spent 

In  the  briglit  hay-harvest  meadow  ; 

The  glimmering  heat  of  the  noonday  ground. 
And  the  hazy  depth  of  shadow. 

I  can  remember,  as  to-day. 

The  corn-field  and  the  reaping. 

The  rustling  of  the  harvest-sheaves, 
.\nd  the  harvest-wain's  upheaping  : 

I  can  feel  this  hour  as  if  I  lay 

Adown  'neath  the  hazel  bushes, 

And  as  if  we  wove,  for  pastime  wild, 
Our  grenadier-caps  of  rushes. 

And  every  flower  within  thai  field 

To  my  memory's  eye  comes  flitting. 

The  chiccory-flovver,  like  a  blue  cockade. 
For  a  fairy-knight  befitting. 

The  willow-herb  by  the  water  side. 
With  its  fruit-like  scent  so  mellow  ; 

The  gentian  blue  on  the  marly  hill. 

And  the  snap-dragon  white  and  yellow. 
148 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


139 


I  know  where  the  hawthorn  groweth  red  ; 

Where  pink  grows  the  way-side  yarrow ; 
I  remember  the  wosles  of  woad  and  broom, 

And  the  shrubs  of  tlie  red  rest-harrow. 

I  know  where  the  blue  geranium  grows, 
And  the  stork's-bill  small  and  musky ; 

Where  the  rich  osmunda  groweth  brown. 
And  the  wormwood  white  and  dusky. 

There  was  a  forest  a-nigh  our  home, — 

A  forest  so  old  and  hoary,  — 
How  we  loved  in  its  ancient  glooms  to  be. 

And  remember  its  bygone  story! 

We  sate  in  the  .shade  of  its  mighty  trees. 
When  the  summer  noon  was  glowing. 

And  heard  in  the  depths  of  its  undergrowth 
The  pebbly  waters  flowing. 

We  quenched  our  thirst  at  the  forest-well ; 

We  ale  of  the  forest  berry ; 
And  the  time  we  spent  in  the  good  green-wood, 

Like  the  times  of  song,  were  merry. 

We  had  no  crosses  then,  no  cares  ; 

We  were  children  like  yourselves  then  ; 
And  we  danced  and  sang,  and  made  us  mirth, 

Like  the  dancing  moonlight  elves  then ! 


BIRDS. 

Oh,  the  sunny  summer  time! 

Oh,  the  leafy  summer  time ! 
Merry  is  the  bird's  life, 

When  the  year  is  in  its  prime  I 
Birds  are  by  the  water-falls 

Dashing  in  the  rain-bow  spray  ; 
Everywhere,  everywhere 

Light  and  lovely  there  are  they  ! 
Birds  are  in  the  forest  old, 

Building  in  each  hoary  tree; 
Birds  are  on  the  green  hills ; 

Birds  are  by  the  sea ! 

On  the  moor,  and  in  the  fen, 

'Mong  the  whortle-berries  green  ; 
In  the  yellow-furze-bush 

There  the  joyous  bird  is  seen ; 
In  the  heather  on  the  hill; 

All  among  the  mountain  thyme; 
By  the  little  brook-sides, 

Where  the  sparkling  waters  chime; 
In  the  crag;  and  on  the  peak. 

Splintered,  savage,  wild,  and  bare. 
There  the  bird  with  wild  wing 

Wheeleth  through  the  air. 

Wheeleth  through  the  breezy  air, 
Singing,  screaming  in  his  flight. 

Calling  to  his  bird-mate. 

In  a  troubleless  delight  I 

In  the  green  and  leafy  wood. 

Where  the  branching  ferns  up-curl, 
13* 


Soon  as  is  the  dawning. 

Wakes  the  mavis  and  the  merle; 
Wakes  the  cuckoo  on  the  bough ; 

Wakes  the  jay  with  ruddy  breast ; 
Wakes  the  mother  ring-dove 

Brooding  on  her  nest! 

Oh,  the  sunny  summer  time! 

Oh,  the  leafy  summer  time ! 
Merry  is  the  bird's  life 

When  the  year  is  in  its  prime  ! 
Some  are  strong  and  some  are  weak ; 

Some  love  day  and  some  love  night : 
But  whate'er  a  bird  is, 

Whate'er  loves  —  it  has  delight. 
In  the  joyous  song  it  sings ; 

In  the  liquid  air  it  cleaves; 
In  the  sunshine  ;  in  the  shower, 

In  the  nest  it  weaves ! 

Do  we  wake ;  or  do  we  sleep ; 

Go  our  fancies  in  a  crowd 
After  many  a  dull  care, — 

Birds  are  singing  loud  ! 
Sing  then  linnet ;  sing  then  wren ; 

Merle  and  mavis  sing  your  fill ; 
And  thou,  rapturous  skylark. 

Sing  and  soar  up  from  the  hill ! 
Sing,  oh,  nightingale,  and  pour 

Out  for  us  sweet  fancies  new !  — 
Singing  thus  for  us,  birds, 

We  will  sing  of  you ! 


THE   WOODPECKER. 

The  woodpecker  green  he  has  not  his  abiding 
Where  the  owls  and  the  bats  from  the  daylight  are 

hiding; 
Where  the  bright  mountain-streams  glide  on  rock- 
beds  away. 
The  dark  water-ousel  may  warble  and  play; 
In  the  sedge  of  the  river  the  reed-sparrow  build  ; 
And  the  peewit  among  the  brown  clods  of  the  field  ; 
The  sea-gull  may  scream  on  the  breast  of  the  tide  ; 
On  the  foam-crested  billows  the'pelerel  may  ride; 
But  the  woodpecker  askelh  nor  river  nor  sea  ; 
Give  him  but  the  old  forest,  and  old  forest-tree. 
And  he'll  leave  to  the  proud  lonely  eagle  the  height 
Of  the  misi-shrouded  precipice  splintered  and  while; 
And  he  '11  leave  to  the  gorcock  the  heather  and  fern. 
And  the  lake  of  the  valley  to  woodcock  and  hern  ; 
To  the  sky-lark  he  '11  leave  the  wild  Helds  of  the  air, 
The  sunshine  and  rainbow  ne'er  tempted  him  there. 
The  greenwood  for  him  is  the  place  of  his  rest. 
And  the  broad-branching  tree  is  the  home  he  loves 

best. 
Let  us  go  to  the  haunt  of  the  woodpecker  green, 
In  those  depths  of  the  wood  there  is  much  to  be  seen. 

There   the  wild-rose  and  woodbine  weave  fairy- 
land bowers, 
.■\nd  the   moth-mullein  grows  with  its  pale  yellow- 
flowers  ; 

149 


140 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  the  hum  of  the  bees  through  the  noonday  is 

heard, 
And  the  chirp,  and  the  cry,  and  the  song  of  the  bird  ; 
There  up  the  tree-trunk,  hke  a  fly  on  the  wall, 
To  pick  the  grey  moss,  runs  the  tree-creeper  small ; 
There  the  wren  golden-crested,  so  lovely  to  see, 
Hangs  its  delicate  nest  from  the  twigs  of  the  tree; 
And  there  coos  the  nng-dove — oh,  who  would  not  go. 
That  voice  of  the  wood  to  hear,  dreamy  and  low ! 
Yes,  come  to  the  wood — to  the  woodpecker's  tree. 
There  is  joy  'niong  the  green  leaves  (or  thee  and  for 

me  I 

Hark !  heard  ye  that  laughter  so  loud  and  so  long? — 
Again  now  I  —  it  drowneth  the  wood-linnet's  song  ! 
'Tis  the  woodpecker  laughing  I  —  the  comical  elf! 
His  soul  must  be  merry  to  laugh  to  himself!  — 
And  now  we  are  nearer — s[>eak  low — he  not  heard  ! 
Though  he  's  merry  at  heart,  he  "s  a  shy,  timid  bird. 
Hark  !  —  now  he  is  tapping  the  old,  hollow  tree  :  — 
One  step  farther  on — now  look  upward — that 's  he  ! 
Oh,  the  exquisite  bird !  —  with  his  downward-hung 

head, 
With  his  richly-dyed  greens — his  pale  yellow  and  red  ! 
On  the  gnarled  tree-trunk  with  its  sober-toned  grey, 
What  a  beautiful  mingling  of  colours  are  they  ! 
Ah,  the  words  you  have  spoken  have  frightened  the 

bird  — 
For  by  him  the  lowest  of  whispers  was  heard  ; 
Or  a  footfall  as  light  as  the  breezes,  that  pass 
Scarcely  bending  the  flowers,  he  perceives  on  the 


The  squirrel  above  him  might  chatter  and  chide; 
And  the  purple-winged  jay  scream  on  every  side; 
The  great  winds  might  blow,  and  the  thnnder  might 

roll. 
Yet  the  fearless  woodpecker  still,cling  to  the  bole; 
But  soon  as  a  footstep  that 's  human  is  heard, 
A  quick  terror  springs  to  the  heart  of  the  bird  ! 
For  man,  the  oppressor  and  tyrant,  has  made 
The  free  harmless  dwellers  of  nature  afraid  ! 

'Neath  the  fork  of  the  branch,  in  the  tree's  hollow 
bole. 
Has  the  timid  woodpecker  crept  into  his  hole; 
For  there  is  his  home  in  deep  privacy  hid, 
Like  a  chamber  scooped  mto  a  far  pyramid  ; 
And  there  is  his  mate,  as  secure  as  can  be, 
Aud  his  little  young  woodpeckers  deep  in  the  tree. 
And  not  till  he  thinks  there  is  no  one  about, 
Will  he  come  to  his  portal  and  slyly  peep  out ; 
And  then,  when  we're  up  at  the  end  of  the  lane, 
^\■c  shall  hear  the  old  woodpecker  laughing  again. 


T[IE   HAREBELL. 

(CAMPANULA  ROTUNDIFOLIA.) 

It  springeth  on  the  heath, 
The  fbrest-lree  beneath. 
Like  to  some  eWln  dweller  of  the  wild; 


Light  as  a  breeze  astir, 
Stemmed  with  the  gossamer; 
Soft  as  the  blue  eyes  of  a  poet's  child. 

The  very  flower  to  take 

Into  the  heart,  and  make 
The  cherished  memory  of  all  pleasant  places ; 

IVame  but  the  light  harebell, 

And  straight  is  pictured  well 
Where'er  of  fallen  state  lie  lonely  traces. 

We  vision  wild  sea-rocks, 

Where  hang  its  clustering  locks. 
Waving  at  dizzy  height  o'er  ocean's  brink; 

The  hermit's  scooped  cell ; 

The  forest's  sylvan  well. 
Where  the  poor  wounded  hart  came  down  to  drink. 

We  vision  moors  far-spread,' 

Where  blooms  the  heather  red. 
And  hunters  with  their  dogs  lie  down  at  noon  ; 

Lone  shepherd-boys,  who  keep 

On  mountain-sides  their  sheep. 
Cheating  the  time  with  flowers  and  fancies  boon. 

Old  slopes  of  p.asture-ground  ; 

Old  fosse,  and  moat,  and  mound. 
Where  the  mailed  warrior  and  crusader  came  : 

Old  walls  of  crumbling  stone. 

Where  trails  the  snap-dragon  ; 
Rise  at  the  speaking  of  the  Harebell's  name. 

We  see  the  sere  turf  brown, 

And  the  dry  yarrow's  crown 
Scarce  raising  from  the  stem  its  thick-set  flowers  ; 

The  pale  havikweed  we  see. 

The  blue-flowered  chiccory, 
And  the  strong  ivy-growth  o'er  crumbling  towers. 

Light  Harebell,  there  thou  art, 

Makmg  a  lovely  part 
Of  the  old  splendour  of  the  days  gone  by. 

Waving,  if  but  a  breeze 

Pant  through  the  chestnut  trees, 
That  on  the  hill-top  grow  broad-branched  and  high. 

Oh,  when  I  look  on  thee. 

In  thy  fair  symmetry. 
And  look  on  other  flowers  as  fair  beside, 

My  sense  is  gratitude. 

That  (lod  has  been  thus  good, 
To  scatter  flowers,  like  common  blessings,  wide. 


THE    SCREECH    OWL. 

Pray  thee.  Owl,  what  art  thou  doing. 
With  that  dolefulest  tu-vvhoo-ing? 
Dark  the  night  is,  dark  and  dreary. 
Never  a  little  star  shines  cheery ; 
Wild  north  winds  come  up  the  hollow. 
And  the  pelting  rain  doth  fcjlUnv  ; 
And  the  trees  the  tempest  braving. 
To  and  fro  are  wildly  waving ! 
150 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS,  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 


141 


Every  Jiving  thing  is  creeping 
To  its  den,  and  silence  iieeping, 
Saving  thou,  the  night  hallooing 
With  thy  dismalest  tu-whoo-ing! 

IVought  I  see,  so  black  the  night  is, 
Black  the  storm,  too,  in  its  might  is; 
But  I  know  there  lies  the  forest. 
Peril  ever  there  the  sorest. 
Where  the  wild  deer-stealers  wander; 
And  the  ruin  lieth  yonder, 
Splintered  tower  and  crumbling  column, 
All  among  the  yew-trees  solemn. 
Where  the  toad  and  lizard  clamber 
Into  many  an  ancient  chamber. 
And  below,  the  black  rocks  under. 
Like  the  muttering  coming  thunder 
Lowly  muttering,  rolling  ever, 
Passes  on  the  f<)rdless  river :  — 
Yet  I  see  the  black  night  only 
Covering  all.  so  deep  and  lonely! 

Pr'ythee,  Owl,  what  is 't  thou  'rt  saying 
So  terrific  and  dismaying? 
Dost  thou  speak  of  loss  and  ruin, 
In  that  ominous  tu-whoo-ing  ? 
While  the  tempest  yet  was  stiller. 
Homeward  rode  the  kindly  miller, 
With  his  drenched  meal-sacks  o'er  him. 
And  his  little  son  before  him ; 
Dripping  wet,  yet  loud  in  laughter. 
Rode  the  jolly  hunters  after; 
And  sore  wet,  and  blown  and  wildern. 
Went  a  huddling  group  of  children  ; 
But  each,  through  the  tempest's  pother. 
Got  home  safely  to  its  mother; 
And  ere  afternoon  was  far  on. 
Up  the  mountain  spurred  the  Baron. 
How  can  evil  then  betide  'em  I 
In  their  houses  warm  they  hide  'em. 
In  his  chimney-corner  smoking. 
Sits  the  miller,  spite  thy  croaking; 
And  the  children,  snug  and  cozy. 
In  their  beds  sleep  warm  and  rosy; 
And  the  Baron  with  his  lady. 
Plays  at  chess  sedate  and  steady. 

Hoot  away,  then,  an'  it  cheer  thee. 
Only  I  and  darkness  hear  thee. 
Trusting  Heaven,  we  '11  fear  no  ruin. 
Spite  thy  ominous  tu-whoo-ing! 


FLOWER-PAINTINGS. 

I  LOVE  those  pictures  that  we  see 

At  times  in  some  old  gallery. 

Hung  amid  armed  men  of  old. 

And  antique  ladies,  quaint  and  cold  ; 

'Mong  furious  battle-pieces,  dire 

With  agony,  and  blood,  and  fire;  — 

Flower-pictures,  painted  long  ago. 

Though  w^orn,  and  old,  and  dimmed  of  glow, 

I  love  them,  although  art  may  deem 

Such  pictures  of  but  light  esteem. 


There  are  the  red  rose  and  the  white  ; 
And  stems  of  lilies,  strong  and  bright; 
The  leaf  and  tendril  of  the  vine; 
The  iris  and  the  columbine ; 
The  streaky  tiili|),  gold  and  jet ; 
The  amaranth  and  violet; 
There  is  the  bright  jonquil ;  the  trail 
Of  bind-weed,  chalice-like  and  pale; 
The  crumpled  poppy,  brave  and  bold  ; 
The  pea  ;  the  pink  ;  the  marigold. 

There  arc  they  grouped,  in  form  and  hue, 

Flower,  bud,  and  leaf  to  nature  true  ! 

Yes,  although  slighted  and  forlorn. 

And  oft  the  mark  of  modern  scorn, 

I  love  such  pictures,  and  mine  eye 

With  cold  regard  ne'er  passed  them  by. 

I  love  them  most,  that  thej  present 

Ever  some  goodly  sentiment; 

The  virgin-mother,  young  and  mild; 

The  cradle  of  the  holy  child; 

Or,  'mid  a  visioned  glory  faint, 

The  meek  brow  of  some  martyred  saint ; 

And  with  their  painters  I  can  find 

A  kindred  sympathy  of  mind. 

Flowers  are  around  me  bright  of  hue. 
The  quaint,  old  favourites  ;ind  the  new, 
In  form  and  colour  infinite. 
Each  one  a  creature  of  delight. 
But  with  this  fair  array  is  brought 
Full  many  a  deep  and  holy  thought. 
And  for  me  garden-beds  and  bowers. 
Like  the  old  pictures  of  the  flowers. 
Within  their  bloomy  depths  enshrine 
Ever  some  sentiment  divine ! 


L'ENVOI. 

Go,  little  book,  and  to  the  young  and  kind, 
Speak  thou  of  pleasant  hours  and  lovely  things  ; 
Of  fields  and  woods;  of  sunshine;  dew  and  wind; 
Of  mountains;  valleys,  and  of  river-springs; 
Speak  thou  of  every  little  bird  that  sings ; 
Of  every  bright,  sweet-scented  flower  that  blows  ; 
But  chiefest  speak  of  Him  whose  mercy  flings 
Beauty  and  love  abroad,  and  who  bestows 
Light  to  the  sun  alike,  with  odour  to  the  rose. 

My  little  book  that  hast  been  unto  nie. 
Even  as  a  flower  reared  in  a  pleasant  place. 
This  is  the  task  that  I  impose  on  thee  ;  — 
Go  forth ;  with  serious  style  or  playful  grace. 
Winning  young,  gentle  heart.s  ;  and  bid  them  trace 
With  thee,  the  Spirit  of  Love  through  earth  and 

air  ; 
On  beast  and'bird,  and  on  our  mortal  race. 
So,  do  thy  gracious  work  ;  and  onward  fare. 
Leaving,  like  angel-guest,  a  blessing  everywhere  ! 
151 


142 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sifertcncfis  oC  JLatuval  J^is^totrg* 


ANNA  MARY  AND  ALFRED  WILLIAM 

HOW  ITT, 

THESE     SKETCHES, 

ORIGINALLY  WRITTEN  FOR  THEIR  AMUSEMENT, 
ARE  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


These  simple  and  unpretending  Sketches  require 
no  introduction;  and  yet,  when  title-page,  contents, 
and  dedication  have  been  made  out,  an  introduction 
so  naturally  follows,  that  it  might  be  supposed  a  book 
could  not  be  put  together  without  one, — though  the 
writer,  as  in  my  case,  has  little  to  say  either  of  her- 
self or  her  volume. 

All,  therefore,  that  I  shall  now  remark  is,  that 
these  Sketches  were  written  for  my  own  Children; 
and  many  of  them  at  their  suggestion ;  and  that  in 
seeing  the  pleasure  they  have  derived  from  them,  I 
have  hoped  their  young  contemporaries  may  fmd 
them  equally  agreeable.  A  few  of  them  have  al- 
ready appeared  in  some  of  the  Juvenile  Annuals,  and 
may  therefore  be  familiar  to  many  of  my  young 
readers;  but  I  trust  they  will  pardon  a  reprint  of 
what  is  already  known,  in  the  prospect  of  finding 
more  that  is  new. 

Nottingham,  May  1834. 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


THE   COOT. 


Oh  Coot!  oh  bold,  adventurous  Coot, 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
The  perils  of  that  stormy  time 

That  bore  thee  to  the  sea! 

I  saw  thee  on  the  river  fair. 

Within  thy  sedgy  screen  ; 
Around  thee  grew  the  bulrush  tall. 

And  reeds  so  strong  and  green. 

The  kingfisher  came  back  again 

To  view  thy  fairy  place  ; 
The  stately  swan  sailed  statelier  by. 

As  if  thy  home  to  grace. 

But  soon  the  mountain-flood  came  down, 
And  bowed  the  bulrush  strong ; 

And  far  above  those  tall  green  reeds, 
The  waters  poured  along. 

"And  where  is  she,  the  Water-Coot," 
I  cried,  "  that  creature  good  ?" 

But  then  I  saw  thee  in  thine  ark. 
Regardless  of  the  flood. 


Amid  the  foaming  waves  thou  sat'st, 

And  steer'dst  thy  little  boat ; 
Thy  nest  of  rush  and  water-reed 

So  bravely  set  afloat. 

And  on  it  went,  and  safely  on 

That  wild  and  stormy  tide; 
And  there  thou  sat'st,  a  mother-bird. 

Thy  young  ones  at  thy  side. 

Oh  Coot!  oh  bold,  adventurous  Coot, 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me. 
The  perils  of  that  stormy  voyage 

That  bore  thee  to  the  sea  I 

Hadst  thou  no  fear,  as  night  came  down 

Upon  thy  watery  way. 
Of  enemies,  and  dangers  dire 

That  round  about  thee  lay? 

Didst  thou  not  see  the  falcon  grim 
Swoop  down  as  thou  passed  by  ? 

And  'mong  the  waving  water  flags 
The  lurking  otter  he  ? 

The  eagle's  scream  came  wildly  near. 

Yet,  caused  it  no  alarm? 
Nor  man,  who  seeing  thee,  weak  thing. 

Did  strive  to  do  thee  harm? 

And  down  the  foaming  waterfall, 

As  thou  wast  borne  along, 
Iladst  thou  no  dread  ?    Oh  daring  bird. 

Thou  hadst  a  spirit  strong! 

Yes,  thou  hadst  fear.    But  He  who  sees 
The  sparrows  when  they  fall ; 

He  saw  thee,  bird,  and  gave  thee  strengtli 
To  brave  thy  perils  all. 

He  kept  thy  little  ark  afloat ; 

He  watched  o'er  thine  and  thee  ; 
And  safely  through  the  foaming  flood 

Hath  brought  thee  to  the  sea." 


THE   CAMEL. 

C.M\iEL,  thou  art  good  and  mild, 
Might'st  be  guided  by  a  child  ; 
Thou  wast  made  for  usefulness, 
Man  to  comfort  and  to  bless. 
Thou  dost  clothe  him  ;  thou  dost  feed ; 
Thou  dost  lend  to  him  thy  speed. 
And  through  wilds  of  trackless  sand. 
In  the  hot  Arabian  land. 
Where  no  rock  its  shadow  throws; 
Where  no  pleasant  water  flows ; 
Where  the  hot  air  is  not  stirred. 
By  the  wing  of  singing  bird, 

152 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


143 


There  thou  go'st  unlired  and  meek, 
Day  by  day,  and  week  by  week, 
Bearing  freight  of  precious  things, 
Silks  for  merchants,  gold  for  kings; 
Pearls  of  Oriiiiiz,  riches  rare. 
Damascene  and  Indian  ware; 
Bale  on  bale,  and  heap  on  heap. 
Freighted  like  a  costly  ship! 

When  the  red  Simoom  conies  near, 
Camel,  dost  thou  know  no  fear  ? 
When  the  desert  sands  uprise 
Flaming  crimson  to  the  skies, 
And  like  pillared  giants  strong. 
Stalk  the  dreary  waste  along. 
Bringing  death  unto  his  prey, 
Does  not  thy  good  heart  give  way  ? 
Camel,  no!  thou  do'st  for  man 
All  thy  generous  nature  ran  ! 
Thou  do'st  lend  to  him  thy  speed 
In  that  awful  time  of  need  ; 
And  when  the  Simoom  goes  by, 
Teachest  him  to  close  his  eye. 
And  bow  down  before  the  blast 
Till  the  purple  death  has  passed ! 

And  when  week  by  week  is  gone. 
And  the  traveller  journeys  on 
Feebly  ;  when  his  strength  is  fled. 
And  his  hope  and  heart  seem  dead. 
Camel,  thou  dost  turn  thine  eye 
On  him  kindly,  soothingly, 
As  if  thou  would'st  cheering,  say, 
"Journey  on  for  this  one  day  ! 
"  Do  not  let  thy  heart  despond  ; 
"  There  is  water  yet  beyond  ! 
"  I  can  scent  it  in  the  air ;  — 
"  Do  not  let  thy  heart  despair!" 
And  thou  guid'st  the  traveller  there. 

Camel,  thou  art  good  and  mild, 
Might'st  be  guided  by  a  child  ; 
Thou  wast  made  for  usefulness, 
Man  to  comfort  and  to  bless ; 
And  these  desert  wastes  must  be 
Untracked  regions  but  for  thee ! 


CEDAR    TREES, 

The  power  that  formed  the  violet. 

The  all-creating  One ; 
He  made  the  stately  Cedar  trees 

That  crowned  Mount  Lebanon. 

And  all  within  the  garden 
That  angels  came  to  see, — 

He  set  in  groves  and  on  the  hills 
The  goodly  Cedar  tree. 

There  played  the  gladsome  creatures. 

Beneath  its  shadow  dim  ; 
And  from  its  spreadins,  leafy  boughs 

Went  up  the  wild  bird's  hvmn. 
U 


And  Eve  in  her  young  innocence 

Delayed  her  footsteps  there  ; 
And  Adam's  heart  grew  warm  with  praise 

To  see  a  tree  so  fair. 

And  though  the  world  was  darkened 

With  the  shade  of  human  ill. 
And  man  was  cast  from  Paradise, 

Yet  wast  thou  goodly  still. 

And  when  an  ancient  poet 
Some  lofty  theme  would  sing. 

He  made  the  Cedar  symbol  forth 
Each  great  and  gracious  thing. 

And  royal  was  the  Cedar 

Above  all  other  trees! 
They  chose  of  old  its  scented  wood 

For  kingly  palaces. 

And  in  the  halls  of  princes. 

And  on  the  Phoenix-pyre, 
'T  was  only  noble  cedar-wood 

Could  feed  the  odorous  fire. 

In  the  temple  of  Jerusalem, 

That  glorious  temple  old. 
They  only  found  the  cedar-wood 

To  match  with  carved  gold. 

Thou  great  and  noble  Solomon, 
What  king  was  e'er  like  thee  ? 

Thou  'mong  the  princes  of  the  earth 
Wast  like  a  Cedar  tree ! 

But  the  glory  of  the  Cedar  tree 

Is  as  an  old  renov\'n. 
And  few  and  dwindled  grow  they  now 

Upon  Mount  Lebanon. 

But  dear  they  are  to  poet's  heart; 

And  dear  to  painter's  eye  ; 
And  the  beauty  of  the  Cedar  tree 

On  earth  will  never  die! 


THE    MONKEY. 

Monkey,  little  merry  fellow, 
Thou  art  nature's  punchinello! 
Full  of  fun  as  Puck  could  be  ; 
Harlequin  might  learn  of  thee! 

Look  now  at  his  odd  grimaces! 
Saw  you  e'er  such  comic  faces  ? 
Now  like  learned  judge  sedate  ; 
Now  with  nonsense  in  his  pate! 

Nature,  in  a  sunny  wood. 
Must  have  been  in  merry  mood. 
And  with  laughter  fit  to  burst. 
Monkey,  when  she  made  thee  first. 

How  you  leaped  and  frisked  about. 
When  your  life  you  first  found  out  ; 
How  yoft  threw,  in  roguish  mirth. 
Cocoa-nuts  on  mother  earth  ; 

153 


144 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  you  sate  and  made  a  din 
Louder  than  had  ever  been, 
Till  the  Parrots,  all  a-riot, 
Chattered  too  to  keep  you  quiet; 

Little,  merry  Monkey,  tell 
Was  there  kept  no  chronicle  ? 
And  have  you  no  legends  old. 
Wherein  this,  and  more  is  told  ? 

IIovv  the  world's  first  children  ran 
Laughing  from  the  monkey-man, 
Little  Abel  and  his  brother. 
Laughing,  shouting  to  their  mother? 

And  could  you  keep  down  your  mirth, 
When  the  floods  were  on  the  earth ; 
When  from  all  your  drowning  kin. 
Good  old  Noah  took  you  in  ? 

In  the  very  ark,  no  doubt. 
You  went  frolicking  about; 
Never  keeping  in  your  mind. 
Drowned  monkeys  left  behind '. 

No,  we  cannot  hear  of  this; 
Gone  are  all  the  witnesses ; 
But  I  'm  very  sure  that  you 
Made  both  mirth  and  mischief  too ! 

Have  ye  no  traditions, — none 
Of  the  court  of  Solomon  ? 
No  memorial  how  ye  went 
With  prince  Hiram's  armament  ? 

Were  ye  given,  or  were  ye  sold 
With  the  peacocks  and  the  gold  ; 
Is  it  all  forgotten  quite, 
'Cause  ye  neither  read  nor  write  ? 

Look  now  at  him  I  Slyly  peep. 
He  pretends  he  is  asleep; 
Fast  asleep  upon  his  bed. 
With  his  arm  beneath  his  head. 

Now  that  posture  is  not  right, 
And  he  is  not  settled  quite  — 
There  I  that 's  better  than  before. 
And  the  knave  pretends  to  snore! 

Ha!  he  is  not  half  asleep! 
See,  he  slyly  takes  a  peep! 
Monkey,  though  your  eyes  were  shut. 
You  could  see  this  little  nut. 

You  shall  have  it,  pigmy  brother! 
What,  another?  and  another? 
Nay,  your  cheeks  are  like  a  sack, — 
Sit  down,  and  begin  to  crack. 

There,  the  little  ancient  man 
Cracks  as  fist  as  crack  he  can! 
Now,  good  bye,  you  merry  fellow, 
Nature's  primest  punchincllo !  • 


THE  FOSSIL  ELEPHANT. 

The  earth  is  old  !  Six  thousand  years 

Are  gone  since  I  had  birth; 
In  the  forests  of  the  olden  time, 

And  the  solitudes  of  earth. 

We  were  a  race  of  mighty  things ; 

The  world  was  all  our  own. 
I  dwelt  with  the  Mammoth  large  and  strong. 

And  the  giant  Mastodon. 

No  ship  went  over  the  waters  then, 

No  ship  with  oar  or  sail ; 
But  the  wastes  of  the  sea  were  habited 

By  the  Dragon  and  the  Whale. 

And  the  Hydra  down  in  the  ocean  caves 

Abode,  a  creature  grim ; 
And  the  scaled  Serpents  huge  and  strong 

Coiled  up  in  the  waters  dim. 

The  wastes  of  the  world  were  all  our  own ; 

A  proud,  imperial  lot! 
Man  had  not  then  dominion  given, 

Or  else  we  knew  it  not. 

There  was  no  city  on  the  plain ; 

No  fortress  on  the  hill ; 
No  mighty  men  of  strength,  who  came. 

With  armies  up,  to  kill. 

There  was  no  iron  then  —  no  brass  — 

No  silver  and  no  gold; 
The  wealth  of  the  world  was  in  its  woods. 

And  its  granite  mountains  old. 

And  we  were  the  kings  of  all  the  world ; 
•    We  knew  its  breadth  and  length; 
We  dwelt  in  the  glory  of  solitude. 
And  the  majesty  of  strength. 

But  suddenly  came  an  awful  change! 

Wherefore,  ask  not  of  me  ; 
That  it  was,  my  desolate  being  shows, — 

Let  that  suffice  for  thee. 

The  Mammoth  huge  and  the  Mastodon 
Were  buried  beneath  the  earth; 

And  the  Hydra  and  the  Serpents  strong. 
In  the  caves  where  they  had  birth! 

There  is  now  no  place  of  silence  deep. 

Whether  on  land  or  sea ; 
And  the  Dragons  lie  in  the  mountain-rock. 

As  if  for  eternity  ! 

And  far  iii  the  realms  of  thawless  ice, 

Beyond  each  island  shore. 
My  brethren  lie  in  the  darkness  stern, 

To  awake  to  life  no  more! 

And  not  till  the  last  conflicting  crash 
When  tlie  world  consmnes  in  fire. 

Will  their  frozen  sepulchres  be  loosed. 
And  their  dreadful  doom  expire! 
154 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


145 


THE    LOCUST. 

The  Lonist  is  fierce,  and  strons;,  and  grim, 
And  an  armed  man  is  al'raid  of  liim: 
He  comes  like  a  winged  shape  oCdrcad, 
With  his  shielded  back  and  his  armed  liead, 
And  his  double  wings  for  hasiy  flight, 
And  a  keen,  unwearying  appetite. 

He  comes  with  famine  and  lear  along, 

An  army  a  million  million  strong; 

The  Goth  and  the  \andal,  and  dwarfish  Ilun, 

With  their  swarming  people  wild  and  dun, 

Brought  not  the  dread  that  the  Locust  brings. 

When  is  heard  the  rush  of  their  myriad  wings. 

From  the  deserts  of  burning  sand  they  speed. 

Where  the  Lions  roam  and  the  Serpents  breed. 

Far  over  the  sea,  away,  away ! 

And  they  darken  the  sun  at  noon  of  day. 

Like  Eden  the  land  before  they  find. 

But  they  leave  it  a  desolate  waste  behind. 

The  peasant  grows  pale  when  he  sees  them  come, 

And  standeth  before  them  weak  and  dumb; 

For  they  come  like  a  raging  fire  in  power. 

And  eat  up  a  harvest  in  half  an  hour; 

And  the  trees  are  bare,  and  the  land  is  brown, 

As  if  trampled  and  trod  by  an  army  down. 

There  is  terror  in  every  monarch's  eye. 
When  he  hears  that  his  terrible  foe  is  nigh ; 
For  he  knows  that  the  might  of  an  armed  host 
Cannot  drive  the  spoiler  from  out  his  coast. 
And  that  terror  and  famine  his  land  await ; 
That  from  north  to  south  't  will  be  desolate. 

Thus  the  ravening  Locust  is  strong  and  grim ; 
And  what  were  an  armed  man  to  him  ? 
Fire  turneth  him  not,  nor  sea  prevents. 
He  is  stronger  by  far  than  the  elements  ! 
The  broad  green  earth  is  his  prostrate  prey. 
And  he  darkens  the  sun  at  the  noon  of  day ! 


THE  BROOM-FLOWER. 

0  THE  Broom,  the  yellow  Broom, 
The  ancient  poet  sung  it, 

And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 
To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

1  know  the  realms  where  people  say 
The  flowers  have  not  their  fellow  ; 

I  know  where  they  shine  out  like  suns. 
The  crimson  and  the  yellow. 

I  know  where  ladies  live  enchained 

In  luxury's  silken  fetters, 
And  flowers  as  bright  as  glittering  gems 

Are  used  for  written  letters. 

But  ne'er  was  flower  so  fair  as  this. 

In  modern  days  or  olden  ; 

t  growelh  on  its  nodding  stem 

Like  to  a  garland  golden. 


And  all  about  my  mother's  door 
Shine  out  iis  glillering  bushes. 

And  down  the  glen,  where  clear  as  light 
The  mountain-water  gushes. 

Take  all  the  rest, — but  give  me  this, 
.\nd  the  bird  that  nestles  in  it; 

I  love  it,  f{)r  il  loves  the  broom, 
The  green  and  yellow  linnet. 

Well,  call  the  rose  the  queen  of  flowers, 
And  boast  of  that  of  Sharon, 

Of  lilies  like  to  marble  cups, 
And  the  golden  rod  of  Aaron. 

I  care  not  how  these  flowers  may  be 
Beloved  of  man  and  woman  ; 

The  Broom  it  is  the  flower  for  me 
That  groweth  on  the  common. 

Oh  the  Broom,  the  yellow  Broom, 

The  ancient  poet  sung  il. 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  lie  at  rest  among  it  1 


THE   EAGLE. 

No,  not  in  the  meadow,  and  not  on  the  shore ; 
And  not  on  the  wide  heath  with  furze  covered  o'er, 
Where  the  cry  of  the  Plover,  the  hum  of  the  bee. 
Give  a  feeling  of  joyful  security  : 
And  not  in  the  woods,  where  the  Nightingale's  song. 
From  the  chestnut  and  orange  pours  all  the  day  long; 
And  not  where  the  Martin  has  built  in  the  eaves, 
And  the  Red-breast  e'er  covered  the  children  with 

leaves. 
Shall  ye  find  the  proud  Eagle  I   O  no,  come  away; 
I  will  show  you  his  dwelling,  and  point  out  his  prey! 
Away!  let  us  go  where  the  mountains  are  high. 
With  tall  splintered  peak  towering  into  the  sky ; 
Where  old  ruined  castles  are  dreary  and  lone. 
And  seem  as  if  built  for  a  world  that  is  gone  ; 
There,  up  on  the  topmost  tower,  black  as  the  night. 
Sits  the  old  monarch  Eagle  in  full  blaze  of  light: 
He  is  king  of  these  mountains :  save   him  and  his 

mate. 
No  Eagle  dwells  here  ;  he  is  lonely  and  great ! 
Look,  look  how  he  sits!  with  his  keen  glancing  eye. 
And  his  proud  head  thrown  back,  looking  into  the 

sky; 
And  hark  to  the  rush  of  his  out-spreading  wings, 
Like  the  coming  of  tempest,  as  upward  he  springs, 
And  now  how  the  echoing  mountains  are  stirred. 
For  that  was  the  cry  of  the  Eagle  you  heard ! 
Now,  see  how  he  soars!  like  a  sfieck  in  the  height 
Of  the  blue  vaulted  sky,  and  now  lost  in  the  light ! 
And  now  downward  he  wheels  as  a  shaft  from  a 

•    bow 
By  a  strong  archer  sent,  to  the  valleys  below  ! 
And  that  is  the  bleat  of  a  lamb  of  the  flock; — 
One  moment,  and  he  re-ascends  to  the  rock. — 
Yes,  SCO  how  the  conqueror  is  winging  his  way 
And  his  terrible  talofis  are  holding  their  prey! 
155 


146 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Great  bird  of  the  wilderness !  lonely  and  proud, 
With  a  spirit  unbroken,  a  neck  never  bowed. 
With  an  eye  of  defiance,  august  and  severe. 
Who  scorn 'st  an  inferior,  and  hatest  a  peer. 
What  is  it  that  giveth  thee  beauty  and  worth? 
Thou  wast  made  for  the  desolate  places  of  earth ; 
To  mate  with  the  tempest ;  to  match  with  the  sea ; 
And  God  showed  his  power  in  the  Lion  and  thee ! 


THE    NETTLE. KING. 

There  wqs  a  Nettle  both  great  and  strong ; 

And  the  threads  of  his  poison-flowers  were  long ; 

He  rose  up  in  strength  and  height  also. 

And  he  said,  "  I'll  be  king  of  the  plants  below !" 

It  was  a  wood  both  drear  and  dank. 

There  grew  the  Nettle  so  broad  and  rank  ; 

And  an  Owl  sate  up  in  an  old  ash  tree 

That  was  wasting  away  so  silently  ; 

And  a  Raven  was  perched  above  his  head, 

And  they  both  of  them  heard  what  the  Nettle-king 

said ; 
And  there  was  a  toad  that  sate  below, 
Chewing  his  venom  sedate  and  slow, 
And  he  heard  the  words  of  the  Nettle  also. 

The  Nettle  he  thro^-e,  and  the  Nettle  he  grew. 

And  the  strength  of  the  earth  around  him  he  drew : 

There  was  a  pale  Stellaria  meek, 

But  as  he  grew  strong,  so  she  grew  weak ; 

There  was  a  Campion,  crimson-eyed, 

But  as  he  grew  up,  the  Campion  died  : 

And  the  blue  Veronica,  shut  from  light. 

Faded  away  in  a  sickly  while  ; 

For  upon  his  leaves  a  dew  there  hung. 

That  fell  like  a  blight  from  a  serpent's  tongue. 

And  there  was  not  a  flower  about  the  spot, 

Herb-Robert,  Harebell,  nor  Forget-me-not. 

Yet  up  grew  the  Nettle  like  water-sedge. 

Higher  and  higher  above  the  hedge  ; 

The  stuff  of  his  leaves  was  strong  and  stout. 

And  the  points  of  his  stinging-flowers  stood  out; 

And  the  Child  that  went  in  the  wood  to  play. 

From  the  great  King-nettle  would  shrink  away! 

"  Now,"  says  the  King-netlle, "  there 's  none  like  me ; 

"I  am  as  great  as  a  plant  can  be! 

"  I  have  crushed  each  weak  and  tender  root, 

"With  the  mighly  power  of  my  kingly  foot; 

"  I  have  spread  out  my  arms  so  strong  and  wide, 

"  And  opened  my  way  on  every  side ; 

"  I  have  drawn  from  the  earth  its  virtues  fine, 

"To  strengthen  for  me  each  poison-spine; 

"  Both  morn  and  night  my  leaves  I  've  spread, 

"  And  upon  the  fulling  dews  have  fed, 

"  Till  I  am  as  great  as  a  fi)resl-tree ;  • 

"  The  great  wide  world  w  the  place  for  me !" 

Said  the  Nettle-king  in  his  bravery. 

Just  then  up  came  a  Woodman  stout, 

In  the  thick  of  the  wood  he  was  peering  about. 


The  Nettle  looked  up,  the  Nellie  looked  down, 

And  graciously  smiled  on  the  simple  clown  : 

"Thou  knowest  me  well.  Sir  Clown,"  said  he, 

"And  'tis  meet  that  thou  reverence  one  like  me.'" 

Nothing  at  all  the  man  replied. 

But  he  lifted  a  scythe  that  was  at  his  side. 

And  he  cut  the  Nettle  up  by  the  root, 

And  trampled  it  under  his  heavy  foot; 

And  he  saw  where  the  Toad  in  its  shadow  lay, 

But  he  said  not  a  word,  and  went  his  way. 


THE    BIRD    OF    PARADISE. 

O  LOVELY  Bird  of  Paradise, 

I  '11  go  where  thou  dost  go ! 
Rise  higher  yet,  and  higher  yet. 

For  a  stormy  wind  doth  blow. 

Now  up  above  the  tempest 

We  are  sailing  in  the  calm. 
Amid  the  golden  sunshine. 

And  where  the  air  is  balm. 

See,  far  below  us  rollmg, 
The  storm-cloud  black  and  wide  ; 

The  fury  of  its  raging 
Is  as  an  angry  tide ! 

0  gentle  Bird  of  Paradise, 

Thy  happy  lot  I  '11  share ; 
And  go  where'er  thou  goest 

On,  through  the  sunny  air! 

Whale'er  the  food  ihou  eatest. 

Bird,  I  will  eat  it  too. 
And  ere  it  reach  the  stormy  earth. 

Will  drink  with  ihee  the  dew ! 

My  father  and  my  mother, 
I  'II  leave  them  for  thy  sake ; 

And  where  thy  nest  is  builded. 
My  pleasant  home  will  make ! 

Is  it  woven  of  the  sunshine. 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  spice; 

And  cradled  round  with  happiness  ? 
Sweet  Bird  of  Paradise ! 

O  take  me,  take  me  to  it. 

Wherever  it  may  be, 
For  far  into  the  sunshine 

I'll  fly  away  with  thee! 

Thus  sung  an  Eastern  poet, 

A  many  years  ago; 
Now,  of  the  Bird  of  Paradise 

A  truer  tale  we  know. 

We  know  the  nest  it  buildelh 

Within  the  forest  green ; 
And  many  and  many  a  traveller 

Its  very  eggs  hath  seen. 

Yet,  lovely  Bird  of  Paradise, 
They  take  no  charm  from  thee  ; 

Thou  art  a  creature  of  the  earth. 
And  not  a  mystery ! 

156 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


147 


Tin:    WATER-RAT. 

Come  into  the  iii(>ailows,  this  bright  sumiiier  day; 

The  people  are  merrily  making  the  liny: 

There  's  a  liliilie  sound  of  pastoral  life  everywhere; 

And  the  gay  Lark  is  carolling  up  in  the  air. 

,\nd  I  know  in  the  wood  where  the  Columbine  grows, 

And  the  climbing  Clematis  and  Pink  Apple-rose; 

And  1  know-  where  tlie  i?uglos  grows  blue  as  the  sky, 

And  the  deep  crimson  \etch  like  a  wild  Mne  runs 

high. 
And  I  '11  show  you  a  sight  you  love  better  than  these, 
A  little  field-stream  overshadowed  with  trees. 
Where  the  water  is  clear  as  a  free  mountain-rill. 
And  now  it  runs  rippling,  and  now  it  is  still ; 
Where  the  crowned  Butomus  is  gracefully  growing. 
Where  the  long  purple  spikes  of  the  Loose-strife  are 

blowing, 
And  tlie  rich,  plumy  crests  of  the  Meadow-sweet  seem 
Like  foam  which  the  current  has  left  on  the  stream; 
There  I  '11  show  you  the  brown  Water-Rat   at  his 

play  — 
You  will  see  nothing  blither  this  blithe  summer  day; 
A  glad,  innocent  creature,  for  whom  were  ordained 
The  quiet  of  brooks,  and  the  plants  they  contained. 
But,  hush!  step  as  lightly  as  leaves  in  their  fall, 
Man  has  wronged  him,  and  he  is  in  fear  of  us  all. 
See  I  there  he  is  sitting,  the  tree-roots  among. 
And  the  Keed«-sparrow  by  him  is  singing  his  song. 
See  how  gravely  he  sits  ;  how  demure  and  how  still, 
Like  an  anchorite  old  at  his  mossy  door-sill ! 
Ah  no,  now  his  mood  of  sedateness  is  gone, 
.And  his  harlequin  motions  he  '11  show  us  anon. 
Look  I  look  now .'  how  quickly  the  water  he  cleaves, 
.\nd  again  he  is  up  'mong  those  arrow-head  leaves; 
See  his  little  black  head,  and  his  eyes  sparkling  shine. 
He  has  made  up  his  mind  on  these  dainties  to  dine, 
For  he  has  not  a  want  which  he  cannot  supply 
In  a  water  like  this,  with  these  water-plants  nigh ; 
And  he  askcth  no  bounty  from  man ;  he  can  find 
A  plentiful  table  spread  out  to  his  mind  ; 
For  this  little  field-stream  hath  all  good  that  he  needs. 
In  the  budding  tree-roots  and  the  clustering  reeds. 
And  the  snowy-flow  ered  arrow-head  thick  growing 

here : 
Ah,  pity  it  is  man  has  taught  him  to  fear  I 
But  look  at  him  now,  how  he  sitteth  afloat 
On  the  broad  Water-lily  leaf,  as  in  a  boat. 
See  the  antics  he  plays  I  how  he  dives  in  the  stream, 
To  and  fro — now  he  chases  that  dancing  sunbeam  ; 
Now  he  stands  for  a  moment,  as  if  hall-perplexed, 
In  his  frolicsome  heart,  to  know  what  to  do  next. 
Ha!  see  now,  that  Dragon-fiy  sets  him  astir. 
And  he  launches  away  like  a  brave  mariner; 
See  there,  up  the  stream  how  he  merrilv  rows, 
And  the  tall  fragrant  Calamus  bows  as  he  goes  ! 
And  now- he  is  lost  at  the  fijot  of  the  free  ; 
Tis  his  home,  and  a  snug  little  home  it  must  be  ! 

And  'tis  thus  that  the  Water-Rat  liveth  all  3ay, 
In  these  small  pleasures  wearing  the  summer  away: 
14 


And  when  cold  winter  comes,  and  the  water-plants 

die. 
And  his  little  brooks  yield  him  no  longer  supply, 
Down  into  his  burrow  ho  cozily  creeps. 
And  quietly  through  the  long  winter-time  sleeps. 
Thus  in  summer  his  table  by  Nature  is  spread. 
And  old  mother  Earth  makes  in  winter  his  bed. 


THE   SPARROW'S   NEST. 

Nay,  only  look  what  I  have  found ! 
A  Sparrow's  nest  upon  the  ground; 
A  Sparrow's  nest,  as  you  may  see, 
Blown  out  of  yonder  old  elm  tree. 

And  what  a  medley  thing  it  is  ! 
I  never  saw  a  nest  like  this, — 
So  neatly  wove  with  decent  care, 
Of  silvery  moss  and  shining  hair; 

But  put  together,  odds  and  ends, 
Picked  up  from  enemies  and  friends: 
See,  bits  of  thread,  and  bits  of  rag. 
Just  like  a  little  rubbish-bag ! 

Here  is  a  scrap  of  red  and  brown. 
Like  the  old  washer-woman's  gown ; 
And  here  is  muslin,  pink  and  green, 
And  bits  of  calico  between  ; 

O  never  thinks  the  lady  fair, 
As  she  goes  by  with  mincing  air, 
How  the  pert  Sparrow  over-head. 
Has  robbed  her  gown  to  make  its  bed  ! 

See,  hair  of  dog  and  fur  of  cat. 

And  rovings  of  a  worsted  mat. 

And  shreds  of  sillts,  and  many  a  feather, 

Compacted  cunningly  together. 

W'ell,  here  has  ho.rding  been  and  hiving. 
And  not  a  little  good  contriving, 
Before  a  home  of  peace  and  ease 
Was  fashioned  out  of  things  like  these ! 

Think,  had  these  odds  and  ends  been  brought 
To  some  wise  man  renowned  for  thought, 
Some  man,  of  men  a  very  gem. 
Pray  what  could  he  have  done  with  them? 

If  we  had  said,  "Here,  sir,  we  bring 
You  many  a  worthless  little  thing, 
■Just  bits  and  scraps,  so  very  small. 
That  they  have  scarcely  size  at  all ; 

"  And  out  of  these,  you  must  contrive 

A  dwelling  large  enough  fiir  five  ; 

Neat,  warm,  and  snug  ;  with  comlbrt  stored  ; 

Where  five  small  things  may  lodge  and  board.' 

How  would  the  man  of  learning  vast 
Have  been  astonished  and  aghast ; 
'  And  vowed  that  such  a  thing  had  been 
Ne'er  heard  of,  thought  of,  much  less  seen. 
157 


148 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ah !  man  of  learning,  you  are  wrong ; 
Instinct  is,  more  than  wisdom,  strong ; 
And  He  who  made  the  Sparrow,  taught 
This  skill  beyond  your  reach  of  thought. 

And  here,  in  this  uncostly  nest, 
These  little  creatures  have  been  blest ; 
Nor  have  kings  known  in  palaces, 
Half  their  contentedness  in  this  — 
Poor  simple  dwelling  as  it  is! 


THE   KINGFISHER. 

For  the  handsome  Kingfisher,  go  not  to  the  tree, 
No  bird  of  the  field  or  the  forest  is  he  ; 
In  the  dry  riven  rock  he  did  never  abide, 
And  not  on  the  brown  heath  all  barren  and  wide. 

He  lives  where  the  fresh,  sparkling  waters  are  flow- 
ing. 

Where  the  tall,  heavy  Typha  and  Loosestrife  are 
growing ; 

By  the  bright  little  streams  that  all  joyfully  run 

Awhile  in  the  shadow,  and  then  in  the  sun. 

He  lives  in  a  hole  that  is  quite  to  his  mind. 
With  the  green,  mossy  Hazel  roots  firmly  entwined ; 
Where  the  dark  Alder-bough  waves  gracefully  o'er. 
And  the  Sword-flag  and  Arrow-head  grow  at  his  door. 

There  busily,  busily,  all  the  day  long, 
He  seeks  for  small  fishes  the  shallows  among; 
For  he  builds  his  nest  of  the  pearly  fish-bone. 
Deep,  deep  in  the  bank  far  retired,  and  alone. 

Then  the  brown  Water-Rat  from  his  burrow  looks 

out. 
To  see  what  his  neighbour  Kingfisher 's  about ; 
And  the  green  Dragon-fly,  flitting  slowly  away. 
Just  pauses  one  moment  to  bid  him  good-day. 

O  happy  Kingfisher!  what  care  should  he  know. 
By  the  clear,  pleasant  streams,  as  lie  skims  to  and  fro, 
Now  lost  in  the  shadow,  now  bright  in  the  sheen 
Of  the  hot  summer  sun,  glancing  scarlet  and  green ! 


THE   MIGRATION   OF  THE  GREY 
SQUIRRELS. 

When  in  my  youth  I  travelled 
Throughout  each  north  coimtrie, 

Many  a  strange  thing  did  I  hear, 
And  many  a  strange  thing  see. 

I  sate  with  small  men  in  their  huts. 

Built  of  the  drifted  snow ; 
No  fire  had  we  but  the  seal-oil  lamp, 

Nor  other  light  did  know. 

For  far  and  wide  the  plains  were  lost 
For  months  in  the  winter  dark; 

And  we  heard  the  growl  of  the  hungry  Bear, 
And  the  blue  Fox's  bark. 


But  when  the  sun  rose  redly  up 

To  shine  for  half  a  year. 
Round  and  round  through  the  skies  to  sail. 

Nor  once  to  disappear. 

Then  on  I  went,  with  curious  eyes, 

And  saw  where,  like  to  man. 
The  Beaver  built  his  palaces; 

And  where  the  Ermine  ran. 

And  came  where  sailed  the  lonely  Swans 

Wild  on  their  native  flood ; 
And  the  shy  Klk  grazed  up  the  mossy  hills, 

And  the  Wolf  was  in  the  wood. 

And  the  frosty  plains  like  diamonds  shone, 

And  the  iced  rocks  also, 
Like  emeralds  and  like  beryls  clear. 

Till  the  soft  south  wind  did  blow. 

And  then  upsprang  the  grass  and  flowers. 

Sudden,  and  sweet,  and  bright ; 
And  the  wild  birds  filled  the  solitude 

With  a  fervour  of  delight. 

But  nothing  was  there  that  pleased  me  more 

Than  when,  in  autumn  brown, 
I  came  in  the  depths  of  the  pathless  woods. 

To  the  Grey  Squirrel's  town. 

There  were  hundreds  that  in  the  hollow  boles 
Of  the  old,  old  trees  did  dwell. 

And  laid  up  their  store  hard  by  their  door 
Of  the  sweet  mast  as  it  fell. 

But  soon  the  hungry  wild  Swine  came, 
And  with  thievish  snout  dug  up 

Their  buried  treasure,  and  left  them  not 
So  much  as  an  acorn-cup ! 

Then  did  they  chatter  in  angry  mood. 

And  one  and  all  decree. 
Into  the  forest  of  rich  stone-pine 

Over  hill  and  dale  to  flee. 

Over  hill  and  dale,  over  hill  and  dale, 
For  many  a  league  they  went ; 

Like  a  troop  of  undaunted  travellers 
Governed  by  one  consent. 

But  the  Ilawk  and  Eagle,  and  peering  Owl, 

Did  dreadfully  pursue  ; 
And  the  farther  the  (irey  Squirrels  went. 

The  more  their  perils  grevs'. 
When  lo !  to  cut  off  their  pilgrimage, 

A  broad  stream  lay  in  view. 

But  then  did  each  wondrous  creature  show 

His  cunning  and  bravery ; 
With  a  piece  of  the  Pine-bark  in  his  mouth, 

Unto  the  stream  came  he. 

And  boldly  his  little  bark  he  launched, 

Without  the  least  delay  ; 
His  bushy  tail  was  his  upright  sail. 

And  he  merrily  steered  away. 
158 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


149 


Never  was  there  a  lovelier  sight 
Than  that  Grey  Squirrels'  fleet ; 

And  with  anxious  eyes  I  watched  to  see 
What  fortune  it  would  meet. 

Soon  had  they  reached  the  rough  mid-stream. 

And  ever  and  anon, 
I  grieved  to  behold  some  small  bark  wrecked. 

And  its  little  steersman  gone. 

But  the  main  fleet  stoutly  held  across ; 

I  saw  them  leap  to  shore ; 
They  entered  the  woods  with  a  cry  of  joy, 

For  their  perilous  march  was  o'er. 

W.  H. 


THE    BEAVER. 

Up  in  the  north  if  thou  sail  with  me, 
A  wonderful  creature  I  '11  show  to  thee  : 
As  gentle  and  mild  as  a  Lamb  at  play. 
Skipping  about  in  the  month  of  May  ; 
Yet  wise  as  any  old  learned  sage 
Who  sits  turning  over  a  musty  page  ! 

Come  down  to  this  lonely  river's  bank. 
See,  driven-in  stake  and  riven  plank  ; 
'Tis  a  mighty  work  before  thee  stands 
That  would  do  no  shame  to  human  hands. 
A  well-built  dam  to  stem  the  tide 
Of  this  northern  river  so  strong  and  wide  ; 
Look !  the  woven  bough  of  many  a  tree, 
And  a  wall  of  fairest  masonry ; 
The  waters  cannot  o'erpass  this  bound. 
For  a  hundred  keen  eyes  watch  it  round  ; 
And  the  skill  that  raised  can  keep  it  good 
Against  the  peril  of  storm  and  flood. 

And  yonder,  the  peaceable  creatures  dwell 

Secure  in  their  watery  citadel ! 

They  know  no  sorrow,  have  done  no  sin  ; 

Happy  they  live  'mong  kith  and  kin  — 

As  happy  •as  living  things  can  be, 

Each  in  the  midst  of  his  family ! 

Ay,  there  they  live,  and  the  hunter  wild 

Seeing  their  social  natures  mild. 

Seeing  hov^-  they  were  kind  and  good, 

Hath  felt  his  stubborn  soul  subdued; 

And  the  very  sight  of  their  young  at  play 

Hath  put  his  hunter's  heart  away ; 

And  a  mood  of  pity  hath  o'er  him  crept, 

As  he  thought  of  his  own  dear  babes  and  wept.'* 

I  know  ye  are  but  the  Beavers  small, 
Living  at  peace  in  your  own  mud-wall ; 
I  know  that  ye  have  no  books  to  teach 
The  lore  that  lies  within  your  reach. 
But  what  ?     Five  thousand  years  ago 
Ye  knew  as  much  as  now  ye  know  ; 
And  on  the  banks  of  streams  that  sprung 
Forth  when  the  earth  itself  was  young, 

•  A  fact. 


Your  wondrous  works  were  formed  as  true; 
For  the  All-Wise  instrnci(>(l  you ! 
But  man  !  how  hath  he  ix)n(lered  on, 
Through  the  long  term  of  ages  gone ; 
And  many  a  cunning  book  lialh  writ. 
Of  learning  deep,  and  subtle  wit ; 
Hath  compassed  sea,  hath  com|)nssed  land. 
Hath  built  up  towers  and  temples  grand. 
Hath  travelled  far  for  hidden  lore. 
And  known  what  was  not  known  of  yore. 
Yet  after  all,  though  wise  he  be. 
He  hath  no  better  skill  than  ye ! 


THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  WEB-SPINNER. 

Wed-Spi\ner  was  a  miser  old, 

Who  came  of  low  degree  ; 
His  body  was  large,  his  legs  were  thin. 

And  he  kept  bad  company  ; 
And  his  visage  had  the  evil  look 

Of  a  black  felon  grim  ; 
To  all  the  country  he  was  known. 

But  none  spoke  well  of  him. 
His  house  was  seven  stories  high, 

In  a  corner  of  the  street. 
And  it  always  had  a  dirty  look. 

When  other  homes  were  neat ; 
Up  in  his  garret  dark  he  lived. 

And  from  the  windows  high  — 
Looked  out  in  the  dusky  evening 

Upon  the  passers  by. 
Most  people  thought  he  lived  alone ; 

Yet  many  have  averred. 
That  dismal  cries  from  out  his  house      , 

Were  often  loudly  heard  ; 
And  that  none  living  left  his  gate. 

Although  a  few  went  in, 
For  he  seized  the  very  beggar  old. 

And  stripped  him  to  the  skin  ; 
And  though  he  prayed  for  mercy. 

Yet  mercy  ne'er  was  shown  — 
The  miser  cut  his  body  up. 

And  picked  him  Ixjne  from  Ixjne. 
Thus  people  said,  and  all  believed 

The  dismal  story  true  ; 
As  it  was  told  to  me,  in  truth, 

I  tell  it  so  to  you. 
There  was  an  ancient  widow  — 

One  Madgy  de  la  Moth, 
A  stranger  to  the  man,  or  she 

Had  not  gone  there,  in  troth  ; 
But  she  was  poor,  and  wandered  out 

At  nightfall  in  the  street. 
To  beg  from  rich  men's  tables 

Dry  scraps  of  broken  meat. 
So  she  knocked  at  old  Web-Spinner's  door. 

With  a  modest  tap,  and  low. 
And  down  stairs  came  he  speedily. 

Like  an  arrow  from  a  bow. 
"Walk  in,  walk  in,  mother!"  said  he, 

And  shut  the  door  behind  — 

159 


150 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  thought  for  such  a  gentleman, 

That  he  was  woiiilrous  kind  ; 
But  ere  the  michiight  clock  had  tolled, 

Like  a  tiger  of  the  wood, 
He  had  eaten  the  flesh  from  ofT  her  bones, 

And  drank  of  her  heart's  blood ! 

Now  after  this  fell  deed  was  done, 

A  little  season's  s|)ace. 
The  burly  Haron  of  Bluebottle 

Was  riding  from  the  chase: 
The  sport  was  dull,  the  day  was  hot. 

The  sun  was  sinking  down. 
When  wearily  the  Baron  rode 

Into  the  dusty  town. 
Says  he,  "  I  '11  ask  a  lodging 

At  the  first  house  I  come  to;" 
With  that  the  gate  of  Web-Spinner 

Came  suddenly  in  view  : 
Loud  was  the  knock  the  Baron  gave  — 

Down  came  the  churl  with  glee. 
Says  Bluebottle,  "  Good  sir,  to-iiight 

I  ask  your  courtesy; 
I  'm  wearied  with  a  long  day's  chase  — 

My  friends  are  far  behind." 
"  You  may  need  them  all,"  said  Web-Spinner, 

"It  runneth  in  my  mind." 
"  A  Baron  am  I,"  says  iJluehottle; 

"  From  a  foreign  land  I  come." 
"  I  thought  as  much,"  said  Web-Spinner, 

"Fools  never  stay  at  home!" 
Says  the  Baron,  "  Churl,  what  meaneth  this  ? 

I  defy  ye,  villain  base!" 
And  he  wished  the  while  in  his  inmost  heart 

He  was  safely  I'rom  the  place. 

Web-Spinner  ran  and  locked  the  door, 

And  a  loud  laugh,  laughed  he; 
With  that  each  one  on  the  other  sprang. 

And  they  wrestled  furiously. 
The  Baron  was  a  man  of  might, 

A  swordsman  of  renown ; 
But  the  Mi?er  had  the  stronger  arm. 

And  kept  the  Baron  down  : 
Then  out  he  took  a  little  cord, 

From  a  pocket  at  his  side. 
And  with  many  a  crafty,  cruel  knot 

His  hands  and  feet  he  tied  ; 
And  bound  him  dow  n  unto  the  floor. 

And  said  in  savage  jest, 
"  There  's  heavy  work  in  store  for  you  ; 

So,  Baron,  take  your  rest  I" 
Then  up  and  down  his  house  he  went. 

Arranging  dish  and  platter. 
With  a  dull  heavy  countenance, 

As  if  nothing  were  the  matter. 
At  length  ho  seized  on  Bluebottle, 

That  strong  and  burly  man. 
And  with  many  and  many  a  desperate  tug, 

To  hoist  him  up  began  : 
And  step  hy  step,  and  step  by  step, 

He  went  with  heavy  tread; 


But  ere  he  reached  tlie  garret  door. 
Poor  Bluebottle  was  dead  I 

Now  all  this  w  hile,  a  Magistrate, 

Who  lived  the  house  hard  by. 
Had  watched  Web-Spinner's  cruelty 

Through  a  vindow  privily: 
So  in  he  bursts,  through  bolts  and  bars. 

With  a  loud  and  thundering  sound, 
And  vowed  to  burn  the  house  w  ilh  fire, 

And  level  it  with  the  ground ; 
But  the  wicked  churl,  who  all  his  life 

Had  looked  for  such  a  dav. 
Passed  through  a  trai>door  in  the  wall. 

And  took  himself  away: 
But  where  he  went  no  man  could  tell; 

'T  was  said  that  under  ground. 
He  died  a  miserable  deaih. 

But  his  body  ne'er  was  found. 
They  pulled  his  house  down  stick  and  stone, — 

"  For  a  caitiff  vile  as  he, " 
Said  they,  "  within  our  fjiiiet  town 

Shall  not  a  dweller  be!" 


The  actions  of  the  Spider  above  described,  were 
told  me  by  a  very  intelligent  man,  w  ho  permitted  the 
web  to  remain  for  a  considerable  time  in  his  count- 
ing-house window,  that  he  might  have  the  means  of 
closely  observing  its  occupier's  way  of  life.  It  was, 
as  described  above,  under  the  semblance  of  a  dwell- 
ing-house, seven  stories  high,  and  in  each  story  was 
a  small  circular  hole  by  which  the  spider  ascended 
and  descended  at  pleasure;  serving,  in  fact,  all  the 
purposes  of  a  stair-case.  His  usual  abode  was  in  his 
seventh,  or  garret  story,  where  he  sat  in  a  sullen  sort 
of  patience  waiting  for  his  prey.  The  small  downy- 
winged  moth  was  soon  taken;  she  was  weak,  and 
made  but  little  resistance;  and  was  always  eaten  on 
the  spot.  His  behaviour  towards  a  heavy  and  noisy 
bluebottle  fly  was  exactly  as  related.  The  fly  seemed 
told  and  insolent;  and  hurled  himself  as  if  in  de- 
fiance, against  the  abode  of  his  eneiny.  The  spider 
descended  in  great  haste,  and  stood  befiire  him,  when 
an  angry  parley  seemed  to  take  place.  The  bluclxil- 
tle  appeared  highly  afl'ronted,  and  plunged  about  like 
a  wild  horse;  btit  his  cfl!!)rts  were  generally  unsuc- 
cessful ;  the  spider,  watching  an  unguarded  moment, 
darted  behind  him,  and  falling  upon  him  with  all  his 
force,  drew  a  fine  thread  from  his  side,  with  which 
he  so  completely  entangled  his  prostrate  victim,  that 
it  was  impossible  he  could  move  leg  or  wing.  The 
spider  then  set  about  making  preparations  for  the 
feast,  which,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself  he 
chose  to  enjoy  in  his  upper  story.  The  staircase, 
wliich  would  admit  his  body,  was  too  strait  for  that 
of  his  victim;  he  accordingly  set  about  enlarging  it, 
with  a  delicate  pair  of  shears  with  which  his  head 
was  furiushed,  and  then  with  great  adroitness  he 
hoisted  ilie  almost  exhausted  Bluelwttle  to  the  top  of 
his  dwelling,  where  he  fell  uiwn  him  with  every 
token  of  satisfaction. 

160 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


151 


SPRING. 

Bright  Creature,  lift  thy  voice  and  sing, 

Like  the  glad  birds,  for  this  is  Spring ! 

Looiv  up  —  the  siiies  above  are  bright. 

And  darkly  blue  as  deep  midnight; 

And  piled-up,  silvery  clouds  lie  tliere, 

Like  radiant  slumberers  of  the  air  : 

And  hark !  from  every  bush  and  tree 

Rings  forth  the  wild-wood  melody. 

The  Blackbird  and  the  Thrush  sing  out; 

And  small  birds  warble  round  about, 

As  if  they  were  bereft  of  reason, 

In  the  great  gladness  of  the  season; 

And  though  the  hedge  be  leafless  yet, 

Still  many  a  little  nest  is  set 

'Mong  the  twisted  boughs  so  cunningly. 

Where  early  eggs  lie,  two  or  three. 

And  hark  I  those  Rooks  the  trees  among. 

Feeding  their  never-silent  young ; 

A  pleasant  din  it  is,,  that  calls 

The  fancy  to  ancestral  halls. 

But  hush !  from  out  that  warm  wood's  side, 

I  hear  a  voice  that  ringeth  wide  — 

O,  joyful  Spring's  sweet  minstrel,  hail! 

It  is  indeed  the  Nightingale, 

Loud  singing  in  the  morning  clear, 

As  poets  ever  love  to  hear ! 

Look  now  abroad. — All  creatures  see, 

How  they  are  filled  with  life  and  glee : 

This  little  Bee  among  the  flowers 

Hath  laboured  since  the  morning  hours. 

Making  the  pleasant  air  astir. 

And  with  its  murmuring,  pleasanter. 

See  there  I  the  wavering  Butterfly, 

With  starting  motion  fluttering  by. 

From  leaf  to  leaf,  from  spray  lo  spray, 

A  thing  whose  life  is  holiday ; 

The  little  Rabbits  too,  are  out, 

And  Leverets  skipping  all  about ; 

And  Stjuirrels,  peeping  from  their  trees, 

A-start  at  every  vagrant  breeze  ; 

For  life,  in  the  glad  days  of  Spring, 

Doth  gladden  each  created  thing. 

iVow  green  is  every  bank,  and  full 
Of  flowers  and  leaves  for  all  to  pull. 
The  Ficary,  in  each  sunny  place. 
Doth  shine  out  like  a  merry  face; 
The  strong  green  Mercury,  and  the  dear 
Fresh  \'iolets  of  the  early  year, 
Peering  their  broad  green  leaves  all  through, 
In  odorous  thousands,  white  and  blue;  ■ 
And  the  broad  Dandelion's  blaze. 
Bright  as  the  sun  of  summer's  days  ; 
And  in  the  woods  beneath  the  green 
Of  budding  trees  are  brightly  seen. 
The  nodding  Blue-bell's  graceful  flowers. 
The  Hyacinth  of  this  land  of  ours  — 
As  fair  as  any  flower  that  blows ; 
And  here  tlie  pale  Stellaria  grows. 
Like  Fna  with  her  gentle  grace, 
Shining  out  in  a  shady  place  ; 
U-  V 


And  here,  on  open  slopes  we  see 

The  lightly-set  Anemone; 

Here  too  the  spotted  Arum  green, 

A  hooded  mystery,  is  seen  ; 

And  in  the  turly  meadows  shine, 

White  Saxifrage  and  Cardamine; 

And  acres  of  the  Crocus  make* 

A  lustre  like  a  purple  lake. 

And  overhead  how  nobly  towers 

The  Chestnut,  with  its  waxen  flowers. 

And  broad  green  leaves,  which  all  expand, 

Like  to  a  giant's  open  hand. 

Beside  you  blooms  the  Hawthorn  tree ; 

And  yonder  the  wild  Cherry-tree, 

The  fairy-lady  of  the  wood  ; 

And  there  the  Sycamore's  bursting  bud, 

The  Spanish-chestnut,  and  the  Lime, 

Those  trees  of  flowery  summer-time. 

Look  up,  the  leaves  are  fresh  and  green, 

And  every  branching  vein  is  seen 

Through  their  almost  transparent  sheen ! 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  thou  dost  fling 

Such  grace  o'er  each  created  thing. 

That  even  a  little  leaf  may  stir 

The  heart  to  be  a  worshipper; 

And  joy,  which  in  the  soul  has  birth 

From  these  bright  creatures  of  the  earth, — 

Good  is  it  thou  shouldst  have  thy  way. 

Thou  art  as  much  of  God  as  they ! 

Now  let  us  to  the  garden  go. 

And  dig  and  delve,  and  plant  and  sow ; 

The  fresh  dark  mould  is  rich  and  sweet. 

And  each  flower-plot  is  trim  and  neat ; 

And  Daffodil  and  Primrose  see. 

And  many-hued  Anemone, 

As  full  of  flower  as  they  can  be ; 

And  here  the  Hyacinth  sweetly  pale. 

Recalling  some  old  Grecian  tale ; 

And  here  the  mild  Narcissus  too ; 

And  every  flower  of  every  hue, 

Which  the  glad  season  sends,  is  here ; 

The  Almond,  while  its  branch  is  sere. 

With  myriad  blossoms  beautified. 

As  pink  as  the  sea-shell's  inside ; 

And,  under  the  warm  cottage-eaves, 

Among  its  clustered,  budding  leaves. 

Shines  out  the  Pear-tree's  flowers  of  snow. 

As  white  as  any  flowers  that  grow  : 

And  budding  is  the  southern  Vine, 

.■\nd  .\pricot  and  Nectarine; 

And  Plum-trees  in  the  garden  warm. 

And  Damsons  round  the  cottage-farm. 

Like  snow-showers  shed  upon  the  trees. 

And  like  them  shaken  by  the  breeze. 

Dear  ones !  't  is  now  the  time,  that  ye 

Sit  down  with  zeal  to  botany ; 

And  names  w'hich  were  so  hard  and  tough, 

Are  easy  now,  and  clear  enough; 

For  from  the  morn  to  evening's  hours 

Your  bright  instructers  are  sweet  flowers. 


As  in  the  Nottingham  Mentlnw?. 
161 


152 


HOWITTS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Go  out  through  pleasant  field  and  lane, 
And  came  back,  glad  of  heart  again. 
Bringing  wiih  you  life's  best  of  wealth. 
Knowledge,  and  joy  of  heart,  and  health  ; 
Ere  long  each  bank  whereon  ye  look 
Will  be  to  you  an  open  book, 
And  flowers,  by  the  Creator  writ, 
The  characters  inscribed  on  it! 

Come  let  iis  forth  into  tlie  fields ! 
Unceasing  joy  the  season  yields  — 
Why  should  we  tarry  within  door  ? 
And  see,  the  children  of  the  poor 
Are  out,  all  joy,  and  running  races. 
With  buoyant  limbs  and  laughing  faces. 
Thank  heaven !  the  sunshine  and  the  air 
Are  free  to  these  young  sons  of  care  ! 
Come,  let  us,  too,  be  glad  as  they, 
For  soon  is  gone  the  merry  May ! 


THE  NORTHERN  SEAS. 

Up  !  up !  let  ns  a  voyage  take  ; 

Why  sit  we  here  at  ease  ? 
Find  us  a  vessel  tight  and  snug, 

Bound  for  the  Northern  Seas. 

I  long  to  see  the  Northern-Lights, 
With  their  rushing  splendours  fly  ; 

Like  living  things  with  flaming  wings, 
Wide  o'er  the  wondrous  sky. 

1  long  to  see  those  ice-bergs  vast. 
With  heads  all  crowned  with  snow; 

Whose  green  roots  sleep  in  the  awful  deep, 
Tw'o  hundred  fathoms  low. 

I  long  to  hear  the  thundering  crash 

Of  their  terrific  fall; 
And  the  echoes  from  a  thousand  cliffs. 

Like  lonely  voices  call. 

There  shall  we  see  the  fierce  White  Bear ; 

The  sleepy  .Seals  a-ground. 
And  the  spouting  Whales  that  to  and  fro 

Sail  with  ^  dreary  sound. 

There  may  we  tread  on  depths  of  ice, 
That  the  hairy  Mammoth  hide; 

Perfect,  as  when  in  times  of  old, 
The  mighty  creature  died. 

And  while  the  nnsclting  sun  shines  on 
Through  the  stdl  heaven's  deep  blue. 

We'll  traverse  the  azure  waves,  the  herds 
Of  the  dread  Sea-horse  to  view. 

We  'II  pass  the  shores  of  solemn  pine, 
Where  Wolves  and  Black  Bears  prowl ; 

And  away  to  t!ie  rocky  isles  of  mist, 
To  rouse  the  northern  fowl. 

Up  there  shall  start  ten  thousand  wings 
With  a  rushing,  whistlmg  din; 

Up  shall  the  .Auk  and  Fulmar  start, — 
All  but  the  fat  Fenguin. 


And  there  in  the  wastes  of  the  silent  sky, 

With  the  silent  earth  below. 
We  shall  see  far  off  to  his  lonely  rock. 

The  lonely  Eagle  go. 

Then  softly,  softly  will  we  tread 

By  inland  streams,  to  see 
Where  the  Pelican  of  the  silent  North, 

Sits  there  all  silently. 

But  if  thou  love  the  Southern  Seas, 
And  pleasant  summer  weather, 

Come,  let  us  mount  this  gallant  ship, 
And  sail  away  together. 

W.  H. 


THE  SOUTHERN  SEAS. 

Ye3  !  let  us  mount  this  gallant  ship ; 

Spread  canvas  to  the  wind  — 
Up!  we  will  seek  the' glowing  South  — 

Leave  Care  and  Cold  behind. 
Let  the  Shark  pursue  through  the  waters  blue 

Our  flying  vessel's  track ; 
Let  strong  winds  blow,  and  rocks  below 

Threaten, — we  turn  not  back. 
Trusting  in  Him  who  holds  the  Sea 

In  his  Almighty  hand. 
We  'II  pass  the  awful  waters  wide  — 

Tread  many  a  far-ofl!" strand. 
Right  onward  as  our  course  we  hold, 

From  day  to  day,  the  sky 
Above  our  head  its  arch  shall  spread 

More  glowing,  bright,  and  high. 
And  from  night  to  night — oh,  what  delight! 

In  its  azure  depths  to  mark 
Stars  all  urdcnown  come  glittering  out 

Over  the  ocean  dark. 
The  moon  uprising  like  a  sun, 

So  stately,  large,  and  sheen, 
And  the  very  stars  like  clustered  moons 

In  the  crystal  ether  keen. 
While  all  about  the  ship  below. 

Strange  fiery  billows  play, — 
The  ceaseless  keel  through  liquid  fire 

Cuts  won<irousIy  its  way. 
But  O,  the  South  !  the  balmy  South  ! 

How  warm  the  breezes  float ! 
How  warm  the  amber  waters  stream 

From  off  our  basking  boat. 
Come  down,  come  down  from  the  tall  ship's  side! 

What  a  marvellous  sight  is  here  ! 
Look  —  purple  rocks  and  crimson  trees, 

Down  in  the  deep  so  clear. 
See  !  where  those  shoals  of  Dolphins  go, 

A  glad  and  glorious  band. 
Sporting  among  the  day-bright  woods 

Of  a  coral  fairy-land. 
See  !  on  the  violet  sands  beneath. 

How  the  gorgeous  shells  do  glide  ! 
O  Sea !  old  Sea,  who  yet  knows  half 

Of  thy  wonders  and  thy  pride  ? 
162 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


153 


Look  how  the  sea-plants  trembling  float 

All  like  a  Mermaid's  locks, 
Waving  in  thread  of  ruby  red 

Over  those  nether  rocks. 
Heaving  and  sinking,  soft  and  fair, 

Here  hyacinth  —  there  green  — 
With  many  a  stem  of  golden  growth, 

And  starry  (lowers  between. 
But  away!  away!  to  upper  day  — 

For  monstrous  shapes  are  here, — 
Monsters  of  dark  and  wallowing  bulk, 

And  horny  eyeballs  drear. 
The  tusk'd  mouth,  and  the  ppiny  fin. 

Speckled  and  warted  back. 
The  glittering  swift,  and  the  flabby  slow. 

Ramp  through  this  deep-sea  track. 
Away!  away!  to  upper  day, 

To  glance  o'er  the  breezy  brine, 
And  see  the  Nautilus  gladly  sail. 

The  Flying-fish  leap  and  shine. 
But  what  is  that  ?  "  'Tis  land  ! — 'tis  land  ! — 

'Tis  land  I"  the  sailors  cry. 
Nay  ! — 'tis  a  long  and  narrow  cloud 

Betwixt  the  sea  and  sky. 
"  'Tis  land  !  'tis  land  !"  they  cry  once  more — 

And  now  comes  breathing  on 
An  odour  of  the  living  earth, 

Such  as  the  sea  hath  none. 
But  now  I  mark  the  rising  shores ! — 

The  purple  hills  I — the  trees  ! 
Ah !  what  a  glorious  land  is  here. 

What  happy  scenes  are  these  I 
See,  how  the  tall  Palms  lift  their  locks 

From  mountain  clefts, — what  vales, 
Basking  beneath  the  noon-tide  sun. 

That  high  and  hotly  sails. 
Yet  all  about  the  breezy  shore, 

Unheedful  of  the  glow, 
Look  how  the  children  of  the  South 

Are  passing  to  and  fro. 
What  noble  forms !  what  fairy  place  ! 

Cast  anchor  in  this  cove, — 
Push  out  the  boat,  for  in  this  land 

A  little  we  must  rove. 
We  '11  wander  on  through  wood  and  field. 

We  '11  sit  beneath  the  \'ine ; 
We'll  drink  the  limpid  Cocoa  railk. 

And  pluck  the  native  Pine. 
The  Bread-fruit  and  Cassada-root, 

And  many  a  glowins  berry, 
Shall  be  our  feast,  for  here  at  least. 

Why  should  we  not  be  merry  ? 
For  'tis  a  Southern  Paradise, 

All  gladsome, — plain,  and  shore, — 
A  land  so  far,  that  here  we  are. 

But  shall  be  here  no  more. 
We  've  seen  the  splendid  Southern  clime. 

Its  seas,  and  isles,  and  men. 
So  now  I — back  to  a  dearer  land  — 

To  England  back  again  I 


THE    GARDEN. 

I  HAD  a  Garden  when  a  child  ; 

I  kept  it  all  in  order; 
'T  was  full  of  flowers  as  it  could  be. 

And  London-pride  was  its  border. 

And  soon  as  came  the  pleasant  Spring, 

The  singing  birds  built  in  it  ; 
The  Blackbird  and  the  Tlirosile-cock, 

The  Woodlark  and  the  Linnet. 

And  all  within  my  Garden  ran 

A  labyrinth-walk  so  mazy  ; 
In  the  middle  there  grew  a  yellow  Rose; 

At  each  end  a  Michaelmas  Daisy. 

I  had  a  tree  of  Southern  Wood, 

And  two  of  bright  Mezereon  ; 
A  Peony  root,  a  snow-while  Phlox, 

And  a  bunch  of  red  Valerian ; 

A  Lilac  tree,  and  a  Guelder-Rose  ; 

A  Broom,  and  a  Tiger-lily ; 
And  I  walked  a  dozen  miles  to  find 

The  true  wild  Dafl!bdilly. 

I  had  Columbines,  both  pink  and  blue. 

And  Thalictrum  like  a  feather; 
And  the  bright  Goat's-bcard,  that  shuts  its  leaves 

Before  a  change  of  weather. 

I  had  ISIarigolds,  and  Gilliflovvers, 

And  Pinks  all  Pinks  exceeding ; 
I  'd  a  noble  root  of  Love-in-a-mist, 

And  plenty  of  Love-lies-bleeding. 

I'd  Jacob's  Ladder,  Aaron's  Rod, 

And  the  Peacock-Gentianella ; 
I  had  Asters,  more  than   I  can  tell, 

And  Lupins  blue  and  yellow. 

I  set  a  grain  of  Indian  Corn, 

One  day  in  an  idle  humour. 
And  the  grain  sprung  up  six  feet  or  more, 

My  glory  for  a  summer. 

I  found  far  off  in  the  pleasant  fields. 
More  flowers  than  I  can  mention  ; 

I  found  the  English  Asphodel, 

And  the  spring  and  autumn  Gentian. 

I  fi)und  the  Orchis,  fly  and  bee. 

And  the  Cistus  of  the  mountain  ; 
And  the  Money-wort,  and  the  Adder's-tongue, 

Beside  an  old  wood  fountain. 

I  found  within  another  wood. 

The  rare  Pyrola  blowing: 
For  wherever  there  was  a  curious  flower 

I  was  sure  to  find  it  growing. 

I  set  them  in  my  garden  beds. 

Those  beds  I  loved  so  dearly, 
Where  I  laboured  after  set  of  sun. 

And  in  summer  mornings  early. 
1G3 


154 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


0  my  pleasant  garden-plot! — 
A  shrubbery  was  beside  it, 

And  an  old  and  mossy  Apple-tree, 
With  a  Woodbine  wreathed  to  hide  it 

There  was  a  bower  in  my  garden-plot, 

A  Spiraea  grew  before  it; 
Behind  it  was  a  Laburnum  tree, 

And  a  wild  Hop  clambered  o'er  it. 

Ofltimes  I  sat  within  my  bower. 
Like  a  king  in  all  his  glory ; 

Ofttimes  I  read,  and  read  for  hours. 
Some  pleasant,  wondrous  story. 

1  read  of  Gardens  in  old  times, 
Old,  stately  Gardens,  kingly. 

Where  people  walked  in  gorgeous  crowds, 
Or  for  silent  musing,  singly. 

I  raised  up  visions  in  my  brain. 

The  noblest  and  the  fairest ; 
But  still  I  loved  my  Garden  best. 

And  thought  it  far  the  rarest. 

And  all  among  my  flowers  I  walked. 
Like  a  miser  'mid  his  treasure ; 

For  that  pleasant  plot  of  Garden  ground 
Was  a  world  of  endless  pleasure. 


THE    LION. 

Lion,  thou  art  girt  with  might ! 
King  by  uncontested  right ; 
Strength,  and  majesty,  and  pride 
Are  in  thee  personified  I 
Slavish  doubt  or  timid  fear 
Never  came  thy  spirit  near  ; 
What  it  is  to  fly,  or  bow 
To  a  mightier  than  thou. 
Never  has  been  known  to  thee, 
Creature  terrible  and  free ! 

Power  the  Mightiest,  gave  the  Lion 
Sinews  like  to  brands  of  iron  ; 
Gave  him  force  which  never  failed  ; 
Gave  a  heart  that  never  quailed. 
Triple-mailed  coat  of  steel. 
Plates  of  brass  from  head  to  heel. 
Less  defensive  were  in  wearing 
Than  the  Lion's  heart  of  daring  ; 
Nor  could  towers  of  strength  impart. 
Trust  like  that  which  keeps  his  heart. 

What  are  things  to  match  with  him  ? 

Serpents  old,  and  strong  and  grim, 

Seas  upon  a  desert-shore. 

Mountain-wildernesses  hoar. 

Night  and  storm,  and  earthquakes  dire, 

Thawless  frost  and  raging  fire  — 

All  that 's  strong,  and  stern  and  dark. 

All  that  doth  not  miss  its  mark. 

All  that  makes  man's  nature  tremble. 

Doth  the  Desert-king  resemble ! 


When  he  sends  his  roaring  forth. 
Silence  falls  upon  the  earth  ; 
For  the  creatures  great  and  small. 
Know  his  terror-breathing  call. 
And  as  if  by  death  pursued, 
Leave  to  him  a  solitude. 

Lion,  thou  art  made  to  dwell 
In  hot  lands  intractable. 
And  thyself,  the  sun,  the  sand, 
Are  a  tyrannous  triple  band ; 
Lion-king  and  desert  throne. 
All  the  region  is  thy  own! 


THE   FOX. 

In  the  rugged  copse,  in  the  ferny  brake. 

The  cunning  red  Fox  his  den  doth  make  ; 

In  the  ancient  turf  of  the  baron's  land. 

Where  the  gnarled  oaks  of  the  forest  stand  ; 

In  the  widow's  garden  lone  and  bare ; 

On  the  hills  which  the  poor  man  tills  with  care : 

There  ages  ago  he  made  his  den. 

And  there  he  abideth  in  spite  of  men. 

'T  is  a  dismal  place,  for  all  the  floor 

With  the  bones  of  his  prey  is  covered  o'er : 

'T  is  darksome  and  lone,  you  can  hardly  trace 

The  furthest  nook  of  the  dreary  place  ; 

And  there  he  skulks,  like  a  creature  of  ill. 

And  comes  out  when  midnight  is  dark  and  still ; 

When  the  dismal  Owl,  with  his  staring  eye. 

Sends  forth  from  the  ruin  his  screeching  cry. 

And  the  Bat  on  his  black  leathern  wings  goes  by ; 

Then  out  comes  the  Fox  with  his  thievish  mind. 

Looking  this  way  and  that  way,  before  and  behind ; 

Then  running  along,  thinking  but  of  the  theft 

Of  the  one  little  Hen  the  poor  Widow  has  lef^ ; 

And  he  boldly  and  carelessly  passes  her  shed, 

For  he  knows  very  well  she  is  sleeping  in  bed. 

And  that  she  has  no  Dog  to  give  notice  of  foes. 

So  he  seizes  his  prey  and  home  leisurely  goes. 

And  at  times  he  steals  down  to  the  depth  of  the  wood. 
And  seizes  the  Partridge  in  midst  of  her  brood ; 
And  the  little  grey  Rabbit,  and  young  timid  Hare; 
And  the  tall,  stately  Pheasant,  so  gentle  and  fair; 
And  he  buries  them  deep  in  some  secret  spot. 
Where  he  knows  man  or  hound  can  discover  them  not. 
But  vengeance  comes  down  on  the  thief  at  length. 
For  they  hunt  him  out  of  his  place  of  strength. 
And  man  and  the  Fox  are  at  desperate  strife. 
And  the  creature  runs,  and  runs  for  his  life  ; 
And  following  close  is  the  snuffing  hound. 
And  hills  and  hollows  they  compass  round  , 
Till  at  length  he  is  seized,  a  caitiff  stout, 
And  the  wild  dogs  bark,  and  the  hunters  shout, 
And  they  cut  off  his  tail  and  wave  it  on  high. 
Saying,  "  Here  fell  the  Fox  so  thievish  and  sly  !" 
Thus  may  all  oppressors  of  pt>or  men  die! 
Then  again  mounts  each  hunter,  and  all  ride  away, 
And  have  a  good  dinner  to  end  the  day ; 
And  they  drink  the  red  wine,  and  merrily  sing, 
"Death  to  the  Fox,  and  long  life  to  the  King!" 
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SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


155 


THE    WOOD-MOUSE. 

D'  YE  know  the  little  Wood- Mouse, 

That  pretty  little  thing. 
That  sits  among  the  forest  leaves, 

Beside  the  forest  spring  >. 

Its  fur  is  red  as  the  red  chestnut, 

And  St  is  small  and  slim  ; 
It  leads  a  life  most  innocent 

Within  the  forest  dim. 

T  is  a  timid,  gentle  creature. 

And  seldom  comes  in  sight ; 
It  has  a  long  and  wiry  tail. 

And  eyes  both  black  and  bright. 

It  makes  its  nest  of  soft,  dry  moss. 

In  a  hole  so  deep  and  strong; 
And  there  it  sleeps  secure  and  warm, 

The  dreary  winter  long. 

And  though  it  keeps  no  calendar. 

It  knows  wiien  flowers  are  springing; 

And  waketh  to  its  summer  life 
When  Nightingales  are  singing. 

Upon  the  boughs  the  Squirrel  sits, 
The  Wood-Mouse  plays  below  ; 

And  plenty  of  food  it  finds  itself 
Where  the  Beech  and  Chestnut  grow. 

In  the  Hedge-Sparrow's  nest  he  sits 

When  its  summer  brood  is  fled. 
And  picks  the  berries  from  the  bough 

Of  the  Hawthorn  over-head. 

I  saw  a  little  Wood-Mouse  once. 

Like  Oberon  in  his  hall, 
With  the  green,  green  moss  beneath  his  feet, 

Sit  under  a  mushroom  tall. 

I  saw  him  sit  and  his  dinner  eat, 

All  under  the  forest  tree; 
His  dinner  of  Chestnut  ripe  and  red, 

And  he  ate  it  heartily. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him  there; 

It  did  my  spirit  good. 
To  see  the  small  thing  God  has  made 

Thus  eating  in  the  wood. 

I  saw  that  He  regardeth  them  — 
Those  creatures  weak  and  small ; 

Their  table  in  the  wild  is  spread, 
By  Him  who  cares  for  all ! 


THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY. 

AN   APOLOGUE. 

A   NEW    VERSION    OF    AN   OLD    STORY. 

'  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlour  ?"  said  the  Spider 

to  the  Fly, 
'  'T  is  the  prettiest  little  parlour  that  ever  you  did 

spy; 


The  way  into  my  parlour  is  up  a  winding  stair, 
And  I've  many  curious  ihings  to  show  when  you  are 

there." 
"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "  to  a.sk  me  is  in  vain, 
For  who  goes  up  your  winding  slair  can  ne'er  come 

down  again." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  must  be  weary,  dear,  with  soaring  up 

so  high  ; 
Will  you   rest  upon  my  little  bed  ?"  said  ihe  Spider 

to  the  Fly. 
"There  are  pretty  curtains  drawn  around  ;  the  sheets 

are  fine  and  thin, 
And  if  you  like  to  rest  awhile,  I  'II  snugly  tuck  you  in!" 
"  Oh,  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "  for  1  've  often  heard 

it  said, 
They  never,  never  wake  again,  who  sleep  upon  your 

bed !" 

Said  the  cunning  Spider  to  the  Fly,  "  Dear  friend, 

what  can  I  do, 
To  prove  the  warm  affection  I've  always  felt  foryou  ? 
I  have  within  my  pantry,  good  store  of  all  that 's  nice ; 
1  'm  sure  you  're  very  welcome  —  will  you  please  to 

take  a  slice  ?" 
"Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "  kind  sir,  that  cannot 

be, 
I  've  heard  what 's  in  your  pantry,  and  I  do  not  wish 

to  see !"' 

"Sweet  creature!"  said  the  Spider,  "you  're  witty 

and  you  're  wise, 
How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings,  how  brilliant 

are  your  eyes! 
I  've  a  little  looking-glass  upon  my  parlour  shelf. 
If  you  '11  step  in  one  moment,  dear,  you  shall  behold 

yourself" 
"  I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said,  "  for  what  you  're 

pleased  to  say. 
And  bidding  you  good  morning  now,  I  '11  call  another 

day." 

The  Spider  turned  him  round  about,  and  went  into 

his  den, 
For  well  he  knew  the  silly  Fly  would  soon  come 

back  again: 
So  he  wove  a  subtle  web,  in  a  little  corner  sly. 
And  set  his  table  ready,  to  dine  upon  the  Fly. 
Then  he  came  out  to  his  door  again,  and  merrily  did 

sing, 
"Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  Fly,  with  the  pearl  and 

silver  wing ; 
Your  robes  are  green  and  purple  —  there  's  a  crest 

upon  your  head  ; 
Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright,  but  mine  are 

dull  as  lead !" 

.Alas,  alas!  how  very  soon  this  silly  little  Fly, 

Hearing  his  wily,  flattering  words,  came  slowly  flit- 
ting by ; 

With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft,  then  near  and 
nearer  drew. 

Thinking  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  green  and 
purple  hue  — 

1C5 


156 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Thinking  only  of  her  crested   head  —  poor  foolish 

thing !    At  last, 
Up  jumped  the  cunning  Spider,  and  fiercely  held  her 

fast. 
He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair,  into  his  dismal 

den, 
Within  his  little  parlour  —  but  she  ne'er  came  out 

again  I 

And  now,  dear  little  children,  who  may  this  story  read, 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words,  I  pray  you  ne'er  give 

heed  ; 
Unto  an  evil  counsellor,  close  heart  and  ear  and  eye. 
And  take  a  lesson  from  this  tale,  of  the  Spider  and 

the  fly. 


THE  TAILOR  BIRD'S  NEST  AND  THE 
LONG-TAILED  TITMOUSE  NEST. 

I.v  books  of  travels  I  have  heard 
Of  a  wise  thing,  the  Tailor-bird  ; 
A  bird  of  wondrous  skill,  that  sews, 
Upon  the  bough  whereon  it  grows, 
A  leaf  into  a  nest  so  fair 
That  with  it  nothing  can  compare; 
A  light  and  lovely  airy  thing, 
That  vibrates  with  the  breeze's  wing. 
Ah  well !  it  is  with  cunning  power 
That  little  artist  makes  her  bower; 
But  come  into  an  English  wood. 
And  I  'II  show  you  a  work  as  good, 
A  work  the  Tailor-bird's  excelling, 
A  more  elaborate,  snugger  dwelling. 
More  beautiful,  upon  my  word, 
Wrought  by  a  little  English  bird. 

There,  where  those  boughs  of  black-thorn  cross. 

Behold  that  oval  ball  of  moss ; 

Look  all  the  forest  round  and  round, 

No  fairer  nest  can  e'er  be  found  ; 

Observe  it  near,  all  knit  together, 

Moss,  willow-down,  and  many  a  feather, 

And  fdled  within,  as  you  may  see, 

As  full  of  feathers  as  can  be  ; 

Whence  it  is  called  by  country  folk, 

A  fitting  name,  the  Feather-poke  ; 

But  learned  people,  I  have  heard, 

Parus  caudatus,  call  the  bird. 

And  others,  not  the  learned  clan, 

Call  It  Wood-pot,  and  Jug,  and  Can. 

Ay,  here's  a  nest!  a  nest  indeed, 

That  doth  all  other  nests  exceed. 

Propped  with  the  black-thorn  twigs  beneath, 

And  festooned  with  a  woodbine  wreath! 

Look  at  it  near,  all  knit  together. 

Moss,  willow-down,  and  many  a  feather! 

So  soft,  so  light,  so  wrmight  with  grace. 

So  suited  to  this  green-wood  place, 

And  spangled  o'er,  as  with  the  intent 

Of  giving  fitting  ornament, 

With  silvery  flakes  of  lichen  bright. 

That  shine  like  opals,  dazzling  white  ! 


Think  only  of  the  creature  small. 
That  wrought  this  soft  and  silvery  ball. 
Without  a  tool  to  aid  her  skill ; 
Nought  but  her  little  feet  and  bill  — 
Without  a  pattern  whence  to  trace 
This  little  roofed-in  dwelling-place, 
And  does  not  in  your  bosoms  spring 
Love  for  this  skilful  little  thing! 

See,  there 's  a  w'indow  in  the  wall. 
Peep  in,  the  house  is  not  so  small, 
But  snug  and  cozy,  you  shall  see 
A  very  decent  family  ! 
Now  count  them — one,  two,  three,  four,  five- 
Nay,  sixteen  merry  things  alive  — 
Sixteen  young  chirping  things,  all  set 
Where  you  your  little  hand  could  not  get! 
I  'm  glad  you  've  seen  it,  for  you  never 
Saw  aught  before  so  soft  and  clever! 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD. 

The  Humming-bird  !  the  Humming-bird, 

So  fairy-like  and  bright ; 
It  lives  among  the  sunny  flow"ers, 
A  creature  of  delight ! 

In  the  radiant  islands  of  the  East, 
Where  fragrant  spices  grow, 

A  thousand  thousand  Humming-birds 
Go  glancing  to  and  fro. 

Like  living  fires  they  flit  about, 

Scarce  larger  than  a  bee. 
Among  the  broad  Palmetto  leaves. 

And  through  the  Fan-palm  tree. 

And  in  those  wild  and  verdant  woods 
Where  stately  Moras  tower. 

Where  hangs  from  branching  tree  to  tree 
The  scarlet  Passion-flower; 

Where  on  the  mighty  river  banks. 

La  Plate  or  Amazon, 
The  Cayman  like  an  old  tree  trunk. 

Lies  basking  in  the  sun; 

There  builds  her  nest,  the  Huraming-bird 

Within  the  ancient  wood, 
Her  nest  of  silky  cotton  down, 

And  rears  her  tiny  brood. 

She  hangs  it  to  a  slender  twig. 
Where  waves  it  light  and  free, 

As  the  Campanero  tolls  his  song, 
And  rocks  the  mighty  tree. 

All  crimson  is  her  shining  breast. 

Like  to  the  re<l,  red  rose; 
Her  wing  is  the  changeful  green  and  bine 

That  the  neck  of  the  Peacock  shows. 

Thou  happy,  happy  Humming-bird, 
No  winter  round  thee  lowers  ; 

Thou  never  saw'st  a  leafless  tree. 
Nor  land  without  sweet  flowers  : 
165 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


157 


A  reign  of  summer  joyfulness 

To  thee  for  life  is  given ; 
Thy  food  the  honey  from  the  flower, 

Thy  drink,  the  dew  I'rom  heaven  ! 

How  glad  the  heart  of  Eve  would  be, 

In  Eden's  glorious  bowers, 
To  see  the  first,  first  Humming-bird 

Among  the  first  spring-flowers. 

Among  the  rainbow  butterflies, 

Before  the  rainbow  shone  ; 
One  moment  glancing  in  her  sight. 

Another  moment,  gone ! 

Thou  little  shining  creature, 
God  saved  thee  from  the  Flood, 

With  the  Eagle  of  the  mountain  land, 
And  the  Tiger  of  the  wood  ! 

Who  cared  to  save  the  Elephant, 

He  also  cared  for  thee  ; 
And  gave  those  broad  lands  for  thy  home, 

Where  grows  the  Cedar-tree  ! 


THE  OSTRICH. 

Not  in  the  land  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
Not  in  the  glorious  Spice-wood  bowers  ; 
Not  in  fair  islands  by  bright  seas  embraced. 
Lives  the  wild  Ostrich,  the  bird  of  the  waste. 
Come  on  to  the  Desert,  his  dwelling  is  there. 
Where  the  breath  of  the  Simoom  is  hot  in  the  air; 
To  the  Desert,  where  never  a  green  blade  grew. 
Where  never  its  shadow  a  broad  tree  threw. 
Where  sands  rise  up,  and  in  columns  are  wheeled 
By  the  winds  of  the  Desert,  like  hosts  in  the  field  ; 
Where  the  Wild  Ass  sends  forth  a  lone,  dissonant 

bray. 
And  the  herds  of  the  Wild  Horse  speed  on  through 

the  day — 
The  creatures  unbroken,  with  manes  flying  free. 
Like  the  steeds  of  the  whirlwind,  if  such  there  may  be. 
Yes,  there  in  the  Desert,  like  armies  for  war, 
The  flocks  of  the  Ostrich  are  seen  from  afar. 
Speeding  on,  speeding  on  o'er  the  desolate  plain. 
While  the  fleet  mounted  Arab  pursueth  in  vain! 
But  'tis  joy  to  the  traveller  who  toils  through  that 

land. 
The  egg  of  the  Ostrich  to  find  in  the  sand  ; 
'Tis  sustenance  for  him  when  his  store  is  low, 
And  weary  with  travel  he  journeyeth  slow 
To  the  well  of  the  Desert,  and  finds  it  at  last 
Seven  days'  journey  from  that  he  hath  passed. 

Or  go  to  the  Caflre-land, — what  if  you  meet 
A  print  in  the  sand,  of  the  strong  Lion's  feet ! 
He  is  down  in  the  thicket,  asleep  in  his  lair ; 
Corae  on  to  the  Desert,  the  Ostrich  is  there  — 
There,  there!  where  the  Zebras  are  flying  in  haste, 
The  herd  of  the  Ostrich  comes  down  o'er  the  waste — 
Half  running,  half  flying — what  progress  they  make ! 
Twang  the  bow !  not  the  arrow  their  flight  can  o'er- 

take! 
I 


Strong  bird  of  the  Wild,  thou  art  gone  like  the  wind. 
And  thou  leavest  the  cloud  of  thy  speeding  behind  ; 
Fare  thee  well !  in  thy  desolate  region,  farewell. 
With  the  (jirafle  and  Lion,  we  leave  thee  to  dwell  I 


THE   DORMOUSE. 

The  little  Dormouse  is  tawny  red  ; 

He  makes  against  winter  a  nice  snug  bed. 

He  makes  his  bed  in  a  mossy  bank. 

Where  the  plants  in  the  simimer  grow  tall  and  rank. 

Away  from  the  daylight,  fbr  under  ground. 

His  sleep  through  the  winter  is  quiet  and  sound. 

And  when  all  above  him  it  freezes  and  snows. 

What  is  it  to  him  for  he  naught  of  it  knows  ? 

And  till  the  cold  lime  of  the  winter  is  gone. 

The  little  Dormouse  keeps  sleeping  on. 

But  at  last,  in  the  fresh  breezy  days  of  the  spring. 
When  the  green  leaves  bud,  and   the  merry  birds 

sing. 
And  the  dread  of  the  winter  is  over  and  past, 
The  little  Dormouse  peeps  out  at  last. 
Out  of  his  snug,  quiet  burrow  he  wends. 
And  looks  all  about  for  his  neighbours  and  friends; 
Then  he  says,  as  he  sits  at  the  foot  of  a  larch, 
"  'Tis  a  beautiful  day,  for  the  first  of  March ! 
The  Violet  is  blowing,  the  blue  sky  is  clear; 
The  Lark  is  upspringing,  his  carol  I  hear ; 
And  in  the  green  fields  are  the  Lamb  and  the  Foal ; 
I  am  glad  I  'm  not  sleeping  now  down  in  my  hole !" 

Then  away  he  runs,  in  his  merry  mood. 
Over  the  fields  and  into  the  wood. 
To  find  any  grain  there  may  chance  to  be. 
Or  any  small  berry  that  hangs  on  the  tree. 
So,  from  early  morning,  till  late  at  night, 
Has  the  poor  little  creature  its  own  delight, 
Looking  down  to  the  earth  and  up  to  the  sky, 
Thinking,  "  what  a  happy  Dormouse  am  1 1" 


THE  WILD  FRITILLARY, 

FAMILL\RLY  CALLED  THE  WEEPING  WIDOW, 
OR  THE  MOURNING  BRIDE. 

Like  a  drooping  thing  of  sorrow, 
Sad  to-day,  more  sad  to-morrow ; 
Like  a  widow  dtirk  weeds  wearing. 
Anguish  in  her  bosom  bearing ; 
Like  a  nun  in  raiment  sable. 
Sorrow-bowed,  inconsolable ; 
Like  a  melancholy  fiiiry, 
Art  thou,  Meadow-Fritillary ! 

Like  the  head  of  snake  enchanted. 
Where  whilom  the  life  hath  panted, 
All  its  purple  checquerings  scaly 
Growing  cold  and  dim  and  paly; 
Like  a  dragon's  head  half  moulded. 
Scaly  jaws  together  folded, 

167 


158 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Is  the  bud  so  dusk  and  airy 
Of  the  wild  Field-Fritillary ! 

Like  a  joy  my  memory  knoweth  — 
In  my  native  fields  it   grovveth  ; 
Like  the  voice  of  one  long  parted, 
Calling  to  the  faitliful-hearled  ; 
Like  an  unexpected  pleasure 
That  hath  neither  stint  nor  measure  ; 
Like  a  bountiful  good  fairy, 
Do  I  hail  thee,  Fritillary  ! 


THE    SQUIRREL. 

The  pretty,  black  Squirrel  lives  up  in  a  tree, 

A  little  blithe  creature  as  ever  can  be  ; 

He  dwells  in  the  boughs  where  the  Stockdove  broods. 

Far  in  the  shades  of  the  green  summer  woods  ; 

His  food  is  the  young  juicy  cones  of  the  Pine, 

And  the  milky  Beach-nut  is  his  bread  and  his  wine. 

In  the  joy  of  his  nature  he  frisks  with  a  bound 

To  the  topmost  twigs,  and  then  down  to  the  ground  ; 

Then  up  again,  like  a  winged  thing, 

And  from  tree  to  tree  with  a  vaulting  spring ; 

Then  he  sits  up  aloft,  and  looks  waggish  and  queer, 

As  if  he  would  say,  "  Ay,  follow  me  here !" 

And  then  he  grows  pettish,  and  stamps  his  foot ; 

And  then  independently  cracks  his  nut ; 

And  thus  he  lives  the  long  summer  thorough, 

Without  a  care  or  a  thought  of  sorrow. 

But  small  as  he  is,  he  knows  he  may  want, 

In  the  bleak  winter  weather,  when  food  is  scant. 

So  he  finds  a  hole  in  an  old  tree's  core, 

And  there  makes  his  nest,  and  lays  up  his  store  ; 

And  when  cold  winter  comes,  and  the  trees  are  bare. 

When  the  white  snow  is  falling,  and  keen  is  the  air, 

He  heeds  it  not,  as  be  sits  by  himself. 

In  his  warm  little  nest,  with  his  nuts  on  his  shelf 

O,  wise  little  Squirrel  !  no  wonder  that  he 

In  the  green  summer  woods  is  as  blithe  as  can  be  ! 


THE    DRAGON-FLY. 

With  wings  like  crystal  air, 

Dyed  with  the  rainbow's  dye; 
Fluttering  here  and  there, 
Pr'yihee  tell  me.  Dragon-fly, 
Whence  thou  comest. 
Where  thou  roamest. 
Art  thou  of  the  earth  or  sky  ? 

'Mong  plumes  of  Meadow-sweet 

I  see  thee  glance  and  play. 
Or  light  with  airy  feet 
Upon  a  nodding  spray, 
Or  sailing  slow, 
I  see  thee  go 
r  th'  sunshine  far  away. 


Tell  me,  pr'ythee.  Dragon-fly, 
What  and  whence  thou  art  ? 
Whether  art  of  earth  or  sky. 
Or  of  flowers  a  part  ? 
And  who,  together 
This  fine  weather 
Put  thee,  glorious  as  thou  art  ? 

He  maketh  no  reply. 

But  all  things  answer  loud, 

"  Who  formed  the  Dragon-fly, 

Formed  sun  and  sea  and  cloud  ; 

Formed  flower  and  tree ; 

Formed  me  and  thee, 

With  nobler  gifts  endowed  !" 

Save  for  the  Eternal  Thought, 

Bright  shape  thou  hadst  not  been, 
He  from  dull  matter  wrought 
Thy  purple  and  thy  green ; 
And  made  thee  take, 
E'en  for  my  sake. 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  sheen  ! 


THE  WILD  SPRING-CROCUS, 

Ah,  though  it  is  an  English  flower. 
It  only  groweth  here  and  there  : 

Through  merry  England  you  might  ride ; 

Through  all  its  length,  from  side  to  side; 

Through  fifty  counties,  nor  have  spied 
This  flower  so  passing  fair. 

But  in  our  meadows  it  is  growing, 
And  now  it  is  the  early  Spring; 

And  see  from  out  the  kindly  earth 

IIow  thousand  thousands  issue  forth. 

As  if  it  gloried  to  give  birth 
To  such  a  lovely  thing. 

Like  lilac-flame  its  colour  glows. 
Tender,  and  yet  so  clearly  bright. 

That  all  for  miles  and  miles  about. 

The  splendid  meadow  shineth  out ; 

And  far-off  village  children  shout 
To  see  the  welcome  sight. 

I  love  the  odorous  Hawthorn  flower, 
1  love  the  Wilding's  bloom  to  see  ; 

I  love  the  light  Anemonies, 

That  tremble  to  the  faintest  breeze ; 

And  hyacinth-like  Orchises, 
Are  very  dear  to  me ! 

The  Star-wort  is  a  fairy-flower ; 

The  Violet  is  a  thing  to  prize  ; 
The  Wild-pink  on  the  craggy  ledge. 
The  waving  sword-like  Water-sedge, 
And  e'en  the  Robin-run-i'th'-hedge 

Are  precious  in  my  eyes. 

Yes,  yes,  I  love  them  all,  bright  things ! 

But  then,  such  glorious  flowers  as  these 
Are  dearer  still  —  I  '11  tell  you  wliv, 
168 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


159 


There  "s  joy  in  ninny  a  thousand  eye 
When  first  goes  forth  the  welcome  cry. 
Of  "  lo,  the  Crocuses !" 

Then  little,  toiling  chilJren  leave 

Their  care,  and  here  hy  thousands  throng. 
And  through  the  shirnng  meadow  run, 
And  gather  thoni,  nut  one  by  one. 
But  by  graspeil  liandtuls,  where  are  none 
To  say  tliat  they  do  wrong. 

They  run,  they  leap,  they  shout  for  joy; 

Tliey  bring  their  inliiiit  brethren  here  ; 
They  fill  each  little  pinafore; 
They  bear  their  baskets  brimming  o'er  ; 
Within  their  very  hearts  they  store 

This  first  joy  of  the  year. 

Yes,  joy  in  these  abundant  meadows 
Pours  out  like  to  the  earth's  o'erflowing; 

And,  less  that  they  are  beautiful, 

Than  that  they  are  so  plentiful, 

So  free  for  every  child  to  pull, 
I  love  lo  see  them  growing. 

And  here,  in  our  own  fields  they  grow — 
An  English  flower,  but  very  rare  ; 

Through  all  the  kingdom  you  may  ride, 

O'er  marshy  flat,  on  mountain  side, 

Nor  ever  see,  outstretching  wide, 
Such  flowery  meadows  fair! 


THE    SWALLOW. 

Twittering  Swallow,  fluttering  Swallow, 

Art  come  back  again  ? 
Come  from  water-bed  or  hollow, 

Where  thou,  winter-long,  hast  lain  ? 
iS'ay,  I  '11  not  believe  it.  Swallow, 
Not  in  England  hast  thou  tarried  ; 
Many  a  day 
Far  away 
Flas  thy  wing  been  wearied, 
Over  continent  and  isle. 
Many  and  many  and  many  a  mile  I 
Tell  me,  pr'ythee  bird,  the  story 
Of  thy  six  months  migratory  ! 

If  thou  wert  a  human  traveller. 
We  a  quarto  book  should  see  ; 

Thou  wouldst  be  the  sage  unraveller 
Of  some  dark  old  mystery ; 

Thou  wouldst  tell  the  wise  men,  Swallow, 

Of  the  rivers'  hidden  fountains  ; 
Plain  and  glen, 
.And  savage  men. 

And  Afghauns  of  the  mountains ; 

Creatures,  plants,  and  men  unknown, 

And  cities  in  the  Deserts  lone : 

Thou  wouldst  be,  thou  far-land  dweller, 

Like  an  Arab  story-teller! 

Was  it  in  a  temple,  Swallow ; 
In  some  Moorish  minaret, 
15  W 


In  some  cavern's  gloomy  hollow. 

Where  the  Lion  and  Serpent  met, 
That  thy  nest  was  builded,  Swallow  ? 
Did  the  Negro  people  meet  thee 

With  a  word 

Of  welcome,  bird, 
Kind  as  that  with  which  we  greet  thee  ? 
Pr'ythee  tell  me  how  and  whore 
Thou  wast  guided  through  the  air; 
Pr'ythee  cease  thy  building-labour, 
And  tell  thy  travel-story,  neighbour ! 

Thou  hast  been  among  the  CafTres  ; 

Seen  the  Bushman's  stealthy  arm, 
Thou  hast  heard  the  lowing  heifers 

On  some  good  Herrnhuter's  farm  ; 
.Seen  the  gold-dust-finder.  Swallow, 
Heard  the  Lion-hunter's  holla ! 
Peace  and  strife. 
And  much  of  life 
Hast  thou  witnessed,  wandering  Swallow. 
Tell  but  this,  we  '11  leave  the  rest, 
Which  is  wisest,  which  is  best ; 
Tell,  which  happiest,  if  thou  can, 
Hottentot  or  Englishman  ? — 
Naught  for  answer  can  we  get. 
Save  twitter,  twitter,  twitter,  twet ! 


THE   SEA. 

The  Sea  it  is  deep,  the  Sea  it  is  wide  ; 
And  it  girdeth  the  earth  on  every  side, 
On  every  side  it  girds  it  round, 
With  an  undecaying,  mighty  bound. 

When  the  Spirit  of  God  came  down  at  first. 
Ere  the  day  from  primal  night  had  burst, 
Before  the  mountains  sprung  to  birth. 
The  dark,  deep  waters  veiled  the  earth. 

Like  a  youthful  giant  roused  from  sleep, 
At  Creation's  call  uprose  the  Deep, 
And  his  crested  waves  tossed  up  their  spray. 
As  the  bonds  of  his  ancient  rest  gave  way ; 
And  a  voice  went  up  in  that  stillness  vast, 
As  if  life  through  a  mighty  heart  had  passed. 
Oh  ancient,  wide,  unfathomed  Sea, 
Ere  the  mountains  were.  Cod  ftishioned  thee  ; 
And  he  gave  in  thine  awful  depths  to  dwell 
Things  like  thyself  unlameable  — 
The  Dragons  old,  and  the  Harpy  brood. 
Were  the  lords  of  thine  early  solitude  I 

But  night  came  down  on  that  ancient  day. 
And  that  mighty  race  was  swept  away; 
And  death  thy  fathomless  depths  passed  through  : 
And  thy  waters  meted  out  anew; 
And  then  on  thy  calmer  breast  were  seen 
The  verdant  crests  of  islands  green  ; 
And  mountains  in  their  strength  came  forth, 
And  trees  and  flowers  arrayed  the  earth  ; 
Then  the  Dolphin  first  his  gambols  played 
In  his  rainbow-tinted  scales  arrayed  ; 
1G9 


160 


HOVVITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  down  below  all  fretted  and  frore, 
Were  wrought  the  coral  and  madrepore; 
And  among  the  sea-weeds  green  and  red, 
Like  flocks  of  the  valley  the  Turtles  fled ; 
And  the  sea-flowers  budded  and  opened  wide 
In  the  lustre  of  waters  deepened  and  dyed ; 
And  the  little  Nautilus  set  afloat 
On  thy  bounding  tide  his  pearly  boat ; 
And  the  Whale  sprang  forth  in  his  vigorous  play ; 
And  shoals  of  the  Flying-fish  leaped  into  day  ; 
And  the  Pearl-fish  under  ihy  world  of  waves 
Laid  up  his  stores  in  the  old  sea-caves. 
Then  man  came  down,  and  with  silent  awe 


The  majesty  of  waters  saw ; 

And  he  felt  like  an  humbled  thing  of  fear, 

As  he  stood  in  that  Presence  august,  severe. 

Till  he  saw  how  the  innocent  creatures  played 

In  the  billowy  depths  and  were  not  afraid  ; 

Till  he  saw  how  the  Nautilus  spread  his  sail, 

And  caught  as  it  blew  the  favouring  gale ; 

And  great  and  small  through  the  watery  realm 

Were  steered  as  it  were  by  a  veering  helm ; 

Then  his  heart  grew  bold,  and  his  will  grew  strong, 

And  he  pondered  in  vigilant  thought  not  long 

Ere  he  fashioned  a  boat  of  a  hollow  tree, 

And  thus  became  lord  of  the  mighty  Sea. 


Kultu  in  Wtv^t. 


PREFACE. 


Perhaps  some  of  my  young  readers  may  be 
tempted  to  turn  critical,  and  say  that  some  of  the 
pieces  herein  set  forth  are  not  strictly  entitled  to  the 
name  of  tales;  I  think  it  best,  therefore,  to  plead 
guilty  at  once,  and  explain  that  the  title  was  adopted 
as  the  most  simple,  and,  at  the  same  time,  sufficiently 
expressive  of  the  bulk  of  the  contents.  The  poems 
in  this  volume  which  are  not  literally  stories,  will,  I 
hope,  find  such  favour  in  the  eyes  of  my  young 
friends,  that  they  shall  not  deem  them  unfitting  com- 
panions to  the  best  tales  amongst  them. 

I  can  wish  no  belter  for  my  kind  young  readers,  so 
far  as  the  book  is  concerned,  than  that  it  may  become 
as  popular  amongst  them  as  the  Sketches  of  Natural 
History  which  I  wrote  for  them  some  time  ago. 

Nottingham,  June  lOlh,  1836. 


OLDEN    TIMES. 

DEDICATED,    WITH    MUCH   RESPECT,    TO 
JUVENILE    ANTIQUARIANS. 

The  fields  with  corn  are  rich  and  deep, 
Which  only  he  who  sows  can  reap ; 
And  in  old  woodlands'  grassy  lea 
Are  cattle  grazing  peacefully;  — 
And  hamlet-homes  in  valleys  low 
Fear  neither  famine,  fire,  nor  foe. 
A  thousand  busy  towns  are  rife 
With  prosperous  sounds  of  trade  and  life, 
And  bustling  crowds  are  in  the  streets. 
Where  man  is  friend  with  all  he  meets. 
No  need  is  there  of  city-wall. 
Nor  gates  to  shut  at  evening-fall ; 
For,  know  ye  not,  the  land  I  praise 
Is  England  in  these  happy  days .' 
It  was  not  thus  in  wood  and  wold, — 
It  was  not  thus  in  times  of  old  ; 


Where  waves  the  corn,  the  red  fern  bowed 
On  heathy  turf  that  ne'er  was  ploughed ; 
And  boundless  tracts  were  covered  o'er 
AVith  mossy  bog,  and  barren  moor ; 
The  green  hill-slopes,  the  pastoral  lea. 
Were  shadowed  by  the  forest-tree  ; 
And  herds  of  deer,  of  nought  afraid, 
Went  bounding  through  the  greenwood  shade; 
And  'mong  the  leafy  boughs  above. 
Loud  screamed  the  jay,  and  cooed  the  dove ; 
The  squirrel  sprung  from  tree  to  tree, 
The  timid  badger  gamboled  free, 
And  the  red  fox  barked  dismally  ; 
And  the  grim  wolf,  at  close  of  day, 
Made  the  lone  mountain  herds  his  prey. 
Then  fasts  were  held,  and  prayers  were  said 
When  knight  or  yeoman  journeyed. 
For  peril  great  was  on  the  road. 
Where'er  a  daring  traveller  trode  ; 
And  ever  as  they  came  or  went. 
Before  the  way-side  cross  they  bent. 
Their  heads  to  tell,  their  prayers  to  say. 
And  crave  protection  for  the  way. 
Yet,  save  when  quiet  woodmen  passed 
Silently  through  the  forest  vast. 
Or  hermit  stole  from  out  his  cell, 
Down  to  some  holy  way-side  well. 
Or  portly  monk,  in  habit  grey. 
And  long  bla(;k  cowl,  rode  by  the  way. 
Or  pilgrim  went  with  stafl!"  in  hand. 
To  some  famed  shrine  across  the  land, 
But  rarely  man  had  man  in  view, 
For  travellers  in  this  land  were  few. 
Yet  at  times  upon  the  breeze  was  borne 
The  gallant  sound  of  hunter's  horn ; 
And  barons  from  their  halls  came  forth, 
Wnh  leashed  hounds,  and  .sounds  of  mirth ; 
And  dames  in  ipiaint,  embroidered  dresses. 
And  hooded  hawks  with  bells  and  jesses; 
With  yeomen  bold  a  thousand  strong, 
Careered  right  gallantly  along, 
170 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


161 


And  at  times,  stout  nien,  like  Robin  Hood, 
With  outlawed  dwellers  of  the  wood, 
With  their  merry  men,  clnd  all  in  green, 
A  hunting  in  the  woods  were  seen. 

Not  then  each  golden  harvest-field 
Was  reaped  for  him  whose  toil  had  tilled ; 
Lilile  was  recked  of  cruel  wrong  — 
The  weak  man  laboured  for  the  strong  ; 
And  civil  war  fierce  ruin  wrought, 
And  battles,  many  a  one,  were  fought  ; 
And  the  old  remnants  of  the  slain, 
Moulder  on  hill,  and  heath,  and  plain. 
Then,  learning  was  of  little  note. 
And,  saving  monks,  none  read  nor  wrote  ; 
And  even  kings,  with  nought  of  shame, 
Confessetl  they  could  not  sign  their  name! 
Then  ladies'  lives  were  dull,  for  they 
Wrought  tapestry-work  from  day  to  day  ; 
And  peasant-women,  brown  with  toil, 
Tilled  with  the  men  the  barren  soil. 
Then  towns  were  few,  and  gmall  and  lone, 
Inclosed  with  massy  walls  of  stone  ; 
And  at  each  street  an  outer  gate. 
To  shut  betbre  the  day  grew  late  ; 
And  not  a  lamp  might  give  its  light, 
After  the  curfew  rung  at  night. 
And  if  perchance  it  happened  so 
That  a  traveller  came  on  journey  slow, 
In  scarlet  cloak  and  leathern  belt, 
And  high-crowned  hat  of  sable  felt. 
And  huge  jack-boots,  and  iron-spur, 
Riding,  the  king's  grave  messenger, 
How  stared  the  townsfolk,  half  aghast, 
As  solemnly  he  onward  passed 
To  the  low  hostel,  built  of  wood  ! 
And  how  in  wandering  groups  they  stood, 
With  questions  poured  out  amain. 
To  see  him  journey   forth  again  ! 

Another  day  of  blither  cheer 

Might  come,  some  three  times  in  the  year. 

When  the  customed  traders  came  with  packs 

Of  needful  things  on  horses'  backs; 

With  jingling  bells  to  the  leader's  rein. 

Sounding  afar  on  the  narrow  lane  ; — 

A  long  array  of  near  a  score, 

With  armed  riders  on  before  ; 

And  the  men  of  trade  with  visage  thin, 

In  travelling  caps  of  badger  skin. 

And  rough,  huge  cloaks,  and  ponderous  gear 

Of  arms  and  trappings  closed  the  rear. 

On  went  they,  guests  of  special  grace. 

On  to  the  little  market-place  ; — 

And  quickly  might  be  purchased  there. 

From  the  Sheffieldman  his  cutler- ware; 

And  winter  garb,  and  woollen  vest, 

From  the  sturdy  weaver  of  the  West; 

And  scarlet  hose,  and  'broidered  shoon, 

And  wooden  bowl,  and  horny  spoon  ; 

Buckles  and  belts,  and  caps  of  hide, 

And  a  thousand  other  things  beside. 

Till  the  townsfolk  had  laid  in  their  store. 

And  the  traders  could  sell  nothing  more. 


Then  at  dawn  of  day  the  sober  train 

Set  out  upon  their  way  aguin  ; 

Travelling  on  by  dale  and  down. 

Warily  to  some  distant  town  — 

Or  to  some  dark,  grey  castle  tall, 

Guarded  with  drawbridge,  moat,  and  wall; 

With  jwrter  stern,  and  bloodhounds  grim. 

With  towers  of  strength,  and  dimgeons  dim  i 

Where  minstrels  stood  with  pipes  to  play. 

And  a  jester  jibed  the  livelong  day  ; — 

Or  to  halt  in  some  green  vale  before 

The  monastery's  gothic  door. 

To  meekly  ask.  with  speaking  eye. 

What  the  lord  Abbot  chose  to  buy  — 

Or  ermine  soft,  or  linen  fine. 

Or  precious  flasks  of  foreign  wine  ? 

Thus  was  it  in  the  days  of  old 

Men  lived,  and  thus  they  l»ught  and  sold  ; 

Sordid,  and  ignorant,  and  poor. 

Was  baron  bold  and  churlish  boor. 

'Tis  well  for  ye  your  days  are  cast. 

When  ignorance,  like  a  cloinl,  has  passed. 

And  God  has  showered  his  blessings  down. 

On  wood  and  wild,  in  tower  and  town. 

And  all  in  peace  and  plenty  dwell ; 

And  so  thank  Heaven, — and  fare-ye-well ! 


MADAM  FORTESCUE  AND  HER  CAT. 

AN  ILLUSTRATION  OF  THREE  PICTURES,  DE- 
SIGNED AND  DRAWN  BY  ANNA  MARY  HOW- 
ITT,    FOR    HER   BROTHER    CLAUDE. 


PART  T. 


Wilhin  this  picture,  you  may  view 
The  Cut  and  Madam  Fortescue — 
And  very  soon  you  will  discover. 
That  Mistress  Pussy  "  lived  in  clover." 


Tins  is  a  nice  pleasant  parlour. 
As  you  mav  see  in  a  minute  ; 

It  belongs  to  Madam  Forlescue, 
And  there  she  sits  in  it. 

That 's  the  dear  old  lady. 

In  a  green  tabby  gown, 
And  a  gresjt  lace  cap. 

With  long  lace  ruffles  hanging  down. 

There  .«he  sits 

In  a  cushioned  high-backed  seat, 
Covered  over  with  crimsoned  damask, 

W'ith  a  footstool  at  her  feet. 

You  see  what  a  handsome  room  it  is. 
Full  of  old  carving  and  gilding  ; 

The  house  is,  one  may  be  sure. 

Of  the  Elizabethan  style  of  building. 
171 


162 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  is  a  pleasant  place ; 

And  through  the  winilow  one  sees 
Into  old-fashioned  gardens 

Full  of  old  yew  trees. 

And  on  that  table,  —  that  funny  table, 

With  the  curious  thin  legs, — 
Stand  little  tea-cups,  a  china  jar, 

And  great  ostrich  eggs. 

One  can  see  in  a  moment, 

That  she  is  very  rich  indeed  ; 
With  nothing  to  do,  all  day  long. 

But  sit  in  a  chair  and  read. 

And  (hose  are  very  antique  chairs, 

So  heavy  and  so  strong  ; 
The  seats  are  tent-stitch,  the  lady's  work, 

All  done  when  she  was  young. 

And  that 's  Mr.  Fortescue's  portrait, 

That  hangs  there  on  the  wall. 
In  the  thunder-and-lightning  coat, 

The  bag-wig  and  all. 

Very  old-fashioned  and  stately. 

With  a  sword  by  his  side  ; 
But  't  is  many  a  long  year  now. 

Since  the  old  gentleman  died. 

Thus  you  see  the  room  complete. 
With  a  Turkey  carpet  on  the  floor  ; 

And  get  a  peep  into  other  rooms 
Through  tlial  open  door. 

But  the  chiefest  thing  of  all 

We  have  yet  passed  over, 
The  tortoise-shell  cat,  which  our  motto  says 

"  Now  lives  in  clover." 

Meaning  she  has  nothing  to  do. 

All  the  long  year  through. 
But  sleep  and  take  her  meals 

With  good  Madam  Fortescue. 

Only  look,  on  that  crimson  cushion. 

How  soft  and  easy  she  lies. 
Just  between  sleep  and  wake. 

With  half  buttoned-up  eyes! 

And  good  Madam  Fortescue, 
She  lifts  her  eyes  from  her  book. 

To  see  if  she  want  anything. 
And  to  give  her  a  loving  look. 

But  now  turn  your  eyes 

Behind  this  great  Indian  screen, — 
There  sits  Madam  Fortescue's  woman 

Very  crabbed  and  very  lean. 

She  makes  believe  to  her  lady, 

To  be  very  fond  of  the  cat ; 
But  she  hates  her. 

And  pinches  vvhen  she  pretends  to  pat. 

But  the  lady  never  knows  it, 

For  the  cat  can  but  mew  ; 
She  can  tell  no  tales,  however  ill  used, 

And  that  Mrs.  Crabihorn  knew. 


So  she  smiled,  and  was  smooth-spoken, 
And  the  lady  said,  "Crabthorii, 

You  are  the  best  wailing  woman 
That  ever  was  born  I 

"  And  when  I  die,  good  Crabthorn, 

In  my  will  it  shall  appear. 
That  my  cat  I  leave  to  you, 

And  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

"  For  I  certainly  think,  Crabthorn, 
You  will  love  her  for  my  sake!" 

"That  I  shall!"  said  the  wailing  woman, 
"And  all  my  pleasure  will  she  make !" 

Now  all  this  has  been  said  and  done 

This  very  day,  I  am  sure  — 
For  there  lies  the  lady's  will,         ' 

Tied  up  with  red  tape  secure. 


PART  II. 


"  New  men,  new  measures,"  as  't  13  said  ; 
Now  jMadam  Fortescue  i?  dead  — 
And  the  poor  Cat,  as  we  shall  show. 
In  little  time  doth  sutTer  woe. 


Now  comes  the  second  picture  ; 

And  here  we  shall  discover, 
That  the  poor  pussy  now 

No  longer  lives  in  clover. 

For  she  gets  no  sups  of  cream,  — 

Not  even  a  crumb  of  bread  ; 
Cross  Mrs.  Crabthorn  rules  the  house, 

Now  Madam  Fortescue  is  dead. 

And  the  fine  crimson  cushion. 
Into  the  lumber-room  is  thrown  — 

Only  look  at  that  poor  cat. 

She  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone. 

She  may  well  look  so  forlorn,  — 

Poor  creature  I  that  she  may  ; 
And  only  think  what  kicks  she  's  had. 

And  nothing  to  eat  all  day  ? 

This,  then,  is  the  dressing  room, 
Grand  and  stalely  as  you  can  see ; 

Yet  evervihing  in  the  room 
Looks  as  solemn  as  can  be  ! 

The  very  peacock's  feathers 
Over  the  old  glass  on  the  wall. 

Look  like  great  mourning  plumes 
Waving  at  a  funeral. 

And  that  glass  in  the  black  frame  ; 

And  the  footstool  on  the  floor, 
And  the  chair  where  Madam  sate  to  dress, 

But  where  she'll  sit  no  more! 

Everything  looks  as  if  some 

Great  sorrow  would  befall ! 
See  there  's  the  old  tabby  gown 

Hanging  on  the  wall  ; 

172 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


1G3 


And  there 's  the  lace  cap,  — 
But  there  's  no  lace  border  on  it ; 

And  in  that  half-0[ien  box, 
Is  the  dear  old  lady's  bonnet. 

And  there  lie  the  black  silk  mils, 
And  tlie  funny  high-heeled  shoes ; 

And  there  the  pomatum-pot, 
And  the  powder-puffs  she  used  to  use. 

But  she  will  never  use  them  more, 
Neither  to-day  nor  to-morrow^ ! 

She  is  dead  —  and  gone  from  this  world, 
As  the  cat  knows  to  her  sorrow  ! 

But  now  through  that  open  door, 

If  you  take  a  peep, 
You  see  the  great  stately  bed. 

On  which  she  used  to  sleep. 

And  there  rests  her  coffin 

On  that  very  stately  bed,  — 
For  you  must  clearly  understand. 

That  Madam  Fortescue  is  dead  ! 

See  now,  in  this  dressing-room, 

There  sits  the  poor  cat; 
Could  you  have  thought  a  few  days 

Would  make  a  change  like  that? 

See,  how  woe-begone  she  looks — 

In  what  miserable  case, 
I  really  think  I  see  the  tears 

All  running  down  her  face! 

She  has  reason  enough  to  cry,  poor  thing, 

She  has  had  a  great  lo.ss! 
She  had  a  mistress,  the  best  in  the  world, 

She  has  one  now  —  so  cross  I 

There  she  sits  trembling. 
And  hanging  down  her  head, 

As  if  she  knew  misfortune  was  come. 
Now  Madam  Fortescue  is  dead  ! 

And  look,  there  stands  Mrs.  Crabthorn, 

With  a  rope  in  her  hand, 
Giving  to  that  surly  fellow 

A  very  strict  command. 

For  what  ?  to  hang  the  oat ! 

"  For  then,  Scroggin,"  says  she, 
"  I  shall  still  have  my  fifty  pounds  a-year, 

And  what 's  the  cat  to  me ! 

"  To  be  sure  I  promised  Madam 
To  love  the  cat  like  a  relation, — 

But  now  she  is  dead  and  gone, 
Why  that 's  no  signification ! 

"  And  cats  I  never  could  bear, 
And  I  'II  not  be  plagued  with  that ; 

So  take  this  new  rope,  Scroggin, 
And  see  you  hang  the  cat  I 

"Be  sure  to  do  it  safely, — 
Hang  her  with  the  rope  double  ; 

And  her  skin  will  make  you  a  cap. 
Friend  Scroggin,  for  your  trouble  !" 
15* 


Poor  thing,  she  hears  their  words  ■ 
Well  may  she  moan  and  sob  • 

He  is  an  ill-looking  fellow, 
And  seems  to  like  the  job 

He  will  take  the  rope  with  ji 
He's  no  pity  —  not  he! 

And  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
She'll  be  hanging  on  a  tree! 


PART  III. 


Now  in  this  third  part  you  will  see. 
The  end  of  Crabthorn's  treachery  ; 
How  she  had  cause  to  rue  the  day 
Whereon  the  Cat  was  made  away. 


See  now  my  dear  brother 

This  is  the  great  dining-hall, 
Where  the  company  is  assembled 

After  the  funeral. 

It  is  a  very  noble  room ; 

But  now-  we  cannot  stay,  • 

We  must  look  at  the  old  wainscot. 

And  the  pictures  some  other  day. 

See,  here  sits  the  company, 

The  heir  and  all  the  cousins 
The  nephews  and  the  grand-nephews, 

And  the  nieces  by  dozens. 

And  there  is  the  lawyer 

Reading  the  lady's  will, 
For  an  hour  they  've  sat  listening, 

All  of  them,  stock  still. 

The  lawyer  he  has  just  reached 

To  where  the  will  said, 
"  Mrs.  Crabthorn  shall  have  fifty  pounds 

A-year,  till  the  cat  be  dead. 

"  That  fifty  pounds  a-year 

Shall  be  left  to  her  to  keep 
The  cat  in  good  condition. 

With  a  cushion  whereon  to  sleep ; 

"  That  as  long  as  the  cat  live 

The  money  shall  be  her  due." 
And  the  old  lady  prayed  her,  in  her  will. 

To  be  a  loving  guardian  and  true. 

"Goodness  me!"  screamed  Mrs.  Crabthorn, 
"  The  cat 's  dead,  I  do  declare ! 

Who  thought  that  Madam  meant  the  money 
Only  for  the  cat's  share  I 

"  Lawk  sirs,  she  loved  my  lady 

More  than  all  the  world  beside ; 
And  so,  like  any  Christian, 
'She  took  to  her  bed  and  died  ! 

"  She  died  of  grief  for  my  lady, 
On  the  third  day  and  no  other !" 

"You  shall  not  be  forgotten,  Crabthorn  '." 
Said  good  Madam  Fortescue's  brother. 
173 


184 


IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  wijh  that  up  jumps  Scroggin, 

You  see  where  he  stands, 
Dangling  the  very  rojie 

In  his  great,  rough  hands. 

And  moreover  than  that, 

To  make  it  past  a  doubt, 
There  's  the  cat-skin  in  his  pocket. 

Which  he  will  presently  pull  out. 

And  he  tells  all  the  company 

Assembled  there  that  day. 
How  Crablhorn  had  misused  the  cat, 

And  had  her  made  away. 

Now  if  you  inquire  of  me 

Why  her  death  he  did  not  smother, 
I  can  only  say,  bad  people 

Often  betray  one  another. 

And  I  can  very  well  suppose 

They  have  quarrelled  since  that  day. 
And  now  to  be  revenged  on  her 

He  determines  to  betray. 

But  you  see  how  angry  she  is. 
How.  her  face  is  in  a  blaze  ; 

But  she  deserved  her  3isappointment, 
And  so  every  one  says. 

And  now  remember  this, 

My  dear  little  brother. 
Never  be  unkind  or  cruel 

To  one  thing  or  another. 

For  nobody  knows  how  sorely 
They  may  have  cause  to  repent  ; 

And  always,  sooner  or  later, 
There  comes  a  punishment ! 


ANDREW   LEE, 

THE   FISHER   BOY. 

Ah!  Fisher  Boy,  T  well  know  thee, 
Brother  thou  art  to  Marion  Lee  ! 
What!  didst  thou  think  I  knew  thee  not, 
Couldst  thou  believe  I  had  forgot  ? 
For  shame,  fiir  shame !  what  ?  I  forget 
The  treasures  of  thy  laden  net! 
And  how  we  went  one  day  together. 
One  day  of  showery  summer  weather, 
Up  the  sea-shore,  and  for  an  hour 
Stood  sheltering  from  a  pclimg  shower. 
With  an  upturned,  ancient  boat. 
That  had  not  been  for  years  afloat ! 
No,  no,  my  boy  !  I  liked  too  well 
The  old  sca-storios  thou  didst  tell ; 
I  liked  loo  well  thy  roguish  eye  — 
Thy  merry  speech  —  thy  laughter  sly :     . 
Thy  old  sea-jacket,  to  forget, — 
And  then  the  treasures  of  thy  net! 

Oh  Andrew  .  thou  hast  not  forgot, 
I  'm  very  sure  that  thou  hast  not, 


All  that  we  talked  about  that  day, 

Of  famous  countries  far  away ! 

Of  Crusoes  in  their  islands  lone, 

That  never  were,  nor  will  be  known, 

And  yet  this  very  moment  stand 

Upon  some  point  of  mountain  land. 

Looking  out  o'er  the  desert  sea. 

If  chance  some  coming  ship  there  be. 

Thou  know'st  we  talked  of  this — thou  know'st 

We  talked  about  a  ship-boy's  ghost  — 

A  wretched  little  orphan  lad 

Who  served  a  master  stern  and  bad, 

And  had  no  friend  to  take  his  part. 

And  perished  of  a  broken  heart; 

Or  by  his  master's  blows,  some  said. 

For  in  the  boat  they  found  him  dead. 

And  the  boat's  side  was  stained  and  red  ! 

And  then  we  talked  of  many  a  heap 

Of  ancient  treasure  in  the  deep. 

And  the  great  serpent  that  some  men, 

In  far-off  seas,  meet  now  and  then  ; 

Of  grand  sea-palaces  that  shine 

Through  forests  of  old  coralline  ; 

And  wondrous  creatures  that  may  dwell 

In  many  a  crimson  Indian  shell ; 

Till  I  sliook  hands  with  thee,  to  see 

Thou  wast  a  poet  —  Andrew  Lee  ! 

Though  thou  wast  guiltless  all  the  time 

Of  putting  any  thoughts  in  rhyme  ; 

Ah,  little  fisher  boy  !  since  then. 

Ladies  I  've  seen  and  learned  men. 

All  clever,  and  some  great  and  wise. 

Who  study  all  things,  earth  and  skies. 

Who  much  have  seen,  and  much  have  read, 

And  famous  things  have  writ  and  said ; 

But  Andrew,  never  have  I  heard 

One  who  so  much  my  spirit  stirred. 

As  he  who  sate  with  me  an  hour. 

Screened  from  the  pelting  thunder-shower  — 

Now  laughing  in  his  merry  wit; 

Now  talking  in  a  serious  fit. 

In  speech  that  poured  like  water  free ; 

And  that  was  thou  —  poor  Andrew  Lee! 

Then  shame  to  think  I  knew  thee  not  — 
Thou  hast  not,  nor  have  I  forgot ; 
And  long  't  will  be  ere  I  forget 
How  thou  took'st  up  thy  laden  net, 
And  gave  me  all  that  it  contained, 
Because  I  too  thy  heart  had  gained  ! 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

There  was  a  girl  of  fair  Provence, 

Fresh  as  a  flower  in  May, 
Who  'neath  a  spreading  plane-tree  sato, 

Upon  a  summer-day, 
And  thus  unto  a  mourner  young. 

In  a  low  voice  did  sav- 

171 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


165 


"  And  said  I,  I  shall  dance  no  more  ; 

For  though  but  young  in  j^ears, 
I  knew  what  makes  men  wise  and  sad, — 

Affection's  ceaseless  fears, 
And  that  dull  aching  of  the  heart, 

Which  is  not  eased  by  tears. 

"But  sorrow  will  not  always  last, 
Heaven  keeps  our  griefs  in  view  ; 

Mine  is  a  simple  tale,  dear  friend, 
Yet  I  will  tell  it  you  ; 

A  simple  tale  of  household  grief 
And  household  gladness  too. 

"My  father  in  the  battle  died. 

And  left  young  children  three; 
My  brother  Marc,  a  noble  lad. 

With  spirit  bold  and  free, 
More  kind  than  common  brothers  are  ; 

And  Isabel  and  me. 

"  When  Marc  was  sixteen  summers  old, 

A  tall  youth  and  a  strong, 
Said  he,  '  I  am  a  worthless  drone, 

I  do  my  mother  wrong  — 
I  '11  hence  and  win  the  bread  I  eat, 

I  've  burdened  you  loo  long  !' 

"  Oh  !  many  tears  my  mother  shed  ; 

And  earnestly  did  pray. 
That  he  would  still  abide  with  us. 

And  be  the  house's  stay ; 
And  be  like  morning  to  her  eyes. 

As  he  had  been  ahvay. 

"But  Marc  he  had  a  steadfast  will, 

A  purpose  fixed  and  good. 
And  calmly  still  and  manfully 

Her  prayers  he  long  withstood ; 
Until  at  length  she  gave  consent, 

Less  willing  than  subdued. 

"  'T  was  on  a  shining  morn  in  June, 

He  rose  up  to  depart ; 
I  dared  not  to  my  mother  show 

The  sadness  of  my  heart ; 
We  said  farewell,  and  yet  farewell. 

As  if  we  could  not  part. 

"  There  seemed  a  gloom  within  the  house, 
Although  the  bright  sun  shone ; 

There  was  a  want  within  our  hearts  — 
For  he,  the  dearest  one. 

Had  said  farewell  that  morn  of  June, 
And  from  our  sight  was  gone. 

"At  length  most  doleful  tidings  came, 

Sad  tidings  of  dismay; 
The  plague  was  in  the  distant  town. 

And  hundreds  died  each  day ; 
We  thought,  in  truth,  poor  Marc  would  die, 

'Mid  strangers  iar  away. 

"  Weeks  passed,  and  months,  and  not  a  word 

Came  from  him  to  dispel 
The  almost  certainty  of  death 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  fell ; 
My  mother  drooped  from  fear,  which  grew 

Each  day  more  terrible. 


"  At  length  she  said, '  I  'II  see  my  son 

In  life  if  yet  he  be. 
Or  else  the  turf  that  covers  him!' 

When  sank  she  on  her  knee. 
And  clasped  her  hands  in  silent  prayer, 

And  wept  most  piteously. 

"  She  went  into  the  distant  town. 

Still  asking  everywhere 
For  tidings  of  her  long-lost  son  :  — 

In  vain  she  made  her  prayer; 
All  were  so  full  of  woe  themselves, 

No  pity  had  they  to  spare. 

"To  hear  her  tell  that  tale  would  move 

The  sternest  heart  to  bleed ; 
She  was  a  stranger  in  that  place, 

Yet  none  of  her  took  heed ; 
And  broken-hearted  she  came  back, 

A  bowed  and  bruised  reed. 

"  I  marked  her  cheek  yet  paler  grow, 

More  sunken  yet  her  eye ; 
And  to  my  soul  assurance  came 

That  she  was  near  to  die, 
And  hourly  was  my  earnest  prayer 

Put  up  for  her  on  high. 

"  Oh,  what  a  woe  seemed  then  to  us. 

The  friendless  orphan's  fate  ! 
I  dared  not  picture  to  my  mind. 

How  drear,  how  desolate  — 
But,  like  a  frightened  thing,  my  heart 

Shrunk  from  a  pang  so  great ! 

"  We  rarely  left  my  mother's  side, 

'Twas  joy  to  touch  her  hand. 
And  with  unwearying,  patient  love. 

Beside  her  couch  to  stand, 
To  wait  on  her,  and  every  wish 

Unspoke  to  understand. 

"  At  length,  oh  joy  beyond  all  joys! 

When  we  believed  him  dead, 
One  calm  and  sunny  afternoon. 

As  she  lay  on  her  bed 
In  quiet  sleep,  rnethought  below 

I  heard  my  brother's  tread. 

"  I  rose,  and  on  the  chamber  stair, 

I  met  himself — no  other  — 
More  beautiful  than  ere  before. 

My  tall  and  manly  l)r<)ther! 
I  should  have  swooned,  but  for  the  thought 

Of  my  poor  sleeping  mother. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  how  we  met :  — 
I  could  not  speak  for  weeping ; 

Nor  had  I  words  enough  fi)r  joy, — 
My  heart  within  seemed  leaping, 

I  should  have  screamed,  but  for  the  thought 
Of  her  viho  there  lay  sleeping! 

"  That  Marc  returned  in  joy  to  us. 
My  mother  dreamed  e'en  then, 

And  that  prepared  her  for  the  bliss 
Of  meeting  him  again;  — 

To  tell  how  great  that  bliss,  would  need 
The  tongue  of  wisest  men ! 

175 


166 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  His  lightest  tone,  his  very  step, 

More  power  had  they  to  win 
My  drooping  mother  back  to  life, 

Than  every  medicine  ; 
She  rose  again,  like  one  revived 

From  death  where  he  had  been ! 

"  The  story  that  ray  brother  told 

Was  long,  and  full  of  joy; 
Scarce  to  the  city  had  he  come, 

A  poor  and  friendless  boy, 
Than  he  chanced  to  meet  a  merchant  good, 

From  whom  he  asked  employ. 

"  The  merchant  was  a  childless  man ; 

And  in  my  brother's  face. 
Something  he  saw  that  moved  his  heart 

To  such  unusual  grace ; 
'  My  son,'  said  he,  '  is  dead,  wilt  thou 

Supply  to  me  his  place?' 

"  Even  then,  bound  to  the  golden  East, 

His  ship  before  him  lay ; 
And  this  new  bond  of  love  was  formed 

There,  standing  on  the  quay  ; 
My  brother  went  on  board  with  him, 

And  sailed  that  very  day ! 

"  The  letter  that  he  wrote  to  us, 

It  never  reached  our  hand  ,• 
And  while  we  drooped  with  anxious  love. 

He  gained  the  Indian  strand. 
And  saw  a  thousand  wondrous  things. 

In  that  old,  famous  land. 

"  And  many  rich  and  curious  things, 

Bright  bird  and  pearly  shell, 
He  brought  as  if  to  realize 

The  tales  he  had  to  tell  ; 
My  mother  smiled,  and  wept,  and  smiled. 

And  listened,  and  grew  well. 

"  The  merchant  loved  him  more  and  more, 

And  did  a  father's  part  ; 
And  blessed  my  brother  for  the  love 

That  healed  his  woinided  heart  ; 
He  was  a  friend  that  heaven  had  sent 

Kind  mercy  to  impart. 

"So  do  not  droop,  my  gentle  friend, 
Though  grief  may  burden  sore ; 

Look  up  to  God,  for  he  halh  love 
And  comfort  in  great  store. 

And  ofttimes  moveth  human  hearts 
To  bless  us  o'er  and  o'er." 


A   SWINGING   SONG. 

Merry  it  is  on  a  summer's  day. 
All  through  the  meadows  to  wend  away; 
To  watch  the  brooks  glide  fast  or  slow. 
And  the  little  fish  twinkle  down  below ; 
To  hear  the  lark  in  the  blue  sky  sing. 
Oh,  sure  enough,  't  is  a  merry  thing  — 
But  't  is  merrier  far  to  swing  —  to  swing ! 


Merry  it  is  on  a  winter's  night. 

To  listen  to  tales  of  elf  and  sprite. 

Of  caves  and  castle  so  dim  and  old, — 

The  dismallest  tales  that  ever  were  told  ;  — 

And  then  to  laugh,  and  then  to  sing. 

You  may  take  my  word  is  a  merry  thing, — 

But  't  is  merrier  far  to  swing  —  to  swing  ! 

Down  with  tlie  hoop  upon  the  green; 
Down  with  the  ringing  tambourine;  — 
Little  heed  we  for  this  or  for  that ; 
Off  with  the  bonnet,  off  with  tine  hat ! 
Away  we  go  like  birds  on  the  wing ! 
Higher  yet !  higher  yet!  "  Now  for  the  King!" 
This  is  the  way  v^e  swing  —  we  swing ! 

Scarcely  the  bough  bends,  Claude  is  so  light, — 

Mount  up  behind  him  —  there,  that  is  right! 

Down  bends  the  branch  now  ; — sv^-ing  him  away ; 

Higher  yet  —  higher  yet  —  higher  I  say  ! 

Oh,  what  a  joy  it  is !    Now  let  us  sing 

"  A  pear  for  the  Queen  —  an  apple  for  the  King !" 

And  shake  the  old  tree  as  we  swing  —  we  swing ! 


ELLEN    MORE. 

"  Sweet  Ellen  More,"  said  I,  "  come  forth 

Beneath  the  sunny  sky ; 
Why  stand  you  musing  all  alone. 

With  such  an  anxious  eye? 
What  is  it,  child,  that  aileth  you  1" 

And  thus  she  made  reply  :  — 

"  The  fields  are  green,  the  skies  are  bright, 

The  leaves  are  on  the  tree. 
And  'mong  the  sweet  flowers  of  the  thyme 

Far  flies  the  honey-bee ; 
And  the  lark  hath  sung  since  morning  prime. 

And  merrily  singeth  he. 

"  Yet  not  for  this  shall  I  go  forth 

On  the  open  hills  to  play. 
There 's  not  a  bird  that  singeth  now, 

Would  tempt  me  hence  to  stray  ;  — 
I  would  not  leave  our  cottage-door 

For  a  thousand  flowers  to-day  !" 

"  And  why  ?"  said  I,  "  what  is  there  here 

Beside  your  cottage-door, 
To  make  a  merry  girl  like  you 

Thus  idly  stand  to  pore? 
There  is  a  mystery  in  this  thing, — 

Now  tell  me,  Ellen  More !" 

The  fair  girl  looked  into  my  face, 
With  her  dark  and  serious  eye  ; 

Silently  awhile  she  looked. 
Then  heaved  a  quiet  sigh  ; 

And,  with  a  half  reluctant  will. 
Again  she  made  reply. 

176 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


1C7 


"Three  years  ago,  unknown  to  us. 

When  nuts  were  on  the  tree, 
Even  in  the  pleasant  harvest-lime. 

My  brother  went  to  sea  — 
Unknown  to  us,  to  sea  he  went. 

And  a  woful  liouse  were  we. 

"That  winter  was  a  weary  time, 

A  long,  dark  time  of  woe  ; 
For  we  knew  not  in  wliat  ship  he  sailed, 

And  vainly  sougiit  to  know  ; 
And  day  and  nighl  the  loud,  wild  winds 

Seemed  evermore  to  blow. 

"  My  mother  lay  upon  her  bed, 

Her  spirit  sorely  tossed 
With  dismal  thoughts  of  storm  and  wreck 

Upon  some  savage  coast ; 
But  morn  and  eve  we  prayed  to  Heaven 

That  he  might  not  be  lost. 

"  And  when  the  pleasant  spring  came  on, 

And  fields  again  were  green, 
He  sent  a  letter  full  of  news, 

Of  the  wonders  he  had  seen  ; 
Praying  us  to  think  him  dutiful 

As  he  afore  had  been. 

"The  tidings  that  came  next  were  from 

A  sailor  old  and  grey, 
Who  saw  his  ship  at  anchor  lie 

In  the  harbour  at  Bombay  ; 
But  he  said  my  brother  pined  for  home, 

And  wished  he  were  away. 

"  Again  he  wrote  a  letter  long. 

Without  a  word  of  gloom  ; 
And  soon,  and  very  soon  he  said, 

He  should  again  come  home  ; 
I  watched,  as  now,  beside  the  door. 

And  yet  he  did  not  come. 

"  I  watched  and  watched,  but  I  knew  not  then 

It  would  be  all  in  vain ; 
For  very  sick  he  lay  the  while. 

In  a  hospital  in  Spain. — 
Ah,  me  I  I  fear  my  brother  dear 

Will  ne'er  come  home  again! 

"  And  now  I  watch — for  we  have  heard 

That  he  is  on  his  way, 
And  the  letter  said,  in  very  truth, 

He  would  be  here  to-day. 
Oh  I  there  's  no  bird  that  singeth  now 

Could  tempt  me  hence  away !" 

— That  self-same  eve  I  wandered  down 

Unto  the  busy  strand. 
Just  as  a  little  boat  came  in 

With  people  to  the  land  ; 
And  'raongst  them  was  a  sailor-boy, 

^\^lo  leaped  ujwn  the  sand. 

I  knew  him  by  his  dark  blue  eyes. 
And  by  his  features  fair; 
X 


And  as  he  leapt  ashore,  he  sang 

A  simple  Scottish  air, — 
"There  's  nae  place  like  our  iiiu  dear  hame 

To  be  met  wi'  onyw  here  I" 


A  DAY   OF    DISASTERS. 

A    CONVERSATION   BETWEEN    PETER   AND 
ZEDEKIAH. 

Peter. — Zedekiah,  come  here  ! 
Zedekiaii. — Well  now,  what 's  the  matter  ? 
Peter. — Look  at  my  hat ;  the  more  I  set  it  right,  it 

only  gets  the  flatter. 
Zedekiah. — Why,  Peter,  what 's  come  lo  your  hat  ? 

I  never  saw  such  a  thing. 
Peter. — I 've  had  nothing  but  ill-luck  to-day;  I  did 

this  with  the  swmg  ; 
I  've  been  tossed  into  the  apple-tree  just  as  if  I  was 

a  ball. 
And  though  I  caught  hold  of  a  bough,  I  've  had  a 

terrible  fall ; 
I'm  sure  I  should  have  cracked  my  skull,  had  it  not 

been  for  my  hat. 
You  may  see  what  a  fall  it  was,  for  the  crown  's  quite 

flat; 
And  it  never  will  take  its  shape  again,  do  all  that 

ever  I  may! 
Zedekiah. — Never  mind  it,  Peter!    Put  it  on  your 

head,  and  come  along,  I  say  ! 
Peter. — Nay,  I  shall  not.    I  shall  sit  down  under 

this  tree ; 
I've  had  nothing  but  ill-luck  to-day.   Come,  sit  down 

by  me, 
And  I  '11  tell  you  all,  Zedekiah,  for  I  feel  quite  for- 
lorn ; 
Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  J  'm  lamed  now  ! — I  've  sate  down 

upon  a  thorn  ! 
Zedekiah. — Goodness'  sake  !    Peter  be  still — what  a 

terrible  bellow  — 
One  would  think  you  'd  sate  on  a  hornet's  nest ;  sit 

down,  my  good  fellow. 
Peter. — I  '11  be  sure  there  are  no  more  thorns  here, 

before  I  sit  down  ; 
Pretty  well  of  one  thorn  at  a  time.  Master  Zedekiah 

Brown ! 
There,  now,  I  think  this  seat  is  safe  and  easy — so  now 

you  must  know 
I  was  fast  asleep  at  breakfast-time ;  and  you  '11  al- 

waj's  find  it  so. 
That  if  you  begin  a  day  ill,  it  will  be  ill  all  the  day. 
Well,  when  I  woke,  the  breakfast-things  were  clat- 
tering all  away ; 
And  I  know  they  had  eggs  and  f6v\  1,  and  all  sort  of 

good  things ; 
But  then  none  may  partake  who  are  in  bed  when  the 

morning  bell  rings ; 
So,  sadly  vexed  as  1  was,  I  rolled  myself  round  ia 

bed, 
And,  "as  breakfast  is  over,  I  '11  not  hurry  myself,"  I 

said, 

177 


168 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


So  I  just  got  into  a  nice  little  doze,  when  in  came 

my  mother; 
And  "  for  shame,  Peter,"  she  said,  "  to  be  a-bed  now ! 

well,  you  can't  go  with  your  brother !" 
Then  out  of  the  door  she  went,  without  another  word  ; 
And  just  then  a  sound  of  wheels,  and  of  pawing 

horses'  hoofs  I  heard  ; 
So  I  jumped  up  to  the  window  to  see  what  it  was, 

and  I  declare 
There  was  a  grand  party  of  fine  folks  setting  off 

somewhere  : 
There  was  my  brother,  mounted  on  the  pony  so  sleek 

and  brown  ; 
And  Bell  in  her  while  frock,  and  my  mother  in  her 

satin  gown ; 
And  my  father  in  his  best,  and  two  gentlemen  beside ; 
And  I  had  never  heard  a  word  about  it,  either  of  drive 

or  ride ! 
I  really  think  it  was  very  queer  of  them  to  set  off  in 

that  way  — 
If  I  'd  only  known  over-night,  I  'd  have  been  up  by 

break  of  day ! 
As  you  may  think,  I  was  sadly  vexed,  but  1  did  not 

choose  to  show  it. 
So  I  whistled  as  I  came  down  stairs,  that  the  servants 

might  not  know  it ; 
Then  I  went  into  the  yard,  and  called  the  dog  by  his 

name. 
For  I  thought  if  they  were  gone,  he  and  I  might  have 

a  good  game ; 
But  I  called  and  called,  and  there  was  no  dog  either 

in  this  place  or  th'  other ; 
And  Thomas  said,  "  Master  Peter,  Neptune's  gone 

with  your  brother." 
Well,  as  there  was  no  dog,  I  went  to  look  for  the  fox, 
And  sure  enough  the  chain  was  broke,  and  there 

was  no  creature  in  the  box  ; 
But  where  the  fellow  was  gone  nobody  could  say. 
He  had  broken  loose  himself,  I  suppose,  and  so  had 

slipped  away  ; 
I  would  give  anything  I  have  but  to  find  the  fox 

again  — 
And  was  it  not  provoking,  Zedekiah,  to  lose  him  just 

then? 
Zedekiah.  —  Provoking  enough!     Well,  Peter,  and 

what  happened  next  ? 
Peter. — Why,  when  I  think  of  it  now,  it  makes  me 

quite  vexed  ; 
I  went  into  the  garden,  just  to  look  about 
To  see,  if  the  green  peas  were  ready,  or  the  scarlet- 
lychnis  come  out ; 
And  there,  what  should  I  clap  my  eyes  on  but  the 

old  sow. 
And  seven  little  pigs,  making  a  pretty  row ! 
And  of  all  places  in  the  world,  as  if  for  very  spite. 
They  had  gone    into  my  garden,  and   spoiled   and 

ruined  it  quite ! 
The  old  sow,  she  had  grubbed  up  my  rosemary  and 

old-man  by  the  root. 
And  my  phlox  and  my  sunflowers,  and  my  hollyhoclis, 

that  were  as  black  as  soot ; 
And  every  flower  that  1  set  store  on  was  ruined  for 

ever ; 


I  never  was  so  mortified  in  all  my  life  —  never! 

Zedekiah. — You  sent  them  off,  I  should  think,  with 
a  famous  swither ! 

Peter. — Grunting  and  tumbling  one  over  the  other, 
I  cared  not  whither. 

Well,  as  I  was  just  then  standing,  grieving  over  the 
ruin, 

I  heard  Thomas  call,  "  Master  Peter,  come  and  see 
what  the  rats  have  been  doing  — 

They  've  eaten  all  the  guinea-pigs'  heads  off!" 

Zedekiah. — Oh,  Peter,  was  it  true  ? 

Peter. — Away  I  ran,  not  knowing  what  in  the  viorld 
to  do !  — 

And  there  —  I  declare  it  makes  me  quite  shudder  to 
the  bone  — 

Lay  all  my  pretty  little  guinea-pigs  as  dead  as  a  stone! 

"  It 's  no  manner  of  use,"  says  Thomas, "  setting  traps ; 
for  you  see 

They  no  more  care  for  a  trap,  than  I  do  for  a  pea ; 

I  '11  lay  my  life  on 't,  there  are  twenty  rats  now  down 
in  that  hole. 

And  we  can  no  more  reach  'em,  than  an  under- 
ground mole !" 

I  declare,  Zedekiah,  I  never  passed  such  a  day  be- 
fore —  not  I ; 

It  makes  me  quite  low-spirited,  till  I  'm  ready  to  cry. 

All  those  pretty  guinea-pigs !  and  I  've  nothing  left 
at  all. 

Only  the  hawk,  and  I  've  just  set  his  cage  on  the  wall. 

Zedekiah. — Hush!  hush,  now!  for  Thomas  is  saying 
something  there, 

Peter. — What  d'  ye  say,  Thomas  ? 

Thomas.  —  The  hawk's  soaring  in  the  air!  The 
cage-door  was  open,  and  he 's  flown  clean  away! 

Peter. — There  now,  Zedekiah,  is  it  not  an  unfortu- 
nate day  ? 

I  've  lost  all  my  favourites — I  've  nothing  left  at  all, 

And  my  garden  is  spoiled,  and  I  've  had  such  a 
dreadful  fall! 

I  wish  I  had  been  up  this  morning  as  early  as  the  sun, 

And  then  I  should  have  gone  to  Canonley,  nor  have 
had  all  this  mischief  done  ! 

I  'm  sure  it 's  quite  enough  to  make  me  cry  for  a  year — 

Let 's  go  into  the  house,  Zedekiah  ;  what  'a  the  use 
of  sitting  here  ? 


THE  YOUNG  MOURNER. 

Leaving  her  sports,  in  pensive  tone, 
'T  was  thus  a  fair  young  mourner  said, 

"  How  sad  we  are  now  we  're  alone,  — 
I  wish  my  mother  were  not  dead ! 

"I  can  remember  she  was  fair; 

And  how  she  kindly  looked  and  smiled. 
When  she  would  fondly  stroke  my  hair, 

And  call  me  her  beloved  child. 

"  Before  my  mother  went  away, 
You  never  sighed  as  now  you  do ; 

You  used  to  join  us  at  our  play, 
And  be  our  merriest  playmate  too. 
178 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


169 


"  Father,  I  can  remember  when 
I  first  observed  her  sunken  eye, 

And  her  pale,  Iwllow  cheek  ;  and  then 
1  told  my  brother  she  would  die ! 

"And  the  next  morn  they  did  not  speak, 

But  led  us  to  her  silent  bed  ; 
They  bade  us  kiss  her  icy  cheek. 

And  told  us  she  indeed  was  dead  ! 

"  Oh,  then  I  thought  how  ahe  was  kind, 
My  own  beloved  and  gentle  mother ! 

And  calling  all  I  knew  to  mind, 

I  thought  there  ne'er  was  such  another! 

"  Poor  little  Charles,  and  I !  that  day 
We  sate  within  our  silent  room  ; 

But  we  could  neither  read  nor  play, — 
The  very  walls  seemed  lull  of  gloom. 

"  I  wish  my  mother  had  not  died. 

We  never  have  been  glad  since  then  ; 

They  say,  and  is  it  true,"  she  cried, 
"  That  she  can  never  come  again  ?" 

The  father  checked  his  tears,  and  thus 
He  spake,  "  My  child,  they  do  not  err, 

Who  say  she  cannot  come  to  us  ; 
But  you  and  I  may  go  to  her. 

"  Remember  your  dear  mother  still, 
And  the  pure  precepts  she  has  given  ; 

Like  her,  be  humble,  free  from  ill. 
And  you  shall  see  her  face  in  heaven !'' 


THE  BEAR  AND  THE  BAKERS. 

A     TRUE     STORY. 

I.\  the  old  town  in  which  I  live, 
The  event  occurred  of  which  I  mean  to  speak  ; 
To  know  what  town  that  is,  ye  need  not  seek  ; 
No  further  information  shall  I  give. 
In  this  town  is  an  annual  fair, 
Such  as,  I  will  be  bound  to  say, 
May  not  be  met  with  everywhere. 
Then  all  the  people  look  extremely  gay. 
And  all  the  children  have  a  holiday : 
Then  there  are  cows,  and  sheep,  and  pigs  to  sell, 
And  more  than  I  can  tell ; 
And  booths  are  ranged  in  rows. 
Full  of  all  sorts  of  pretty  things. 
Glass  necklaces,  and  copper  rings. 
And  pins, and  gloves, and  bracelets,  combs, and  boxes; 
And  then  there  are  such  quantities  of  shows. 
All  crammed  with  lions,  elephants,  and  Ibxes  I 
.\nd  for  the  little  people,  dolls  and  balls. 
Horses  and  coaches,  whips  and  penny  trumpets  : 
And  many  different  sorts  of  stalls, 
Filled  with  sweet  cakes  and  ginger-bread  and  crum- 
pets; 
And  then  there  is  the  learned  pig. 
And  the  great  "  Mister  Bigg," 
The  famous  English  Patagonian; 


And  the  grey  pony  that  can  dance  so  well ; 
And  then  there  is  the  wee,  wee  man. 
That  in  seven  languages  can  read  and  spell, 
Though  scarcely  bigger  than  a  lady's  fan ; 
And  crowds  of  people  staring  in  amaze, 
And  thronging  twenty  different  ways, 
And  pu.shing  you  against  the  wall. 
Till  you  can  scarcely  keep  your  legs  at  all. 

Well,  unto  this  same  fair, 

There  came,  the  night  before, 

A  famous  dancing  bear. 

And  several  monkeys  on  his  back  he  bore ; 

But  with  the  monkeys  we  have  nought  to  do  — 

The  bear  alone  concerns  our  story. 

Now  as  niglu's  curtain  had  begun  to  drop, 

And  they  had  travelled  far. 

The  master  of  the  bear  resolved  to  stop. 

Just  where  the  town  lay  stretching  out  before  ye. 

Until  the  morning,  at  the  Golden  Star; 

So,  without  more  ado, 

The  bear  was  led 

Into  a  little  shed. 

And  housed,  as  they  thought,  for  the  night. 

Bruin,  however,  did  not  like  his  quarters, 

And,  without  askmg  if  the  thing  were  right. 

Or  sifting  an  important  business  through. 

As  reasonable  people  do. 

Walked  out ;  nor  did  mine  hostess,  nor  her  daughter^' 

Nor  guest  of  any  sort,  behold  him  go. 

By  this  time  it  was  dark  enough  ; 
And  Bruin  walked  into  a  common  rough, 
That  lay  behind  the  Golden  Star ; 
And  there  he  wandered  up  and  down  — 
When  thus  it  came  to  pass, 
A  baker  from  the  town 
Was  carrying  fagots  for  the  morning ; 
And  he  had  not  gone  far 
Before  he  saw  what  he  supposed  an  ass. 
In  the  dusk  night-fall,  shaggy,  wild,  and  black ;      • 
So,  without  any  warning, 
I?e  threw  the  fagots  on  his  back. 
Thinking  it  was  a  lucky  chance 
To  meet  with  such  a  beast! 
Bruin,  thus  taken  by  surprise, 
Began  to  prance  -■ 

And  growl,  and  stare  with  fiery  eyes. 
The  man,  who  never  in  the  least 
F.xpectcd  such  a  spirited  retort. 
Stopped  for  a  moment  short ; 
Then  sprang  along  o'er  smooth  and  rough. 
Expecting  that  a  thing 
So  wild  and  gruff 

Upon  his  back  would  make  a  sudden  spring. 
And  eat  him  at  a  mouthful,  sure  enough  ! 
Poor  Bruin  had  no  such  intent. 
But  on  he  went, 
Down  to  a  neighbouring  lane. 
Picking  his  way  as  best  he  could. — 
But  in  mv  second  part. I  will  explain 
The  iiat'j.'e  uf  the  place  whereon  he  stood. 
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HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


PART  II. 

'T  WAS  on  the  confines  of  that  common  hoary, 

Which,  like  a  wall,  stood  up  against  the  lane  — 

Because  the  common  was  much  higher  ground  — 

So  that  the  houses  standing  there. 

Seemed  at  the  back  only  one  single  story, 

Though,  in  the  front,  they  all  of  them  were  twain. 

I'm  very  much  afraid  this  will  be  found 

An  explanation  rather  dark  and  lame  ; 

But  as  you  read  you  '11  understand  it  better. 

If  you  attend,  at  least,  unto  the  letter. 

But,  let  us  now  unto  the  bear : — 

'T  was  to  the  back  of  such  a  house  he  came, 

Built  'gainst  this  higher  ground. 

So  that  he  found, 

Without  being  in  the  least  to  blame. 

His  nose  against  a  window-grate 

Which  opened  straight 

Into  a  well-stored  larder. 

In  this  small  house  there  dwelt  another  baker, 

A  famous  man  for  penny  pies : 

Of  cakes  and  ginger-bread,  a  noted  maker, 

And  sausages  likewise. 

No  wonder  let  it  be,  therefore. 

That  there  was  such  a  store 

Of  legs  of  mutton,  dainty  pork, 

And  pies  just  ready  for  the  knife  and  fork. 

These  things  just  sta.nding  under  bruin's  nose, 

You  may  suppose 

Would  make  him  long  to  have  a  little  taste  ; 

So,  through  the  grate, 

Headlong  he  plunged  —  a  lumbering  weight  — 

And  many  jingling  tins  displaced. 

Poor  bruin  never  thought,  not  he. 

The  window  was  just  at  the  ceiling. 

And  he  should  fall  so  far  and  heavily  ; 

And  after  all,  be  taken  up  for  stealing  ! 

The  baker  being  awakened  by  this  din. 
Blunder  on  blunder,  tin  on  tin. 
Thought  twenty  thieves  were  breaking  in ! 
He  was  a  tall  and  sturdy  fellow. 
And  to  his  only  son, 
Most  stoutly  he  began  to  bellow  — 
"Jack,  get  the  double-barrelled  gun, 
A  host  of  thieves  is  in  the  pantry  — 
Twenty  they  are,  or  more  ; 
Do  you  go  out  and  keep  strict  sentry, 
And  shoot  the  first  who  ventures  out. 
The  while  I  guard  the  door !" 
As  soon  as  said,  the  thing  was  done, — 
Jack  took  the  double-barrelled  gun, 
And  stood  before  the  broken  grate  : 
"  Ah,  thieves  !"  said  he,  with  lusty  shout, 
"  If  you  come  out, 

I'll  scatter  twenty  bullets  round  about!" 
The  bear,  so  frightened  at  this  sad  disaster, 
And,  thinking  Jack  must  be  his  master, 
Lay  quite  stock  still : 
Meanwhile,  the  baker  stood  before. 
And  double-locked  the  pantry-door. 
"There,  there!"  said  he,  "I've  got  them  fast, 
I  've  caught  the  rogues  at  last !" 


All  this  poor  bruin  heard. 

And  much  he  marvelled  at  his  case  ; 

Thus  prisoned  in  that  trap-like  place  ; 

Yet  so  the  baker  scolded  if  he  stirred  ; 

And  so  much  did  he  fear  his  master's  stick, 

Heavy  and  thick. 

He  dared  not  reconnoitre,  nor  look  out. 

Lest  something  worse  should  come  about ; 

Therefore,  he  lay  quite  still, 

Though  it  was  very  much  against  hia  will. 

Jack  was  outside,  a  watchful  sentinel. 

He  noted  all  that  happened  in  the  night : 

He  heard  the  asses  braying  on  the  common ; 

He  saw  the  earliest  streak  of  morning  light ; 

He  heard  the  watchmen  in  the  town. 

With  their  dull  voices  passing  up  and  dowTi, 

And  the  Exchange  clock,  with  its  heavy  bell, 

The  hours  with  quarters  tell : 

He  saw  the  earliest  passing  countrywoman ; 

And  now  a  man,  and  now  a  boy  he  saw  ; 

And  now  the  morning  grew  so  keen  and  raw, 

He  wished  his  task  was  o'er; 

And  now  he  heard  the  clocks  strike  four ; 

And  now, — O  welcome  sight. 

He,  in  the  Golden  Star,  beheld  a  light ! 

While  Jack,  to  notice  all  these  things  was  able, 

His  father  made 

A  very  decent  sort  of  barricade. 

Of  chair  and  table  ; 

So  that  the  foe,  if  he  had  been  inclined 

To  issue  forth,  might  find 

The  thing  impracticable. 

This  done,  soon  as  the  clock  struck  four. 

The  baker  left  his  door; 

But  all  so  silently. 

That  the  trapped  enemy 

Might  still  suppose  him  watching  at  his  post, 

As  powerful  as  a  host. 

Down  to  the  Golden  Star  in  haste  he  ran. 

And  there  he  found  them  bustling  all  about. 

Fetching  and  carrying,  mistress,  maid,  and  man. 

Though  't  was  so  early,  going  in  and  out. 

To  them  he  told  the  adventures  of  the  night, 

And  all  were  in  a  great  affright ; 

And  all  indignant  at  the  thieves'  audacity : 

"  Is  it  not  wonderful  ?"  said  they, 

"But  in  the  present  day. 

All  men,  even  thieves,  have  an  improved  capacity  I 

This  said,  with  sudden  haste 

They  called  up  every  guest. 

Carter,  and  cattle-driver,  groom  and  jockey, 

And  the  bear's  master,  wild  and  black ; 

Until  the  baker  thought  he  was  most  lucky 

To  muster  such  a  party  at  his  back. 

Unto  the  house  they  came,  and  pulled  down,  first, 

The  formidable  barricade ; 

And  then  they  grew  afraid. 

Lest  out  the  dreadful  enemy  should  burst. 

At  length  each  heart  grew  bolder. 

And  o'er  his  neighbour's  shoulder 

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TALES  IN  VERSE. 


171 


Kach  held  a  lighted  candle;  and,  en  mafse. 

They  rushed  into  the  place  where  bruin  was! 

There,  skulking  in  his  shaggy  coat,  they  saw 

A  frightful  something  with  a  paw ! 

"  Up,  up  with  you  at  once  I" 

Shouted  poor  bruin's  master  in  his  ears ; 

And  he,  who  was  no  dunce, 

And  had  so  many  fears. 

And  knew  that  voice  so  well. 

Sprang  in  a  moment  to  his  hinder  legs, 

Just  like  a  little  dog  that  begs, 

And  danced  a  hornpipe  to  a  miracle ! 

Half  angry  was  the  baker,  seeing  thus, 

That  after  all  his  fuss. 

The  thieves  were  nothing  but  a  dancing-bear ! 

And  yet  he  took  it  in  good  part, 

And  tried  to  laugh  with  all  his  heart. 

And  said  it  was  a  joke  most  capital ! 

And  through  all  the  fair 

'T  was  told  at  every  booth  and  every  stall. 

What  fancy  bruin  had  for  dainty  store  ; 

And  many  people  gave  him  ginger-bread  ; 

And  he  with  buns  and  penny-pies  was  fed, 

So  that  he  never  fared  so  well  before  ! 


THE  SOLDIER'S  STORY. 

"Heavex  bless  the  boys  !"  the  old  man  said, 
■'  I  hear  their  distant  drumming, — 

Young  Arthur  Bruce  is  at  their  head, 
And  down  the  street  they  're  coming. 

"  And  a  very  noble  standard  too 

He  carries  in  the  van  ; 
By  the  faith  of  an  old  soldier,  he 

Is  bom  to  make  a  man  I" 

A  glow  of  pride  passed  o'er  his  cheek, 

A  tear  came  to  his  eye ; 
"  Hurra,  hurra !  my  gallant  men  !" 

Cried  he,  as  they  came  nigh. 

"  It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday 

Since  I  was  one  like  ye, 
And  now  my  years  are  seventy-two, — 

Come  here,  and  talk  with  me  !" 

They  made  a  halt,  those  merry  boys. 

Before  the  aged  man ; 
And  "  tell  us  now  some  story  wild," 

Young  Arthur  Bruce  began ; 

"  Of  battle  and  of  victory 

Tell  us  some  stirring  thing  !" 
The  old  man  raised  his  arm  aloft. 

And  cried,  "  God  save  the  king ! 

"  A  soldier 's  is  a  life  of  fame, 

A  life  that  hath  its  meed  — 
They  write  his  wars  in  printed  books, 

That  every  man  may  read. 
16 


"  And  if  you  'd  hear  a  story  wild, 

Of  war  and  battle  done, 
I  am  the  man  to  tell  such  tales, 

And  j'ou  shall  now  have  one. 

"  In  every  quarter  of  the  globe 

I  've  fought  —  by  sea,  by  land  ; 
And  scarce  for  five  and  fifty  years 

Was  the  musket  from  my  hand. 

"  But  the  bloodiest  wars,  and  fiercest  too. 
That  were  waged  on  any  shore. 

Were  those  in  which  my  strength  was  spent, 
In  the  country  of  Mysore. 

"  And  oh  !  what  a  fearful,  deadly  clime 

Is  that  of  the  Indian  land. 
Where  the  burning  sun  shines  fiercely  down 

On  the  hot  and  fiery  sand  ! 

"  The  life  of  man  seems  little  worth, 

And  his  arm  hath  little  power 
His  very  soul  within  him  dies, 

As  dies  a  l>n)ken  flower. 

"Yet  spite  of  this,  was  India  made 

As  for  a  kingly  throne  ; 
There  gold  is  plentiful  as  dust, 

As  sand  the  diamond  stone  ; 

''  And  like  a  temple  is  each  house. 

Silk-curtained  from  the  sun  ; 
And  every  man  has  twenty  slaves. 

Who  at  his  bidding  run. 

"  He  rides  on  the  lordly  elephant. 

In  solemn  pomp ; — and  there 
They  hunt  the  gold-striped  tiger. 

As  here  they  hunt  the  hare. 

"  Yet  it  is  a  dreadful  clime !  and  we 

Up  in  the  country  far 
Were  sent, — we  were  two  thousand  men, 

In  a  disastrous  war. 

"  The  soldiers  died  in  the  companies 

As  if  the  plague  had  been  ; 
And  soon  in  every  twenty  men, 

The  dead  were  seventeen. 

"  We  went  to  storm  a  fort  of  mud  — 
And  yet  the  place  was  strong  — 

Three  thousand  men  were  guarding  it, 
And  they  had  kept  it  long. 

"  We  were  in  all  three  hundred  souls. 

Feeble  and  worn  and  wan  ; 
Like  walking  spectres  of  the  tomb. 

Was  every  living  man. 

"  Yet  Arthur  Bruce,  now  standing  there. 

With  the  ensign  of  his  band. 
Reminds  me  of  a  gallant  youth, 

Who  fought  at  my  right  hand. 

"  Scarce  five  and  twenty  years  of  age, 

And  feeble  as  the  rest, 
Y'et  with  the  bearing  of  a  king. 

That  noble  soul  expressed. 

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HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  But  a  silent  grief  vvns  in  his  eye, 

And  oft  his  noble  frame 
Shook  like  a  quivering  aspen  leaf, 

And  his  colour  went  and  came. 

"  He  marched  by  my  side  for  seven  days, 

Most  patient  of  our  band  ; 
And  night  and  day  he  ever  kept 

Our  standard  in  his  hand. 

"  They  fought  with  us  like  tigers. 

Before  that  fort  of  mud  ; 
And  all  around  the  burning  sands 

Were  as  a  marsh  with  blood. 

"  We  watched  that  young  man, — he  to  us 

Was  as  a  kindling  hope ; 
We  saw  him  pressing  on  and  on, 

Bearing  the  standard  up. 

"  At  length  it  for  a  moment  veered  — 

A  ball  had  struck  his  hand. 
But  he  seized  the  banner  with  his  left, 

Without  a  moment's  stand. 

"  He  mounted  upward  to  the  wall ; 

He  waved  the  standard  high, — 
But  then  another  smote  him  ! — 

And  the  captain  standing  by 

"  Said,  '  Of  this  gallant  youth  take  care. 
He  hath  won  for  us  the  day  !' 

I  and  my  comrades  took  him  up. 
And  bore  him  thence  away. 

"  There  was  no  tree  about  the  place, 

So  'neath  the  fortress  shade 
We  carried  him,  and  carefully 

Upon  the  red  sand  laid. 

"  I  took  the  feather  from  my  cap. 

To  fan  his  burning  cheek  ; 
I  gave  him  water,  drop  by  drop, 

And  prayed  that  he  would  speak. 

"  At  lengtij  he  said,  '  mine  hour  is  come  ! 

My  soldier-name  is  bright ; 
But  a  pang  there  is  within  my  soul, 

That  hath  wrung  me  day  and  night : 

" '  I  left  my  mother's  home  without 
Her  blessing  ; — she  doth  mourn, 

Doth  weep  for  me  with  bitter  tears, — 
I  never  can  return  ! 

"'This  bowed  my  eagle-spirit  down. 
This  robbed  mine  eye  of  rest ; 

I  left  her  widowed  and  alone  : — 
Oh  that  I  had  been  blessed  !' 

"  No  more  he  said, — he  closed  his  eyes. 

And  yet  he  died  not  then  ; 
He  lived  till  the  morrow  morning  came, 

But  he  never  spoke  again." 

This  tale  the  veteran  soldier  told. 

Upon  a  summer's  day; — 
The  boys  came  merrily  down  the  street. 

But  they  all  went  sad  away. 


MARIEN   LEE. 

Not  a  care  hath  Marien  Lee, 
Dwelling  by  the  sounding  sea ! 
Her  young  life  's  a  flowery  way  : — 
Without  toil  from  day  to  day. 
Without  bodings  for  the  morrow, — 
Marien  was  not  made  for  sorrow  I 

Like  the  summer-billows  wild 
Leaps  the  happy-hearted  child  ; 
Sees  her  father's  fishing  boat. 
O'er  the  waters  gaily  float ; 
Hears  her  brother's  fishing-song 
On  the  light  gale  borne  along; 
Half  a  league  she  hears  the  lay, 
Ere  they  turn  into  the  bay, 
And  with  glee,  o'er  cliff  and  main. 
Sings  an  answer  back  again. 
Which  by  man  and  boy  is  heard. 
Like  the  carol  of  a  bird. 
Look !  she  sitteth  laughing  there. 
Wreathing  sea-weed  in  her  hair. 
Saw  ye  e'er  a  thing  so  fair  ? 

Marien,  some  are  rich  in  gold, 
Heaped-up  treasure-stores  untold ; 
Some  in  thought  sublime,  refined. 
And  the  glorious  wealth  of  mind  : 
Thou,  sweet  child,  life's  rose  unblown, 
Hast  a  treasure  of  thine  own  — 
Youth's  most  unalloyed  delights  ; 
Happy  days,  and  tranquil  nights; 
Hast  a  brain  with  thought  unvexed  ; 
A  heart  untroubled,  unperplexed  ! 
Go,  thou  sweet  one,  all  day  long. 
Like  a  glad  bird,  pour  thy  song  ; 
And  let  thy  young,  graceful  head. 
Be  with  sea-flowers  garlanded  ; 
P"or  all  outward  signs  of  glee. 
Well  befit  thee,  Marien  Lee  ! 


THE  CHILD'S  LAMENT. 

I  LIKE  it  not  —  this  noisy  street 

I  never  liked,  nor  can  I  now  — 
I  love  to  feel  the  ple.isant  breeze 
On  the  free  hills,  and  see  the  trees. 

With  birds  upon  the  bough! 

Oh,  I  remember  long  ago, — 

So  long  ago,  'lis  like  a  dream  — 
My  home  was  on  a  green-hill  side. 
By  flowery  meadows,  still  and  wide, 

'Mong  trees,  and  by  a  stream. 

Three  happy  brothers  I  had  then. 

My  merry  playmates  every  day  — 
I  've  looked  and  looked  through  street  and  square,  1 
But  never  chanced  I,  anywhere,  I 

To  see  such  boys  as  they. 

182 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


173 


We  all  had  gardens  of  our  own  — 
Four  little  gardens  in  a  row, — 

And  there  we  set  our  twining  peas ; 

And  rows  of  cress ;  and  real  trees, 
And  real  flowers  to  grow. 

My  father  I  remember  too, 
And  even  now  his  face  can  see  ; 

And  the  grey  horse  he  used  to  ride, 

And  the  old  dog  that  at  his  side 
Went  barking  joyfully! 

He  used  to  fly  my  brothers'  kites. 
And  build  them  up  a  man  of  snow. 

And  sail  their  boats,  and  with  them  race  ; 

And  carry  me  from  place  to  place, 
Just  as  I  liked  to  go. 

I  'm  sure  he  was  a  pleasant  man. 

And  people  must  have  loved  him  well !  - 
O,  I  remember  that  sad  day 
When  they  bore  him  in  a  hearse  away. 
And  tolled  his  funeral  belli 

Thy  mother  comes  each  night  to  kiss 
Thee,  in  thy  little  quiet  bed  — 

So  came  my  mother  years  ago  ; 

And  I  loved  her  —  oh  !  I  loved  her  so, 
'T  was  joy  to  hear  her  tread  I 

It  must  be  many,  many  years 

Since  then,  and  yet  I  can  recall 
Her  very  tone  —  her  look  —  her  dress. 
Her  pleasant  smile  and  gentleness, 
That  had  kind  words  for  all. 

She  told  us  tales,  she  sang  us  songs, 
And  in  our  pastimes  took  delight. 

And  joined  us  in  our  summer  glee. 

And  sat  with  us  beneath  the  tree  ; 

Nor  wearied  of  our  company. 
Whole  days,  from  morn  till  night. 

Alas !  I  know  that  she  is  dead. 
And  in  the  cold,  cold  grave  is  hid  ; 

I  saw  her  in  her  coffin  lie. 

With  the  grim  mourners  standing  by  ; 

And  silent  people  solemnly 
Closed  down  the  cofl^m  lid. 

My  brothers  were  not  there  —  ah  me  ! 

I  know  not  where  they  went ;  some  said 
With  a  rich  man  beyond  the  sea 
That  they  were  dwelling  ])leasantly  — 

And  some  that  they  were  dead. 

I  cannot  think  that  it  is  so, 

I  never  saw  them  pale  and  thin. 
And  the  last  time  their  voice  I  heard, 
Merry  were  they  as  a  summer-bird. 
Singing  its  bowers  within. 

I  wish  that  I  could  see  their  faces, 
Or  know  at  least  that  they  were  near; 

Ah!  gladly  would  I  cross  the  sea. 

So  that  with  them  I  might  but  be. 

For  now  my  days  pass  wearily. 
And  all  are  strangers  here. 


THE   SAILOR'S    WIFE. 

A   TALE    OF   THE    SEA. 

Heaven  keep  the  wives  of  seamen. 
And  bless  their  children  small. 

For  they  have  (wwer  to  cheer  us. 
If  sorrow  should  befall ! 

I  '11  tell  you  how  the  thoughts  of  them 
Once  saved  a  ship  in  need. 

As  if  they'd  been  the  seraphim 
That  had  of  us  good  heed. 

A  stout  ship  was  the  Halcyon, 

As  ever  sailed  the  sea ; 
The  crew  that  manned  the  Halcyon, 

Were  thirty  hands  and  three. 

I  was  the  good  ship's  purser, 

The  ocean  was  my  joy  — 
The  waves  had  been  my  playmates 

^Vhen  I  was  but  a  boy. 

The  masfer  of  the  Halcyon 
Was  good  as  he  was  bold  ; 

Let  the  name  of  William  Morrison 
Throughout  the  world  be  told  ! 

We  heaved  the  Halcyon's  anchor 

On  the  twenty-first  of  May, 
And  from  our  wives  and  children 

With  sorrow  went  away. 

My  wife  was  bonny  Betsy, 
Both  trim  and  true  was  she  ; 

We  called  the  good  ship  after  her. 
When  next  we  went  to  sea  : 

And  how  this  glory  chanced  to  her 
I  '11  tell  ye  presently. 

With  her  I  left  two  children, 

More  dear  than  mines  of  gold  — 

Another  dark-haired  Betsy, 
And  a  boy  scarce  two  years  old. 

Said  I,  "  My  bonny  Betsy, 

These  idle  tears  restrain; 
The  happy  day  will  soon  come  round. 

When  we  shall  meet  again ! 

"  So,  fare-ye-well,  my  jewels  !" 

Said  I,  in  feigned  glee. 
For  I  feared  the  pain  of  parting, 

Would  make  a  child  of  me. 

We  went  on  board  the  Halcyon, 
On  the  twenty-first  of  May, 

And  with  a  fresh  and  prosperous  gale. 
From  England  bore  away. 

We  were  bound  unto  the  islands 

In  the  South  Pacific  sea ; 
And  many  a  day,  and  many  a  week. 

We  sailed  on  prosperously. 

But  then  a  dreadful  malady 
Broke  out  among  the  crew  ; 

The  ocean-waves  rolled  heavily. 
And  the  hot  wind  scarcely  blew  ! 
1S3 


174 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


'T  was  on  a  Monday  morning, 
When  first  the  plague  appeared. 

About  the  latter  days  of  June, 
When  the  Equinox  we  neared. 

The  brave  men  gazed  in  sorrow, 
The  weak  men  in  despair  — 

As  the  reaper  in  ttie  harvest-field, 
Death  drove  his  sickle  there  ! 

They  died  within  the  hammock, 
They  dropped  fmm  off  the  shroud ; 

And  then  they  'gan  to  murmur. 
And  misery  spoke  aloud. 

When  at  the  helm  the  helmsman  died, 
AH  care  of  life  seemed  gone ; 

We  sate  in  stupid  anguish. 
And  let  the  ship  drive  on. 

We  looked  upon  each  other 

In  terror  and  dismay ; 
We  feared  each  other's  company. 

And  longed  to  get  away. 

But  death  was  in  the  vessel. 
And  death  was  on  the  sea  ;  — 

Said  they,  "  we  '11  launch  the  long-boat, 
And  so  part  company." 

In  all  we  were  but  thirteen  men ; 

And  with  that  sluggish  wind, 
Six  of  our  number  put  to  sea. 

And  seven  remained  behind. 

In  vain  the  captain  urged  them 

By  the  vessel  to  remain; 
But  woe  had  made  them  reckless. 

And  they  answered  not  again. 

We  saw  throughout  that  weary  day, 
A  westward  course  they  bore ; 

But  we  lost  them  on  the  morrow. 
And  never  saw  them  more. 

Our  captain  sate  among  us, 

As  he  for  long  had  done. 
And  cheered  with  comfortable  words. 

When  comfort  else  was  none. 

Said  he,  "  My  brave  companions, 

Still  let  us  nobly  strive. 
And  for  our  wives  and  children, 

Keep  fainting  hope  alive! 

"  There  was  one,  the  bonny  Betsy, 
With  a  child  in  either  hand  — 

I  saw  her  tears  at  parting. 
As  she  stood  on  the  strand. 

"  We  all  have  wives  in  England  — 
Come,  yield  not  to  dismay ; 

Let 's  give  a  cheer  for  Betsy, 
And  do  the  best  we  may! 

"  Ye  shall  live  to  smile  at  sorrow !  — 
Brave  hearts,  let 's  down  with  pain! 

Please  God,  we  'II  bring  the  Halcyon 
To  England  once  again! 


So  spoke  good  William  Morrison, 
His  tears  but  half  repressed  ; 

And  all  rose  np  as  if  renewed. 
And  vowed  to  do  our  best. 

It  seemed  the  plague  had  left  us. 
And  we  were  strong  men  all. 

When  we  thought  on  those  who  loved  us, 
Our  wives  and  children  small. 

And  soon  upsprung  a  cooling  gale, 

A  cool  gale  and  a  strong; 
And  from  those  deadly  latitudes 

The  good  ship  bore  along. 

We  were  but  seven  mariners. 

And  yet  we  were  enow; 
And  we  cheered  lor  bonny  Betsy, 

With  every  rope  we  drew. 

They  looked  on  me  with  kindness, 

As  on  we  gaily  moved  ; 
For  each  man  in  my  Betsy 

Beheld  the  wife  he  loved. 

Heaven  bless  the  wives  of  seamen. 

And  be  thejr  children's  stay. 
For  they  have  power  to  cheer  us, 

When  we  are  fiir  away  ! 

And  so  we  made  our  voyage 

Across  the  southern  main, 
And  brought  that  gallant  ve-ssel 

To  England  safe  again. 


They  named  her  there  the  " 
Before  the  second  trip ; 

And  I  '11  abide  beside  her. 
As  long  as  she's  a  ship! 


Betsy,' 


Now  let  us  cheer  for  joy  in  store, 
For  sorrow  that  is  gone, 

And  for  my  bonny  Bet.sy, 
And  Captain  Morrison! 


THE  MORNING  DRIVE. 

A    PLAY    FOR    VERY    LITTLE    CHILDREN. 

Oh,  dear  mamma !  I  'm  glad  you  've  come ! 

Pray  look,  for  we  pretend, 
I  'm  riding  in  a  pony  chaise 

To  see  an  absent  friend. 

Now,  is  it  not  a  famous  scheme. 

As  like  as  chaise  ran  be  ? 
And  such  a  noble  horse  as  this 

We  very  seldom  see. 

For  'tis  a  true  Arabian, 

As  white  as  driven  snow  ; 
'T  was  bounding  o'er  the  desert  sands 

Not  many  months  ago  ! 

184 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


175 


And  we  pretend  we  speed  along, 

Like  arrows  in  the  wind  ; 
And  Charley  is  my  servant  lad, 

Who  gallops  just  behind. 

And  so,  mamma,  we  're  driving  out  — 

And  'tis  a  morn  in  May  ; 
And  we  can  scent  the  hawthorn  flowers. 

As  we  go  by  the  way. 

And  we  can  see  the  bird-cherry 

Upon  the  green  hills  wide. 
And  cowslip.s  pale  and  orchises. 

And  many  flowers  beside. 

And  little  lambs  are  all  at  play ; 

And  birds  are  singing  clear ; 
Now  is  it  not  a  charming  thing. 

To  be  thus  driving  here  ? 

And  oh,  mamma !  we  've  seen  such  things  ! 

Charley  would  have  it  so  — 
Although  a  little  servant  lad 

Should  not  dictate,  you  know. 

And  first  we  met  a  drove  of  pigs, 

Great  Irish  pigs  and  strong  ; 
And  oh  !  I  so  much  trouble  had, 

To  get  the  horse  along ! 

And  then  a  great,  wild  Highland  herd 

Filled  all  the  narrow  road  ; 
They  looked  like  mountain  bufl^aloes, 

And  \vildly  stared  and  lowed  ; 

And  'neath  their  shaggy  brows,  on  us 

Such  dismal  looks  they  cast! 
Mamma,  'twas  really  wonderful 

How  ever  we  got  past  I 

And  coaches  we  have  met,  and  carts, 

And  beggars  lame  and  blind  ; 
And  all  to  please  this  serving-boy, 

Who  gallops  just  behind. 

Come  up,  my  little  horse,  come  up, 

I  'm  sure  you  can't  be  tired  ; 
You  never  must  be  weary,  sir, 

When  you  're  so  much  admired  I 

There,  now  we're  at  the  turnpike  gate. 
And  now  we  're  driven  through ; 

Over  the  hill,  my  lillle  horse, 
-•^nd  then  the  town  's  in  view. 

There,  now  we  're  in  the  town  itself; 

"Smith,"  "Hopkins,"  "Cook  and  Jones;" 
One  scarce  ran  read  these  great  gilt  names. 

For  jumbling  o'er  the  stones  ! 

And  now  we  pass  "  The  Old  Green  Man," 
And  now  we  pass  "  The  Sun  ;" 

And  next  across  the  market-place. 
And  then  the  journey  's  done. 

Ah !  now  I  see  the  very  house 
.\nd  there  's  the  drawing-room  ; 

Charley,  alight,  and  give  my  card, 
.And  ask  if  they  're  at  home. 
16*  Y 


Oh  yes !  I  see  them  every  one. 
There 's  Anne  and  Jane  and  Kate ; 

No,  Charley,  now  you  need  not  ring. 
For  they  are  at  the  gate. 

And  now,  mamma,  that  we  are  here. 

Will  you  pretend  to  be. 
The  ladies  all  so  kind  and  good. 

Whom  we  are  come  to  see  ? 


THE  FOUND  TREASURE. 

Oh,  Harry,  come  hither,  and  lay  down  j'our  book. 
And  see  what  a  treasure  I've  found  !  only  look  I 
'T  is  as  handsome  a  kitten  as  ever  you  saw, 
Equipped  like  a  cat,  with  tail,  whisker,  and  claw. 
See,  here  it  is  ready  for  pastime  and  freak, 
Though  It  looks  at  this  moment  so  sober  and  meek  : 
Yes,  Harry,  examine  it  over  and  over, 
'T  is  really  the  kitten  no  one  could  discover  I 
Oh  Kit,  we  have  sought  you  above  and  below ; 
We  have  gone  where  a  mouser  never  could  go  ; 
We  have  hunted  in  garrets  with  diligent  care. 
In  chambers  and  closets — but  you  were  not  there  ; 
We  have  been  in  dark  comers  with  lanterns  to  see. 
We  've  peeped  in  the  hayloft  if  there  you  might  be; 
And  the  parlour  and  kitchen  we  've  searched  through 

and  through. 
And  listened  in  vain  for  your  musical  mew! 

And  who  would  have  thought  that  a  sensible  puss. 
As  your  mother  is  deemed,  would  have  harassed  us 

thus  I 
Then  to  bury  you  here,  in  this  odd,  little  den  ! 
But  you  never,  my  Kit,  shall  be  buried  again ; 
You  shall  go  to  the  parlour,  and  sit  on  the  hearth, 
And  there  we  will  laugh  at  your  frolicsome  mirth ; 
You  shall  caper  about  on  the  warm  kitchen  floor, 
And  in  the  hot  sunshine  shall  bask  at  the  door. 

You  shall  have  a  round  cork  at  the  end  of  a  strin;^ 
Tied  up  to  the  table,  you  grey,  little  thing  I 
You  shall  twirl  round  and  round,  like  a  brisk  wind- 
mill sail. 
You  poor  little  simpleton,  after  your  tail ; 
And  jump  in  aiTright  from  a  shade  on  the  wall ; 
And  spring,  like  a  tiger,  on  nothing  at  all  — 
While  my  father  will  lay  his  old  book  on  his  knee. 
And  my  mother  look  up  from  her  knitting  to  see. 

I  am  glad  we  have  found  you  before  you  were  wise. 
And  had  learned  all  a  kitten's  arch  ways  to  despise ; 
Before  you  grew  sober,  demure,  and  all  that. 
And   adhered  to  grave  rules,  like  a  weU-behaved 

cat! 
Come  Kitty,  we  'II  take  you,  this  same  afieriioon. 
And  show  you  about,  like  a  man  froiii  the  moon. 
There,  down  in  your  basket,  we  '11  rover  you  so. 
And  ask  but  a  pin  for  a  peep  at  the  show  ! 
ISj 


176 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THOUGHTS  OF  HEAVEN. 


Thoughts  of  Heaven  !  they  come  when  low 
The  summer  eve's  breeze  doth  faintly  blow  ; 
When  the  mighly  sea  shines  clear,  unstirred 
By  the  wavering  tide  or  Ihe  dipping  bird. 
They  come  in  Ihe  rush  of  the  surging  storm, 
When  the  waves  rear  up  their  giant  ibrm, 
When  the  breakers  dash  o'er  dark  rocks,  white, 
And  the  terrible  lightnings  rend  the  night; 
When  the  mighty  ship  hath  vainly  striven  ; 
With  the  seaman's  cry,  come  thoughts  of  Heaven ! 

They  come  where  man  doth  not  intrude  ; 

In  the  trackless  forest's  solitude ; 

In  the  stillness  of  the  grey  rock's  height. 

Whence  the  lonely  eagle  takes  his  flight ; 

On  peaks  where  lie  the  unwasting  snows  ; 

In  the  sun-bright  islands'  ri.  h  repose  ; 

In  the  heathery  glen  ;  by  the  dark,  clear  lake. 

Where  the  wild  swan  broods  in  the  reedy  brake ; 

Where  nature  reigns  in  her  deepest  rest. 

Pure  thoughts  of  heaven  come  unreprest. 

They  come  as  we  gaze  on  the  midnight  sky, 
When  the  star-gemmed  vault  is  dark  and  high. 
And  the  soul  on  the  wings  of  thought  sublime, 
Soars  from  the  world  and  the  bounds  of  time. 
Till  the  menial  eye  becomes  unsealed. 
And  the  mystery  of  being  in  light  revealed  I 
They  rise  in  the  old  cathedral  dim, 
When  slowly  bursS  forth  the  holy  hymn. 
And  the  organ's  tones  swell  full  and  high. 
Till  the  roof  peals  back  the  melody. 

Thoughts  of  Heaven  !  from  his  joy  beguiled, 
They  come  to  the  bright-eyed,  playful  child  ; 
To  the  man  of  age  in  his  dull  decay, 
Bringing  hopes  that  his  youth  took  not  away; 
To  the  woe-smit  soul,  in  its  dark  distress, 
As  flowers  spring  up  in  the  wilderness  ; — 
Like  the  light  of  day  in  its  blessed  fall. 
Such  holy  thoughts  are  given  to  all ! 


A  DAY  OF  HARD  WORK. 

A  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN  HARRY  AND  KITTY. 

Kitty. — Well,  now  you  've  been  running  about  so, 

pray  can't  you  sit  still  ! 
I  want  to  have  some  talk  with  you,  and  I  certainly 

will : 
I  've  got  all  this  unpicking  to  do,  for  while  I  talk  I 

must  work ; 
You  boys  can  run  about  idling — I  sit  stitching  like  a 

Turk. 
Come,  now  tell  me,  can't  you,  something  about  the 

farm-yard  ? 
IIow  many  eggs  has  the  turkey  laid — and  is  that 

muddy  place  dry  and  hard  ? 


Come,  tell  me  in  a  minute,  I  haven't  patience  to  wait ; 
And  till  you  begin,  sir,  there  's  a  thimble-pie  for  you 

on  the  top  of  your  pate. 
IIarrv. — Oh  Kitty!  you've  knocked  me  so,  I'll  tell 

my  mother,  that  I  will !  | 

If  you  do  so,  miss,  nobody  will  like  you,  so  you  'd    | 

better  be  still. 
KiTTV. — Well,  then,  tell  me  something  I  Why  should 

I  be  still  and  nobody  talking  ? 
Harry. — Oh  I  I  'm  tired  with  this  running  about,  and 

this  riding,  and  this  walking ; 
I  wish  there  was  no  such  thing  as  running  or  walk- 
ing at  all ; 
And  I  wish  every  horse  were  in  the  fields,  or  else 

tied  up  in  its  stall ! 
What's  your  work,  Kitty?  sitting  still  in  the  house  j 
at  ease ;  | 

You  've  nothing  to  do  but  sit  down,  and  get  up  again, 

just  as  you  please  ; 
And  yet  you  talk  of  your  work,  as  if  't  was  the  hard- 
est that  e'er  was  done. 
Why  compare  it  with  mine,  child,  and  I  'm  sure  it's 

nothing  but  fun  ! 
Kitty. — Child!  I'm  no  more  child  than  you;  I'm 

but  younger  by  a  year, 
I  desire  you  speak  respectfully  to  me,  now,  sir, — do 

you  hear  ? 
Harry. — ^Yes,  yes,  I  hear!  But  I  really  am  so  tired, 

as  I  was  just  now  saying ; 
I  wish  you  'd  get  your  work  done,  and  let 's  begin 

playing ! 
You  can't  believe,  I  'm  sure,  all  the  work  I  've  done 

this  day — 
I  've  weeded   two  carrol-beds,  and  the  onions — and 

carried  all  the  weeds  away  ; 
And  I  've  been  down  to  Thomas  Jackson's  to  tell  him 

to  get  the  horse  shod  ; 
Antl  in  coming  back  there  was  a  great,  big,  rusty  nail, 

upon  which  1  trod. 
And  it  lamed  me  so,  I  don't  believe  I  sliall  walk  for 

a  week. 
At  least  as  I  ought  to  do,  for  my  ancle  has  quite  n 

creak ! 
Kitty. — Oh  dear,  let  me  look  at  it !  Why,  I  'm  sure 

it  is  quite  shocking  — 
See,  there 's  a  hole  as  large  as  my  thimble  in  the 

ancle  of  your  stocking  ! 

Harry.— Oh  no,  't  is  the  other  fool-,-l/iat  I  tore  with  j 

a  bramble  ;  \ 

And  that  reminds  me,  Jack  Smith  and  I  had  such  a  j 

terrible  scramble !  j 

We  were  catching  the  pony  that  I  might  ride  down  ' 

to  the  mill. 
To  bid  him  bring  the  flour  home,  for  I  declare  he  has 

It  still  ; 
And  we  shan't  have  a  bit  of  while  bread  in  the  housr, 

nor  a  pudding,  nor  a  pie. 
If  he  don't  bring  it  home — every  one  says  he  "s  slinnic- 

fully  idle  and  so  do  I. 
Well,  but  I  haven't  told  you  after  all,  what  a  deal  of  i 

work  I  've  done  ; 
And  I  'm  sure  if  you  knew  what  weeding  was,  you 
would  not  call  it  fun  ; 

186  i 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


177 


It  makes  one's  back  ache  so,  stooping  to  weed  all  day, 

I  shall  be  famously  glad  when  it's  done  I 

KiXTY. — But  are  you  quite  ready  for  play  ? 

I  've  but  a  little  bit  to  do  —  I  shall  have  done  in  half 

a  quarter  of  an  hour  ; 
And  as  you  've  nothing  to  do,  just  run  and  see  if  that 

lavender's  in  flower  — 
There 's  a  good  Harry,  do ;  I  '11  do  seven  times  as 

much  for  you ; 
You  know  I  sewed,  yesterday,  that  old  clasp  in  your 

shoe. 
Harry. — I  'd  go,  if  I  thought  you  'd  have  done  by 

the  time  I  come  back ; 
Kitty. — To  be  sure  I  shall ! — I  wish  you  would  not 

waste  so  much  time  with  your  clack ! 
Harry. — Well,  just  let  me  pull  up  my  shoe,  and  put 

by  this  peacock's  feather. 
Kitty. — Nay,  you  may  as  well  stay  now;  I  've  just 

done,  and  we'll  both  go  together ; 
For  I  want  to  show  you  something  like  a  magpie's 

nest  up  in  a  tree, 
Only  I  don't  think  it  is  a  magpie's  nest,  and  I  can't 

think  what  it  can  be  ; 
And  it  is  just  by  the  lavender  bush,  and  't  will  save 

us  going  there  twice  :  — 
There,  now  I  've  done  my  work .'   and  I  shall  be 

ready  in  a  trice  ! 
Harry. — Well,  then  let  us  begone;  we  shall  have 

two  whole  hours  for  play ; 
I  didn't  think  we  should  have  had  so  much  time,  and 

r  been  working  all  day  ! 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  CARRION 
CROW. 

There  was  a  man  and  his  name  was  Jack, 

Crabbed  and  lean,  and  his  looks  were  black  — 

His  temper  was  sour,  his  thoughts  were  bad  ; 

His  heart  was  hard  when  he  was  a  lad. 

And  now  he  followed  a  dismal  trade. 

Old  horses  he  bought  and  killed  and  flayed, 

Their  flesh  he  sold  for  the  dogs  to  eat ; 

You  would  not  have  liked  this  man  to  meet. 

He  lived  in  a  low  mud-house  on  a  moor, 

Without  anv  garden  before  the  door. 

There  was  one  little  hovel  behind,  that  stood, 

Where  he  used  to  do  his  work  of  blood  ; 

I  never  could  bear  to  see  the  place, 

It  was  stained  and  darkened  with  many  a  trace  ; 

A  trace  of  what  I  will  not  tell  — 

And  then  there  was  such  an  unchristian  smell ! 

Now  this  old  man  did  come  and  go. 
Through  the  wood  that  grew  in  the  dell  below; 
It  was  scant  a  mile  from  his  own  door-stone. 
Darksome  and  dense,  and  overgrown  ; 
And  down  in  the  drearest  nook  of  the  wood, 
A  tall  and  splintered  fir-lree  ftood  ; 
Half-way  up,  where  the  boughs  outspread, 
A  carrion  crow  his  nest  had  made. 


Of  sticks  and  reeds  in  the  dark  fir-tree. 

Where  lay  his  mate  and  his  nestlings  three ; 

And  whenever  he  saw  the  man  come  by, 

"  Dead  horse  I  dead  horse !"  he  was  sure  to  crj', 

"Croak,  croak !"  if  he  went  or  came, 

The  cry  of  the  crow  w^as  just  the  same. 

Jack  looked  upas  grim  as  could  be. 

And  says,  "what's  my  trade  to  the  like  of  thee!" 

"  Dead   horse !    dead  horse !    croak,  croak !    croak, 

croak!" 
As  plain  as  words  to  his  ear  it  spoke. 
Old  Jack  stooped  down  and  picked  up  a  stone, 
A  stout,  thick  stick,  and  dry  cow's-bone, 
And  one  and  the  other  all  three  did  throw, 
So  angry  was  he,  at  tiie  carrion  crow  ; 
But  none  of  the  three  reached  him  or  his  nest, 
Where  his  three  young  crows  lay  warm  at  rest ; 
And  "  Croak,  croak  !  dead  horse  !  croak,  croak  !" 
In  his  solemn  way  again  he  spoke ; 
Old  Jack  was  angry  as  he  could  be. 
And  says  he,  "  On  the  morrow,  I  '11  fell  thy  tree, — 
I  '11  teach  thee,  old  fellow,  to  rail  at  me  !" 

As  soon  as  't  was  light,  if  there  you  had  been. 

Old  Jack  at  his  work  you  might  have  seen ; 

I  would  you  'd  been  there  to  see  old  Jack, 

And   to  hear  the  strokes  as  they  came  "  thwack ! 

thwack!" 
And  then  you  'd  have  seen  how  the  croaking  bird 
Flew  round  as  the  axe's  strokes  he  heard. 
Flew  round  as  he  saw  the  shaking  blow. 
That  came  to  his  nest  from  the  root  below. 
One  after  the  other,  stroke  upon  stroke  ; 
"  Thwack !  thwack !"   said  the  axe,  said  the  crow, 

"  Croak!  croak !" 
Old  Jack  looked  up  with  a  leer  in  his  eye. 
And  "  I  '11  hew  it  down  !"  says  he,  "  by  and  bye  ! 
I  '11  teach  thee  to  rail,  my  old  fellow,  at  me  !" 
So  he  spit  on  his  hands,  and  says,  "  have  at  the  tree !" 
"  Thwack  !"  says  the  axe,  as  the  bark  it  clove  ; 
"  Thwack!"  as  into  the  wood  it  drove  ; 
"  Croak !"  says  the  crow  in  a  great  dismay, 
"Croak!"  as  he  slowly  flew  away. 
Flap,  flap  went  his  wings  over  hedge  and  ditch. 
Till  he  came  to  a  field  of  burnin";  twitch  ; 
The  boy  with  a  lighted  lantern  there. 
As  he  stood  on  the  furrow  brown  and  bare. 
He  saw  the  old  crow  hop  hither  and  thither. 
Then  fly  with  a  burning  sod  somewhither. 

Away  flew  the  crow  to  the  house  on  the  moor, 
A  poor,  old  horse  was  tied  to  the  door ; 
The  burning  sod  on  the  roof  he  dropped. 
Then  upon  the  chimney  stone  he  hopped. 
And  down  he  peeped  that  he  might  see. 
How  many  there  were  in  famdy  — 
There  was  a  mother  and  cliildren  three. 
"  Croak  !  croak  !"  the  old  crow  did  say, 
As  from  the  roof  he  flew  away. 
As  he  flew  away  to  a  tree,  to  watch 
The  burning  sod  and  the  dry  grey  thatch. 
He  stayed  not  long  till  he  saw  it  smoke. 
Then  he  flapped  his  wings,  and  cried, "  Croak,  croak !" 
187 


178 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Away  to  the  wood  again  flew  he, 

And  soon  he  espied  the  slanting  tree, 

And  Jack,  who  stood  laughing  with  all  his  might. 

His  axe  in  his  hand  —  he  laughed  for  spite  ; 

In  triumph  he  laughed,  and  took  up  a  stone, 

And  hammered  his  axe-head  faster  on  ; 

"  Croak,  croak !"  came  the  carrion  crow, 

Flapping  his  wings  with  a  motion  slow  ; 

"  Thwack,  thwack !"  the  spiteful  man. 

When  he  heard  his  cry,  with  his  axe  began; 

"'Thwack,  thwack!"  stroke  upon  stroke; 

The  crow  flew  by  with  a  "  Croak,  croak !" 

With  a  "  Croak,  croak  !"  again  he  came. 

Just  as  the  house  burst  into  flame. 

With  a  splitting  crash,  and  a  crackling  sound, 

Down  came  the  tree  unto  the  ground; 

The  old  crow's  nest  afar  was  swung. 

And  the  young  ones  here  and  there  were  flung ; 

And  just  at  that  moment  came  up  a  cry, 

"  Oh  Jack,  make  haste,  or  else  we  die  ; 

The  house  is  on  fire,  consuming  all, 

Make  haste,  make  haste,  ere  the  roof-tree  fall !" 

The  young  crows  every  one  were  dead  ; 

But  the  old  crow  croaked  above  his  head; 

And  the  mother-crow  on  Jack  she  springs, 

And  flaps  in  his  face  her  great,  black  wings ; 

And  all  the  while  he  hears  a  wail, 

That  turns  his  cheek  from  red  to  pale  — 

'T  was  wife  and  children  standing  there 

Wringing  their  hands  and  tearing  their  hair! 

"  Oh  woe,  our  house  is  burnt  to  cinder. 

Bedding  and  clothes  all  turned  to  tinder; 

Down  to  the  very  hearth-stone  clean, 

Such  a  dismal  ruin  ne'er  was  seen: 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  —  where  must  we  go  ?" 

"  Croak,  croak  !"  says  the  carrion  crow." 


Now  ye  who  read  this  story  through. 
Heed  well  the  moral  —  't  is  for  you  ;  — 
Strife  brings  forth  strife ;  be  meek  and  kind  ; 
See  all  things  with  a  loving  mind  ; 
IVor  e'er  by  passion  be  misled, — 
Jack  by  himself  was  punished. 


MAY    FAIR. 

There  is  a  town  in  Staffordshire, 
That  I  was  born  and  bred  in, 

And  dear  May  Fair  can  make  it  gayer 
Than  even  a  royal  wedding. 

Come,  I  '11  live  over  my  youth  again ; 

Life  has  enough  of  sorrow  ; 
From  by-gone  things  we  'II  mirth  obtain. 

And  think  of  care  to-morrow. 

Come,  we  '11  be  drest  in  all  our  best; 

For  hark,  the  bells  are  ringing  ; 
And  there  's  no  sign  of  rain  to-day. 

And  all  the  birds  are  singing. 


With  happy  folks  beside  us  then. 
Their  smiles  like  summer  weather  ; 

See  how  the  women  and  the  men 
Come  trooping  in  together. 

And  some  come  with  a  hobbling  gait. 
And  some  come  tripping  proudly. 

And  some  come  looking  quite  sedate. 
And  some  come  laughing  loudlj-. 

All  come  that  can  ;  each  farming  man 

His  best  blue  coat  is  wearing. 
And  cart  and  gig,  and  shandry-dan. 

Bring  fine  folks  to  the  fair  in. 

And  little  lads,  brimful  of  glee, 
With  hands  their  pockets  thrust  in  ; 

And  trowsers  turned  up  neatly,  see. 
To  keep  their  shoes  from  dusting. 

Now  crowd  they  all  amid  the  rout. 

As  full  of  mirth  as  any. 
Each  looking  eagerly  about 

To  spend  his  fairing  penny. 

And  this  will  buy  a  cow  and  calf — 

But  this  of  cakes  is  fonder ; 
And  these  will  go  to  see  the  Dwarf, 

And  those  the  Giant  yonder. 

And  roving  round,  see  happy  folks. 

With  sunny,  country  faces  ; 
Some  cracking  nuts,  some  cracking  jokes. 

Some  wearing  modish  graces. 

And  just  peep  on  the  bowling-green. 
What  capering  and  what  prancing ; 

He 's  fiddling  there  a  merry  air, 
To  the  merry  people  dancing ! 

Now,  see  those  girls  with  one  accord. 

Around  that  booth  are  staring; 
And  many  a  lad  has  spent  his  hoard, 

To  buy  a  handsome  fairing. 

See,  some  give  ribbons  red  and  blue. 

And  some.give  green  and  yellow  ; 
And  some  give  rings  and  brooches  too, 

To  show  a  generous  fellow. 

Now  hushed  is  every  laugh  and  joke. 

To  hear  a  sailor  singing, 
How  "  Poll  of  Plymouth's"  heart  was  broke. 

And  "Monmouth's  bells  were  ringing." 

And  then  how  brave  "  Tom  Tough,"  d'  ye  see, 

Brought  to  the  Frenchmen  ruin; 
Of  "  Barbara  Allen's  cruelty," 

And  "  Crazy  Jane's"  undoing. 

But  ere  he  has  the  next  begun, 

See,  round  all  eyes  are  glancing 
He  stands  alone,  for  all  are  gone 

To  see  the  dogs  a-dancing ! 

Ha  I  there  they  are  —  why  what  a  crowd  ! 

And  what  a  deafening  racket! 
Well  may  they  stare,  for  there  's  a  bear. 

And  monkey  in  a  jacket! 

ISS 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


179 


But  let  us  leave  this  noisy  rout ; 

And  let  us  leave  the  singing  ; — 
We  have  not  seen  the  ri)uii(l-utx)ut, 

JVor  have  we  seen  the  swinging. 

We  have  not  seen  old  wicked  Punch 

His  little  wife  a-beating  ; 
We  have  not  thought  what  must  be  bought 

For  wearing  nor  for  eating. 

We  have  not  been  to  see  the  shows, 

The  lion  and  his  crony; 
The  child  so  big  —  the  learned  pig  — 

Nor  yet  the  learned  pony. 

Why,  what  a  deal  we  have  to  do ! 

Come  miss,  and  little  master. 
We  shan't  get  back  by  nine  o'clock. 

Unless  we  travel  faster! 

There  now,  we  have  seen  every  thing, 

And  each  has  got  a  fairing  ! 
And  homeward  all,  both  great  and  small. 

Are  leisurely  repairing. 

And  hark  !  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 

As  they  rung  in  the  morning ; 
But  O!  they  have  a  different  sound 

In  going  and  returning ! 


FRENCH  AND  ENGLISH. 

.  There  were  six  merry  children,  all  frolic  and  fun, 
At  play  on  a  green  'neath  the  Midsummer  sun ; 
And  thus  they  sang,  in  their  hearlsome  glee, — 

I  "  We  're  French  and  English — three  against  three ! 

'  These  are  the  Frenchmen,  meagre  and  thin, 
Hop,  skip  and  jump, — do  you  think  they  '11  win  ? 

I  These  are  the  Englishmen,  sturdy  and  stout ; 

I  Brave  in  the  battle,  ihey  '11  win,  no  doubt. 

'  Pull  away,  pull  with  all  your  might  — 
Pull  away  —  that's  the  way  we  fight ! 
"  Twenty  battles  we  fight  in  a  day  ; 
Some  we  win,  as  best  we  may ; 
Some  we  lose,  but  we  care  not  a  pin  — 
If  we  did  not  laugh,  we  should  always  win. 
French  and  English  —  here  we  stand  — 
Three  in  an  army,  on  either  hand  I 
Pull  away,  pull  with  all  your  might  — 
Pull  away  —  that's  the  way  we  fight! 


"  Who  cares  for  a  battle,  where  nobody 's  slain ; 
They  who  are  down  may  get  up  again ! 
None  run  away,  like  a  coward  or  knave  — 
Frenchmen  and  Englishmen,  all  are  brave  ! 
Now  again  let  the  battle  be  tried. 
Three  fijr  an  army  on  either  side  ,- 
Pull  away,  pull  with  all  your  might  — 
Pull  away  —  that 's  the  way  we  fight !" 


THE  LITTLE  MARINER. 

Ay,  sitting  on  your  happy  hearths,  beside  your  mo- 
ther's knee, 

How  should  you  know  the  miseries  and  dangers  of 
the  sea ! 

My  father  was  a  mariner,  and  from  my  earliest  years, 

I  can  remember,  night  and  day.  my  mother's  prayers 
and  tears. 

I  can  remember  how  she  sighed  when  blew  the 
stormy  gale ; 

And  how  for  days  she  stood  to  watch  the  long-expect- 
ed sail : 

Hers  was  a  silent,  patient  grief;  but  fears  and  long 
delay. 

And  wakeful  nights  and  anxious  days  were  wearing 
her  away. 

And  W'hen  the  gusty  winds  were  loud,  and  autumn 
leaves  were  red, 

I  watched,  with  heavy  heart,  beside  my  mother's  dy- 
ing bed ; 

Just  when  her  voice  was  feeblest,  the  neighbours 
came  to  say. 

The  ship  was  hailed  an  hour  before,  and  then  was  in 
the  bay. 

Alas !  too  late  the  ship  returned,  too  late  her  life  to 
save ; 

My  father  closed  her  dying  eyes,  and  laid  her  in  the 
grave. 

He  was  a  man  of  ardent  hopes,  who  never  knew  dis- 
may; 

And,  spite  of  grief,  the  winter-time  wore  cheerfully 
away. 

He  had  crossed  the  equinoctial  line,  full  seven  times 

or  more. 
And  sailing  northward,  had  been  wrecked  on  icy 

Labrador  : 
He  knew  the  Spice-isles,  every  one,  where  the  clove 

and  nutmeg  grow, 
And  the  aloe  towers  a  stately  tree  with  clustering 

bells  of  snow. 

He  had  gone  the  length  of  Ilindostan,  down  Ganges' 

holv  flood  ; 
Through  Persia,  where  the  peacock  broods  a  wild 

bird  of  the  wood  ; 
And,  in  the  forests  of  the  West,  had  seen  the  red-deer 

chased. 
And  dwelt  beneath  the  piny  woods,  a  hunter  of  the 

waste. 

Oh  I  pleasant  were  the  talcs  he  told  of  lands  so 
strange  and  new ; 

And,  in  my  ignorance  I  vowed,  I  'd  be  a  sailor  too  : 

My  father  heard  my  vow  with  joy, — so  in  the  early 
May, 

We  went  on  bf)ard  a  merchant-man,  bound  for  Hon- 
duras' bay. 

189 


180 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Right  merrily,  right  merrily,  we  sailed  before  the 
wind, 

With  a  briskly  heaving  sea  before,  and  the  lands- 
man's cheer  behind. 

There  was  joy  for  me  in  every  league,  delight  on 
every  strand, 

And  I  sate  for  days  on  the  high  fore-top,  on  the  long 
look-out  for  land. 

There  was  joy  for  me  in  the  nightly  watch,  on  the 

burning  Tropic  seas, 
To  mark  the  waves,  like  living  fires,  leap  up  to  the 

freshening  breeze. 
Right  merrily,  right  merrily,  our  gallant  ship  went 

free. 
Until  we  neared  the  rocky  shoals  within  the  Western 

sea. 

Yet  still  none  thought  of  danger  near,  till  in  the  silent 

night, 
The  helmsman  gave  the  dreadful  word,  of  "breakers 

to  the  right !" 
The  moment  that  his  voice  was  heard,  was  felt  the 

awful  shock ; 
The  ship  sprang  forward  with  a  bound,  and  struck 

upon  a  rock. 

"  All  hands  aloft !"  our  captain  cried  ; — in  terror  and 

dismay 
They  threw  the  cargo  overboard,  and  cut  the  masts 

away ; 
'Twas  all  in  vain,  't  was  all  in  vain!  the  sea  rushed 

o'er  the  deck. 
And  shattered  with  the  beating  surf,  down  went  the 

parting  wreck. 

The  moment  that  the  wreck  went  down,  my  father 

seized  me  fast, 
And  leaping  'mid  the  thundering  waves,  seized  on 

the  broken  mast : 
I  know  not  how  he  bore  me  up,  my  senses  seemed  to 

swim, 
A  shuddering  horror  chilled  my  brain,  and  stiffened 

every  limb. 

What  next  I  knew,  was  how  at  morn,  on  a  bleak  bar- 
ren shore. 

Out  of  a  hundred  mariners,  were  living  only  four. 

I  looked  around,  like  one  who  wakes  from  dreams  of 
fierce  alarm. 

And  round  my  body  still  I  felt,  firm  locked,  my  fa- 
ther's arm. 

And  with  a  rigid,  dying  grasp,  he  closely  held  me 

fast. 
Even  as  he  held  me  when  he  seized,  at  midnight  on 

the  maPt. 
With  humbled  hearts  and  streaming  eyes,  down  knelt 

the  litilo  band, 
Praying  Ilim  who  had  preserved  their  lives,  to  lend 

his  guiding  hand. 


And  day  by  day,  though  burning  thirst  and  pining 
hunger  came, 

Ilis  mercy,  through  our  misery,  preserved  each  droop- 
ing frame : 

And  afier  months  of  weary  woe,  sickness,  and  travel 
sore. 

He  sen!  the  blessed  English  ship  that  took  us  from 
that  shore. 

And  now,  without  a  home  or  friend,  I  wander  far 
and  near. 

And  tell  my  miserable  tale  to  all  who  lend  an  ear. 

Thus  sitting  by  your  happy  hearths,  beside  your  mo- 
ther's knee. 

How  should  you  know  the  miseries  and  dangers  of 
the  sea ! 


THE    SNOW-DROP. 

The  snow-drop !   'T  is  an  English  flower. 
And  grows  beneath  our  garden  trees  ; 

For  every  heart  it  has  a  dower. 
And  old  and  dear  remembrances! 

All  look  upon  it  and  straightway 

Recall  their  youth  like  yesterday, 

Their  sunny  years  when  forth  they  went, 

Wandering  in  measureless  content ; 

Their  little  plot  of  garden-ground  ; 

The  mossy  orchard's  quiet  bound  ; 

Their  father's  house,  so  free  from  care. 

And  the  familiar  faces  there ! 

The  household  voices  kind  and  sweet. 

That  knew  no  feigning  —  hushed  and  gone  I 
The  mother  that  was  sure  to  greet 

Their  coming  with  a  welcome  tone; 
The  brothers  that  were  children  then. 
Now,  anxious,  toiling,  thoughtful  men  ; 
And  the  kind  sister  whose  glad  mirth 
Was  like  a  sunshine  on  the  earth  — 
These  come  back  to  the  soul  supine, 
Flower  of  the  Spring,  at  look  of  thine. 
And  thou,  among  the  dimmed  and  gone. 
Art  an  unaltered  thing  alone ! 

Unchanged — unchanged  ! — the  very  flower 
That  grew  in  Eden  droopingly  — 

And  now  beside  the  peasant's  door 
Awakes  his  litlle  children's  glee. 

Even  as  it  filled  his  heart  with  joy 

Beside  his  mother's  door,  a  boy ! — 

The  same  —  and  to  his  heart  it  brings 

The  freshness  of  those  vanished  springs! 

Bloom  then  fair  flower  in  sun  and  shade, 

For  deep  thought  in  thy  cup  is  laid  ; 

And  careless  children,  in  their  glee, 

A  sacred  memory  make  of  thee  ! 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


181 


A  POETICAL  LETTER. 


TO    MASTER    BENJAMIN  • 

*  Broom  Ilall^  June  Ith. 

My  dear  Cousin  Bex, 

Wiih  infinite  pleasure  this  letter  I  pen, 
To  beg  you  will  come,  like  a  very  good  friend, 
Six  days  of  delight  in  the  country  to  spend. 
Pray  ask  your  papa,  and  on  Monday  I  'H  wait 
(You  can  come  by  the  Nelson)  beside  tiie  park-gate ; 
And,  there's  a  good  fellow,  bring  with  you  your  bow. 
And  your  new  bat  and  ball ;  —  if  the  reason  you  'd 

know, 
I  can  tell  you,  because  there  's  great  work  to  be  done, 
At  shooting  and  cricket  a  match  to  be  won : 
And  to  make  it  a  pleasure  the  less  to  be  slighted. 
Eight  other  young  gentlemen  have  been  invited. 
Their  names  are  as  follow — all  promise  they'll  come — 
First,  merry  Tom  Wilmot,  we  call  him  Tom  Thumb; 
The  two  Master  Nortons,  and  witty  Dick  Hall, 
And  clever  George  Nugent,  so  famous  at  ball ; 
Ned  Stevens  the  sailor,  and  gay  Herman  Blair, 
And  lastly  Frank  Thurlow,  the  great  cricket-player. 
And  now  if  you  '11  count  them  you  '11  find  there  are 

ten. 
So  come,  as  I  pray  you,  my  dear  cousin  Ben. 
And  to  give  you  some  notion  of  how  we  're  to  spend 
These  six  days  of  triumph,  dear  cousin,  attend  ;  — 
But  fu^t  I  must  tell  you,  papa  is  so  good 
As  to  lend,  for  our  service,  the  lodge  in  the  wood  I 
He  has  had  it  repaired,  and  from  Cornwall  to  Fife, 
You  ne'er  saw  such  a  snug  little  place  in  your  life ; 
With  a  low,  rustic  roof,  and  a  curious  old  door, 
With  a  dozen  straw  chairs,  and  new  mats  on  the  floor : 
1  Artd  there  we're  to  live,  jovial  fellows,  indeed, 
i  With  good  store  of  poultry,  and  fruit  for  our  need  ; 
I  And  there  the  old  housekeeper,  blithe  Mrs.  Hay, 

Is  to  cook  us  a  capital  dmner  each  day  ; 
1  And  mamma  has  provided  us  dainties  enow, — 
'  Tarts,  jellies,  and  custards,  and  syllabubs  too  I 
,  So  come,  my  dear  fellow,  and  with  us  partake 
I  These  six  days  of  triumph — fine  sport  we  shall  maKe  I 
'  And  now  I  '11  go  on  telling  what's  to  be  done  :  — 
Imprimis,  on  Monday  begins  all  the  fun  ; 
All  ready  in  order,  the  guests  will  arrive  — 
Half-a-score  of  the  merriest  fellows  alive  ! 
When  on  Tuesday  we  all  must  be  up  with  the  dawn, 
For  a  great  match  of  cricket  we  have  on  the  lawn  ; 
The  prize  will  be  hung  up  aloft  on  a  tree, — 
A  new  bat  and  ball  — as  complete  as  can  be. 
On  Wednesday,  a  pleasant  excursion  we  make, 
Each  equipped  d,  laWallon,  to  fish  in  the  lake  ; 
And  all  that  we  catch,  whether  minnow  or  whale. 
Will  be  cooked  for  our  supper,  that  night,  without  fail. 
On  the  morning  of  Thursday,  gay  archers  are  we, 
i  The  target  is  ready,  nailed  up  on  a  tree ; 
And  the  prize — such  a  bow  and  such  arrows  I — my 
word, 
J  But  the  twang  of  that  bow  fifty  yards  may  be  heard ! 
"  And  the  king  of  all  archers,  even  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Had  been  proud  of  such  arrows  to  speed  through  the 
wood  i 


That  over,  dear  cousin,  we  all  must  be  dressed, — 
'Tis  my  sister  Bell's  birlh-day,— quite  spruce,  in  our 

best ; 
Dancing  shoes  on  his  feet,  a  la  mode,  very  fine, 
And  mamma  has  invited  us  that  day  to  dine ; 
And  Bell  has  invited  nine  friends  of  her  own  — 
Just  a  partner  a-piece  —  they  are  all  to  you  known; 
Miss  Paget,  Miss  Ellis,  Miss  White,  and  the  rest. 
And  that  beautiful  dancer,  the  pretty  Miss  West: 
But  I  won't  slop  to  tell  you  the  names  of  them  all, 
But  the  archery  victor  will  open  the  ball. 
On  Friday,  betimes,  has  been  fixed  for  our  going 
Five  miles  down  the  river,  a  grand  match  of  rowing. 
Two  boats  are  got  ready,  and  moored  in  our  view, 
And  each  is  as  light  as  an  Indian  canoe  ; 
The  Sylph  and  the  Swallow  —  the  loveliest  things 
That  e'er  skimmed   the  water,  dear  Ben,  without 

wings  I 
And,  lest  that  the  water  our  boats  should  o'erwhelm, 
Papa  and  my  uncle  will  each  take  a  helm ; 
-And  my  uncle,  you  know,  an  old  sailor  has  been, 
.■\nd  papa  's  the  best  helmsman  that  ever  was  seen. 
So  tell  your  mamma  there  's  no  danger  at  all, — 
We  shall  not  be  o'erset  or  by  shallow  or  squall. 
The  prize  for  that  day  has  not  yet  been  decided, 
But  before  it  is  wanted  it  will  be  provided. 
On  Saturday,  Ben,  is  a  great  day  of  sorrow, 
'T  will  half  spoil  the  rowing  to  have  such  a  morrow  : 
Bui  papa  has  determined  that  morning  to  spend 
In  chemical  wonders  that  scarce  have  an  end  — 
Among  waters  and  fires,  and  vapours  and  smoke  — 
On  my  word,  cousin  Ben,  how  you  '11  laugh  at  the 

joke. 
And  a  lunch  will  be  ready  at  one  —  and  what  then  ? 
Why  each  one  must  go  to  his  home  back  again. 

So,  good-bye,  my  dear  cousin ;  be  sure  and  come  down 
By  the  Nelson  on  Monday  —  the  fare  is  a  crown  — 
And  more  than  a  crown's  worth  of  pleasure  j'ou  '11 

get  — 
And  the  lodge  in  the  forest  you  '11  never  forget. 

Papa  and  mamma  and  my  sister,  unite 
In  love  to  my  aunt  and  my  uncle. — Good  night! 
And  believe  me,  dear  fellow, 
As  true  as  can  be, 

Y^ours,  anxiously  waiting 

J.  W.  C. 


[Memorandum.]  Jtine  18tk. 

I  went  down  to  Broom  Hall,  according  to  my  cousin's 
invitation,  by  the  Nelson.  My  cousin,  and  three 
young  gentlemen  who  lived  near,  and  had  ridden 
over  on  ponies,  were  waiting  for  me  at  the  park-gate, 
— it  was  then  eleven  o'clock.  By  three,  all  had  ar- 
rived. The  weather  was  very  fine;  the  lodge  in  the 
forest,  one  of  the  sweetest,  most  picturesque  places  I 
ever  saw;  and  Mrs.  Hay  was  in  a  good  humour  all 
the  time,  though  I  am  sure  we  gave  her  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  ; — I  have  Iwught  two  yards  of  green  satin 
ribbon  for  Mrs.  Hay's  cap,  which  1  shall  send  by 
Thomas  this  afternoon :  but  now  to  go  on  with  the 
six  davs.  The  matches  were  kept  up  with  a  deal  of 
spirit.     F.'-ank  Thurlow,  as  everybodv  expected,  won 

ibi 


182 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


at  cricket.  I — I  am  proud  to  say,  got  the  bow  and 
arrows — the  finest  things  that  ever  were  seen!  and 
they  have  won  me,  since  then,  the  prize-arrow  at 
Lady 's  archery  meeting.  The  prize  for  row- 
ing was  gained  by  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Sylph, 
and  was  a  set  of  models  of  the  progress  of  ship- 
building, from  the  Egyptian  raft  of  reeds,  up  to  an 
English  man-of-war.  The  young  gentlemen  of  the 
Sylph  drew  for  it,  and  it  fell  by  lot  to  George  Nu- 
gent ;  and  with  this  every  one  was  satisfied ;  for  he 
is  a  general  favourite. 

All  this  I  would  have  told  in  rhyme,  that  it  might 
have  matched  my  cousin's  letter,  but  I  am  a  bad  hand 
at  verse-making.  Be.v. 


ALICE    FLEMING. 

They  sate  upon  the  green  hill-side, 

Sweet  Alice  Fleming  and  her  brother  ; 
"  Now  tell  me,  Alice,"  said  the  youth, 
"  And  tell  me  in  sincerest  truth, — 
Thy  thoughts  no  longer  smother, — 

"  Wherefore  I  should  not  go  to  sea  ? 

Dost  fear  that  evil  will  befall  — 
Dost  think  I  surely  must  be  drowned, 
Or  that  our  ship  will  run  aground. 

And  each  wind  blow  a  squall  ? 

"  Dear  Alice,  be  not  faint  of  heart, 

Thou  need'st  not  have  a  fear  for  me  ; 
I  know  we  're  orphans  —  but  despite 
Our  homely  lot,  in  God's  good  sight, 
I  '11  be  a  father  unto  thee ! 

"  Cheer  up,  cheer  up !  the  ship  is  stout ; 

A  well-built  ship  and  beautiful, — 
I  know  the  crew,  all  brave  and  kind 
As  e'er  spread  canvas  to  the  wind  — 

'  The  Adventure,'  bound  from  Hull ; 

"  A  whaler  to  the  northern  seas ; 

And  think,  what  joy  to  meet  again  ! 
Dear  Alice,  when  we  next  sit  here, 
Thou  'It  laugh  at  every  idle  fear, — 

Wilt  know  all  fear  is  idle  then. 

"  Three  voyages  I  'U  only  take. 

As  a  poor  ship-boy  —  thou  shall  see 
So  well  the  seaman's  craft  I  '11  learn, 
That  not  a  man  from  stem  to  stern, 
But  shall  be  proud  of  me ! 

"  Ay,  Alice,  and  some  time  or  other, 

I  '11  have  a  ship, — nay,  it  is  true. 
Though  thou  may'st  smile  ;  and  for  thy  sake 
I  '11  call  it  by  thy  name,  and  make 
A  fortune  for  us  two." 


The  boy  went  to  the  sea,  and  Alice 
In  a  sweet  dale,  by  Simmer  Water. 

Where  dwelled  her  parents,  there  dwelt  she 

With  a  poor  peasant's  family. 

And  was  among  them  as  a  daughter.        ■*. 

Each  day  she  did  her  household  part. 

Singing  like  some  light-hearted  bird  ; 
Or  sate  upon  the  lonely  fells 
Whole  days  among  the  heather-bells. 
To  keep  the  peasant's  little  herd. 

Poor  Alice,  she  was  kind  and  good  ; 

Yet  oft  uf)on  the  mountains  lone 
Her  heart  was  sad,  and  'mong  the  sheep. 
When  no  eye  saw  her,  she  would  weep 

For  many  sorrows  of  her  own. 

Sweet  maiden  —  and  she  yet  must  weep. 

Her  brother  meantime  far  away 
Sailed  in  that  ship  so  stout  and  good, 
With  hopeful  spirit  unsubdued, 

Beyond  the  farthest  northern  bay. 

The  voyage  was  good,  his  heart  was  light ; 

He  loved  the  sea,  —  and  now  once  more 
He  sailed  upon  another  trip 
With  the  same  captain,  the  same  ship 

In  the  glad  spring,  for  Elsinore. 

Again,  unto  the  Bothnian  Gulf — 

But 't  was  a  voyage  of  wreck  and  sorrow  ; 
The  captain  died  upon  the  shore 
Where  he  was  cast,  and  twenty  more 

Were  left  among  the  rocks  of  Snorro. 

The  boy  was  picked  up  by  a  boat 

Belonging  to  a  Danish  ship ; 
And  as  they  touched  at  Riga  Bay, 
They  left  him  there  — for  what  could  they 

Do  with  a  sick  boy  on  the  deep  ? 

And  there  within  a  hospital 

Fevered  he  lay,  and  worn  and  weak, 
Bowed  with  great  pain,  a  stranger  lad. 
Who  not  a  friend  to  soothe  him  had. 
And  not  a  word  of  Russ  could  speak. 

Amid  that  solitude  and  pain 

He  begged  some  paper  and  he  wrote 
To  Alice  ;  't  was  a  letter  long,  — 
But  then  he  used  his  English  tongue, 
And  every  sorrow  he  poured  out. 

Poor  Alice  !  did  she  weep  ?  —  ah  yes. 
She  wept,  indeed,  one  live-long  day  ; 
But  then  her  heart  was  strong  and  true. 
And  calmly  thus  she  spoke : — "  I  too 
Will  go  to  Riga  Bay  I" 

"  To  that  wild  place  !"  the  people  said, 

"  Where  none  can  English  understand  ? 
Oh  !  go  not  there  —  depend  upon  t. 
He  's  dead  ere  now —  he  does  not  want 
Your  aid  —  leave  not  your  native  land  1" 
192 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


183 


'T  was  vain  ;  each  word  ihey  spoke  was  vain 

She  took  with  her  the  little  store 
Left  at  her  lather's  dying  day, 
And  for  the  Baltic  sailed  away  : 
,     Such  steadliist  love  that  maiden  bore ! 

Is  this  the  bov,  so  stout  and  bold 

That  on  the  green  hill  sat  with  her  ? 
Is  this  the  brother,  blithe  of  cheer, 
The  careless  heart  without  a  fear  ? 
Is  this  the  joyful  mariner  ? 

The  same  —  for  in  that  hospital 

There  is  no  English  boy  but  he  — 
The  same  —  the  very  same,  none  other, 
Sweet  Alice  Fleming,  than  thy  brother  — 
And  well  he  knoweth  thee! 

Ay,  though  the  boy  with  suffering  bowed. 
Was  changed  indeed,  and  feeble  grown. 

Better  to  him  than  oil  and  wine. 

Better  by  far  than  doctors  nine. 
Was  his  kind  sister's  cheering  tone. 

And  soon  *t  was  told  through  Riga  town 

What  love  an  English  sister  bore 

Her  brother  —  how  she  left  her  home 

Among  the  mountains,  and  had  come 

To  tend  him  on  this  distant  shore. 

And  she  a  maiden  scarce  si.xteen !  — 
'T  was  a  sweet  tale  of  tenderness, 

That  all  were  happy  to  repeat; 

The  women,  passing  in  the  street. 
Spoke  of  it,  and  they  spoke  to  bless. 

So  did  the  merchants  on  the  quay  ; 

So  did  all  people  old  and  young  ; 
And  when  into  the  street  she  went. 
All  looked  a  kindly  sentiment, 

And  blessed  her  in  their  Russian  tongue. 

But  now  the  youth  grew  strong  and  stout. 

And  as  he  to  the  sea  was  bent, 
And  ne'er  in  toil  or  danger  quailed. 
So,  light  of  heart  and  proud,  he  sailed 
Mate  of  a  ship  from  Riga  sent. 

Its  owTier  was  Paul  Carlowitz, 
A  merchant  and  of  Russian  birth. 

As  rich  as  Crossus;  and  this  same. 

Despite  his  ships,  and  wealth  and  name, 

For  of  an  ancient  line  he  came. 
Loved  Alice  Fleming  for  her  worth. 

He  was  no  merchant  old  and  gruff. 
Sitting  'mong  money-bags  in  state, 

Not  he  I  — a  handsome  man  and  kind 

As  you  in  any  land  would  find. 
Or  choose  for  any  njaiden's  mate. 

And  if  you  sail  to  Riga  town. 

You  'II  find  it  true,  upon  my  life  ; 
And  any  child  will  show  you  where 
Lives  Carlowitz,  who  took  the  fair 
Poor  English  maiden  for  his  wife. 
17  Z 


ONE  OF  THE  VANITIES  OF  HUMAN 
WISHES. 

PUER     LOQU ITUR. 

I  WISH  that  I  myself  had  lived 

In  the  ages  that  are  gone. 
Like  a  brother  of  the  Wandering  Jew  — 

And  yet  kept  living  on; 

For  then,  in  its  early  glorj', 

I  could  have  proudly  paced 
The  City  of  the  Wilderness, 

Old  Tadmor  of  the  Waste  : 

And  have  seen  the  Queen  of  Sheba, 

With  her  camels,  riding  on, 
With  herspiceries  rich  and  precious  stones, 

To  great  King  Solomon ; 

And  all  the  ivory  palaces. 

With  floors  of  beaten  gold  ; 
And  in  the  green,  fair  gardens  walked 

Of  Babylon  the  old  ; 

And  have  talked  with  grey  Phoenicians 

Of  dark  and  solemn  seas, 
And  heard  the  wild  and  dismal  tales 

Of  their  far  voyages. 

I  could  have  solved  all  mysteries 

Of  Egypt  old  and  vast. 
And  read  each  hieroglyphic  scroll 

From  the  first  word  to  the  last. 

I  should  have  known  what  cities 
In  the  desert  wastes  were  hid ; 

And  have  walked,  as  in  my  father's  house. 
Through  each  great  pyramid. 

I  might  have  sate  on  Homer's  knees, 

A  little,  prattling  boy. 
Hearing  all  he  knew  of  Grecian  tales 

And  the  bloody  work  at  Troy. 

I  should  have  seen  fair  Athens, 

The  immortal  and  the  free, 
O'erlooking,  with  her  marble  walls, 

The  islands  and  the  sea. 

I  should  have  seen  each  Naiad 

That  haunted  rock  and  stream; 
And  walked  with  wisest  Plato, 
»     In  the  groves  of  Academe. 

I  should  have  seen  old  Phidi;is, 

Hewing  his  marble  stone ; 
And  every  grave  tragedian. 

And  every  poet  known. 

Think  what  a  Cicerone 

I  should  have  been,  to  trace 
The  city  of  the  Seven  Hills 

Who  had  known  its  ancient  race ; 

Had  stood  by  warlike  Romulus 

In  council  and  in  fray, 
And  with  his  horde  of  robbers  dwell. 

In  red-roofed  huts  gf  clay ! 

193 


184 


IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Think  but  of  Julius  Casar, 
The  heroic,  wise,  and  brave  — 

To  have  seen  his  legions  in  the  field, 
His  galleys  on  the  wave ! 

Then,  to  have  sate  in  the  Forum, 
When  Cicero's  words  grew  strong  ; 

Or  at  evening  by  the  Tiber  walked, 
To  listen  Virgil's  song  I 

I  should  have  seen  Rome's  glory  dimmed 
When,  round  her  leaguered  wall, 

Came  down  the  Vandal  and  the  Goth, 
The  Scythian  and  the  Gaul ; 

And  the  dwarfish  Huns  by  myriads, 
From  the  unknown  northern  shores  ; 

As  if  the  very  earth  gave  up 
The  brown-men  of  the  moors. 

I  should  have  seen  Old  Wodin 

And  his  seven  sons  go  forth. 
From  the  green  banks  of  the  Caspian  sea 

To  the  dim  wilds  of  the  north  ; 

To  the  dark  and  piny  forests, 
Where  he  made  his  drear  abode. 

And  taught  his  wild  and  fearful  faith, 
And  thus  became  their  god. 

And  the  terrible  Vikingr, 
Dwellers  on  the  stormy  sea. 

The  Norsemen  and  their  Runic  lore 
Had  all  been  known  to  me ! 

Think  only  of  the  dismal  tales. 
Of  the  mysteries  I  should  know, 

If  my  long  life  had  but  begun 
Three  thousand  years  ago ! 


THE   GARDEN. 

Nav,  go  not  to  the  town  to-day. 

The  fierceness  of  this  noon-tide  ray. 

Like  furnace-fire,  will  hotly  fall. 

Reflected  from  each  red-brick  wall  ; 

And  the  smooth  pavement  of  the  street, 

Will  seem  to  scorch  thy  passing  feet  ; 

And  in  the  crush,  and  in  the  crowd 

Of  busy  men,  with  voices  loud. 

Mingle  not  thou  !  but  turn  aside, 

And  let  me  be  this  day  thy  guide  ; 

Come  to  the  garden  !  Let  us  pass 

Adown  this  smoothly-siiaven  grass  ; 

Soft,  cool,  and  as  a  carpet  laid 

For  the  fair  foot  of  Eastern  maid. 

Here  cannot  come  the  scorching  heat 

Of  noonday  to  thy  cool  retreat  : 

The  shadow  of  a  broad  plane-tree 

Is  o'er  thee  like  a  canopy ; 

And,  just  anigh,  within  thine  ear, 

The  tinkle  of  a  fountitin  clear. 

Within  a  marble  basin  falling; 
And  'mong  the  shrouding  leaves  is  heard 
The  song  of  many  an  unseen  bird  ; 

And  near  and  far  the  cuckoo  calling  I — 


And  here  come  odours  that  the  breeze 
Brings  from  the  scented  flowering  trees  ; 
Rich  scent  that  gives  the  fancy  flight 
To  eastern  gardens  of  delight ; 
And  say,  whatever  bower  of  bliss. 
Was  fairer  in  romance  than  this  ? — 
Romance  I — ay  sure,  and  we  will  find 
Some  lale  for  this  sweet  spot  designed. 
Some  ancient  tale  of  woe  and  wonder, 
Made  to  be  read  the  blue  sky  under  — 
Made  to  be  read  when  thoughts  are  free  ; 

Some  tale  of  fancy,  fresh  and  airy. 
Of  beautiful  dwellers  in  the  sea. 

Or  gambols  of  the  summer  faery ! 

Now  scorching  noon  is  passed,  and  closed 
The  book  on  which  our  thoughts  reposed, 
That  pleasant  book  of  fairy-wonder. 
Made  to  be  read  the  blue  skies  under. 
Now  let  us  take  a  wider  range. 
The  garden  has  unceasing  change  ; 
And  in  this  sunset's  golden  tide. 
See  how  the  flowers  are  beautified  ; 
Sweel  flowers, — sweet,  radiant  flowers  that  we 
Regard  as  visible  poetry  — 
The  flowers  of  Greece,  the  flowers  of  Spain, 
Of  islands  in  the  Southern  main  ; 
Of  sunny  Persia ;  far  Cathay, 
And  the  lion-realms  of  Africa  — 
How  do  they  send  the  fancy  forth. 

As  if  she  had  a  ship  to  speed  her 
To  the  far  comers  of  the  earth. 

Where'er  a  vagrant  thought  can  lead  her ! 
Where'er  there  is  a  breath  of  flowers. 
That  far-ofl';  pleasant  land  is  ours ! 

Now,  in  these  walks  of  verdant  shade 
Which  arching  ever-greens  have  made, 
Let  thee  and  me,  w  illi  minds  sedate, 
Watch  till  the  evening  groweth  late  ; 
For  holy  is  that  serious  thought 
Which  by  the  coming  night  is  brought ; 
For  then  doth  spiritual  life  unfold. 

As  flowers  in  day-light  open  wide  ; 
And  God's  good  spirit,  as  of  old. 

Seems  to  walk  here  at  eventide  ! 


SONG  FOR  THE  BALL-PLAYERS. 

Up  goes  the  ball  with  might  and  main. 
And  soon  it  comelh  down  again  ; 
Ups  and  downs,  I  've  heard  ihem  say 
For  many  a  year,  is  the  world's  way! 

Up  goes  the  ball, — like  a  goblet-cup ; 
Hold  your  hand  as  you  send  it  up ! 
Down  it  comes, — ere  it  reach  the  ground, 
Catch  the  ball  so  firm  and  round ! 

An  up  and  down,  that  is  the  way. 
With  a  good  round  ball,  that  you  must  play; 
Up,  high  as  you  can,  then  down  again, 
Five  and  five,  and  a  double  ten. 

194 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


185 


The  world  is  a  ball,  and  every  star, 
And  the  sun  himself,  great  balls  they  are; 
Round  they  go,  and  round  about, 
Ever  and  ever,  yet  ne'er  are  out ! 

Up  goes  the  ball !  oh,  if  I  threw 

Up  to  the  very  sky  so  blue. 

Up  to  the  moon,  or  to  Charles  Wain, 

'T  would  be  long  ere  the  ball  came  down  again ! 

An  up  and  down— that  is  the  way. 
With  a  good  round  ball,  that  you  must  play  ; 
Up,  high  as  you  can,  and  down  again, 
Ten  and  ten,  and  six  times  ten ! 

Face  to  the  shade,  and  back  to  the  shine  ; 
Send  up  your  balls  with  a  toss  like  mine, 
Straight  as  a  dart,  as  if  't  were  cast 
From  the  spring  of  a  mighty  arbalast  I 

There  it  goes!  good  luck  to  the  ball! 
Here  it  comes,  with  a  plumping  fall  ; 
How  merry  it  is,  our  balls  to  throw, 
Standing  together  thus  in  a  row ! 

An  up  and  a  down,  that  is  the  way. 
With  a  good  round  ball,  that  you  must  play ; 
Up,  high  as  you  can,  and  down  again. 
Now  we  have  counted  ten  times  ten. 


THE   KITTEN'S   MISHAP. 

I  'll  tell  you  a  tale  of  a  watery  disaster ; 

Of  a  cat,  and  a  kitten,  and  their  little  master  ; 

A  tale  it  shall  be,  neither  made-up  nor  silly. 

Of  two  good  little  children,  named  Peggy  and  Willy. 

They  were  not  rich  children  and  clever,  like  you, 

Who  had  books,  toys,  and  pictures,  and  nothing  to  do ; 

They  were  two  little  orphans,  that  lived  on  a  common, 

In  a  very  small  house,  with  a  very  old  woman. 

A  very  old  woman,  as  poor  as  could  be  ; 

And  they  worked  for  the  bread  that  they  eat,  all 

three. 
The  old  woman  was  feeble,  rheumatic,  and  thin, 
And  with  very  great  labour  she  managed  to  spin  ; 
And  all  the  day  long,  with  unwearying  zeal, 
From  Monday  to  Saturday  round  went  her  wheel; 
Yet  with  all  her  turning,  she  scarce  could  contrive 
To  earn  the  small  pittance  that  kept  her  alive  ; 
So  these  good  little  children  they  both  did  their  best, 
And  gave  from  their  earnings  what  made  up  the  rest. 

Of  wealth,  which  so  many  consider  a  blessing. 
The  three  nothing  knew  — yet  the  joy  of  possessing. 
Even  in  this  poor  cottage  the  inmates  could  share, 
For  the  dame  had  her  wheel,  and  her  table  and  chair ; 
But  Peggy  and  Willy,  than  these  had  far  more ; 
For  hers  was  the  blackbird,  that  hung  at  the  door. 
The  sweet  singing  blackbird,  that  filled  with  delight 
Of  its  music,  the  cottage,  from  morning  tonight: 
And  his  was  the  cat  that  slept  under  his  bed. 
And  never  looked  famished  howe'er  it  was  fed. 


Now,  the  tale  that  I  had  in  my  mind  to  rehearse, 
Was  related  by  Willy,  though  not  told  in  verse  : 
Said  Willy,  "the  cat  had  a  kitten  that  lay 
Behind  my  bed's  head,  on  a  cushion  of  hay; 
A  beautiful  kit,  though  a  mischievous  elf. 
And  given  to  prowling  about  by  itself 
Now  it  happened,  one  day,  as  I  came  from  my  work, 
Before  I  had  put  by  my  rake  and  my  fork. 
The  old  cat  came  up,  and  she  pawed  and  she  mewed. 
With  the  wofullest  visage  that  ever  I  viewed. 
And  she  showed  me  the  door,  and  she  ran  in  and  out; 
I  couldn't  conceive  what  the  cat  was  about ! 
At  length,  I  bethought  that  the  creature  was  good. 
And  she  would  have  her  way,  let  it  be  what  it  would  ; 
And  no  sooner  she  saw  me  inclined  to  obey. 
Than  she  set  up  her  tail,  and  she  scampered  away 
To  a  pond  not  far  off,  where  the  kitten  I  found 
In  a  bottomless  basket,  just  sinking,  half  drowned  — 
However  it  got  there,  I  never  could  tell. 
For  a  cat  hates  the  water —  but  so  it  befijl ; 
Perhaps  some  bad  boy  this  bad  action  had  done, 
To  torture  the  kitten,  and  then  call  it  fun  ; 
Yet  that  I  don't  know ;  but  I  soon  got  her  out. 
And  a  terrible  fright  she  had  had,  there  's  no  doubt ; 
'T  was  a  pitiful  object,  it  drooped  down  its  head, 
And  Peggy  for  some  time  declared  it  was  dead. 
But  its  heart  was  alive,  spite  the  panic  and  pain, 
And  it  opened  its  eyes  and  looked  up  again. 
And  we  gave  it  some  milk,  and  we  dried  its  wet  fur, 
And  oh  !  what  a  pleasure  there  was  in  its  purr  ; 
At  length  when  we  saw  that  all  danger  was  over. 
And  that,  well  warmed  and  dried,  it  began  to  recover, 
We  laid  it  in  bed,  on  its  cushion  of  hay. 
And  wrapped  it  up  snugly,  and  bade  it  '  good  day.' 
And  then  its  poor  mother  gave  over  her  mourning. 
And  lay  down  and  purred  like  the  wheel  that  was 

turning; 
And  she  and  the  kitten  by  care  unperplexed. 
Slept,  purred,  and  scarce  stirred  all  that  day  and  the 

next ; 
Then  scarcely  a  trace  of  her  trouble  she  bore. 
Though  meeker  and  graver  than  ever  before." 
So  here  ends  my  tale  of  this  watery  disaster, 
Of  the  cat,  and  the  kitten,  and  their  little  master. 


SPRING. 


Spring  !  the  beautiful  Spring  is  coming. 

The  sun  shines  bright  and  the  bees  are  humming  ; 

And  the  fields  are  rich  with  the  early  flowers, 

Beds  of  crocus  and  daisies  white. 
And  under  the  budding  hedge-row,  showers 

Of  the  flcary  golden  bright ! 
Come,  come,  let  you  and  me 
Go  out,  and  the  promise  of  Spring-lime  see. 
For  many  a  pleasant  nook  I  know. 
Where  the  hooded  arum  and  blue-bell  grow. 
And  crowds  of  violets  white  as  snow;  — 
Come,  come,  let 's  go  I 

195 


186 


IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Let 's  go,  for  hark, 

I  hear  the  lark; 
And  the  blackbird  and  the  thrush  on  the  hill-side 

tree, 
Shout  to  each  other  so  merrily. 

And  the  wren  sings  loud, 

And  a  little  crowd 
Of  gnats  in  the  sun  dance  cheerily. 
Come,  come  !  come  along  with  me. 
For  the  tassels  are  red  on  the  tall  larch  tree, 

And  in  homesteads  hilly. 

The  spalhed  daffodilly 
Is  growing  in  beauty  for  me  and  thee ! 


'T  is  Spring !  't  is  Spring,  all  creatures  know  it, 
The  skies,  the  earth,  the  waters  show  it. 
The  freckled  snakes  come  out  i'  the  sun, 

The  leverets  race  in  the  meadows  green ; 
The  sleep  of  the  little  dormouse  is  done. 
And  the  frisking  squirrel  again  is  seen  ! 

Come,  come  who  will, 

Let  us  take  our  fill 
Of  delight  in  the  valley,  the  field,  the  hill  ; 
Let  us  go  to  the  wood  that  so  late  was  still ; 

The  air  is  ringing 

With  singing,  singing! 

And  flowers  are  springing 

The  lanes  along. 

The  white  and  the  red, 

And  the  umbelled  head. 

And  the  single-blowing. 

All  thickly  growing. 
This  merry  May  morn,  a  thousand  strong  ! 
The  fishes  are  glad  this  May  morning. 

And  like  things  of  light 

Through  the  waters  bright. 

Flash  to  and  fro '. 
There  's  a  sound  of  joy  in  the  youthful  Spring  - 

Hark!  hark! 

There  sings  the  lark  I 
Why  tarry  we  yet  ?  let 's  go ! 
The  strong  lamb  boundeth. 

The  glad  foal  neighs ; 
And  joy  resonndelh 

A  thousand  ways  — 
Over  hill,  and  valley,  and  wood,  and  plain, 
Joy  poureth  down  like  a  shower  of  rain! 
I  '11  tarry  no  more  !  come,  come,  let 's  go ! 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

The  splintered,  northern  mountains  lay 
All  round  about  my  mother's  dwelling, 

All  full  of  craggy  hollows  grey. 
Where  ice-cold,  sparkling  streams  were  welling. 

Upon  the  mountains  lay  the  snow, 
Far  gleaming  snows  that  melted  never; 

And  deeply,  darkly,  far  below. 
Went  sounding  on,  a  lonely  river. 


Upon  the  mountain  summits  hung 
The  tempest-clouds  so  darkly  scowling. 

And  winds  in  caverned  hollows  sung. 
Like  unto  desert  creatures  howling. 

Day  after  day  the  sunshine  slept. 
Night  after  night  the  moon  was  hidden  ; 

And  rain  and  wind  about  us  kept. 
Week  after  week,  like  guests  unbidden. 

And  many  a  time  the  deep  snows  fell, 
In  the  dark  months  of  winter  weather ; 

And  quite  shut  in  our  mountain  dell. 
We,  and  our  lonely  flock  together. 

We  had  a  little  flock  of  sheep, 

I  herded  them  both  night  and  morning ; 

My  mother  in  the  house  did  keep. 
Her  busy  wheel  for  ever  turning. 

What  joy  it  was,  as  I  brought  them  round, 
Into  their  pen,  at  nightfall  darkling. 

To  hear  that  old  wheel's  droning  sound. 
And  see  the  cheerful  wood-fire  sparkling! 

On  stilly  eves,  beside  my  flock. 

The  sounds  I  heard  will  haunt  me  ever. 

The  eagle  rising  from  the  rock, 
The  wind-borne  roaring  of  the  river  : 

The  gathering  of  the  coming  storm, 

Like  far-off  angry  giants  talking  ; 
The  grey  mist  like  a  ghostly  form 

Over  the  ridgy  mountain  stalking  ! 

I  saw,  I  heard,  I  loved  them  all ; 

My  days  and  nights  were  never  weary. 
Though  many  a  passing  guest  would  call 

My  life  forlorn,  those  mountains  drear)'. 

Would  I  were  back  among  the  hills  ; 

Could  see  the  heath,  and  scent  the  gowan. 
Would  I  could  hear  those  sounding  rills. 

And  sit  beneath  the  lonely  rowan  ! 

But  our  little  flock  of  sheep  are  gone. 
Like  snowy  clouds  in  moonlight  flying  ; 

And  my  mother  lies  'neath  the  churchyard  stone, 
With  long,  dry  bent-grass  round  her  sighing ! 


PILGRIMS. 

With  hoary  hair,  and  bent  with  age, 
He  goes  forth  on  his  pilgrimage, 
An  old  man  from  his  forest-cell. 
With  sandalled  feet,  and  scallop  shell ; 
His  sight  is  dim,  his  steps  are  slow, 
And  pain  and  hardship  must  he  know, 
An  old,  way-faring  man,  alone. 
And  yet  his  spirit  bears  him  on. 
For  what  ?  the  holy  place  to  see  ; 
To  kneel  upon  Mount  Calvary, 
Ciolgotha's  dreary  bound  to  trace. 
To  traverse  every  desert  place, 

19G 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


187 


In  which  the  Saviour  trod  of  yore ; 
For  this  he  beareth  travail  sore, 
Hunger  and  weariness  and  pain, 
Nor  longeth  for  his  home  again! 

Now  see  another  pilgrim,  gay, 
And  heartsome  as  a  morn  in  May  ; 
Young,  beautiful,  and  brave,  and  strong, 
As  a  wild  stag  he  bounds  along  ; 
Mountains  his  path  may  not  impede ; 
The  winds  and  waters  serve  his  need. 
He  is  a  pilgrim  bound  to  see 
All  the  old  lands  of  poesy ; 
At  antique  cross  and  altar-stone, 
And  where  dim  pagan  rites  were  done ; 
In  groves  ;  by  springs  ;  on  mountains  hoar ; 
In  classic  vale  ;  by  classic  shore  ; 
Where  wise  men  walked  ;  where  brave  men  fell ; 
Or  tale  of  love  hath  left  its  spell. 
It  matters  not  —  his  foot  is  there. 
Joyful  to  breathe  of  classic  air ; 
Joyful  on  classic  forms  to  gaze, 
And  call  back  light  from  ancient  days. — 
It  is  a  fond  and  ardent  quest. 
And  leaves  its  pilgrim  ill  at  rest! 

Behold,  once  more !  —  From  youth  to  age 
Man  goeth  on  a  pilgrimage ; 
Or  rich  or  poor,  unwise  or  wise. 
Before  each  one  this  journey  lies; 
'T  is  to  a  land  afar,  unknown. 
Yet  where  the  great  of  old  are  gone, 
Poet  and  patriot,  sage  and  seer  ; 
All  whom  we  worship  or  revere  ; 
This  awful  pilgrimage  have  made,  — 
Have  passed  to  the  dim  land  of  shade. 
Youth,  with  his  radiant  locks,  is  there  ; 
And  old  men  with  their  silver  hair  ; 
And  children  sportive  in  their  glee  ;  — 
A  strange  and  countless  company  ! 
Ne'er  on  that  land  gazed  human  eyes; 
Man's  science  hath  not  traced  its  skies, 
Nor  mortal  traveller  e'er  brought  back 
Chart  of  that  journey's  fearful  track. 

Thou  art  a  pilgrim  to  that  shore,  — 
Like  them,  thou  canst  return  no  more ! 
Oh,  gird  thee,  for  thou  needest  strength 
For  the  way's  peril  as  its  length ! 
Oh,  faint  not  by  the  way,  nor  heed 
Dangers  nor  lures,  nor  check  thy  speed ; 
So  God  be  with  thee,  pilgrim  blessed, 
Thou  journeyest  to  the  Land  of  Rest  ! 


COWSLIPS. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  of  Austral  flowers. 
Or  purple  bells  from  Persia  bowers, 
The  cowslip  of  this  land  of  ours. 

Is  dearer  far  to  me  ! 
This  flower  in  other  years  I  knew  ! 
I  know  the  fields  wherein  it  grew, 
Willi  violets  white  and  violets  blue. 

Beneath  the  garden-tree! 
17* 


I  never  see  these  flowers  but  they 
Send  back  my  memory  far  away. 
To  years  long  past,  and  many  a  day 

Else  perished  long  ago ! 
They  bring  my  childhood's  years  again  — 
Our  garden-fence,  I  sec  it  plain. 
With  ficaries  like  a  golden  rain 

Showered  on  the  earth  below. 

A  happy  child,  1  leap,  I  run, 

And  memories  come  back,  one  by  one, 

Like  swallows  with  the  summer's  sun, 

To  their  old  haunts  of  joy! 
A  happy  child,  once  more  I  stand. 
With  my  kind  sister  hand  in  hand. 
And  hear  those  tones  so  sweet,  so  bland. 

That  never  brought  annoy ! 

I  hear  again  my  mother's  wheel. 
Her  hand  upon  my  head  I  feel ; 
Her  kiss,  which  every  grief  could  heal. 

Is  on  my  cheek  even  now ; 
I  see  the  dial  over-head  ; 
I  see  the  porch  o'er  which  was  led, 
The  pyracantha  green  and  red. 

And  jessamine's  slender  bough. 

I  see  the  garden-thicket's  shade. 
Where  all  the  summer  long  we  played. 
And  gardens  set,  and  houses  made. 

Our  early  work  and  late ; 
Our  little  gardens,  side  by  side. 
Each  bordered  round  with  London-pride, 
Some  six  feet  long,  and  three  feet  wide, 

To  us  a  large  estate! 

The  apple  and  the  damson  trees; 
The  cottage-shelter  for  our  bees ; 
I  see  them  —  and  beyond  all  these, 

A  something  dearer  still ; 
I  see  an  eye  serenely  blue, 
A  cheek  of  girlhood's  freshest  hue, 
A  buoyant  heart,  a  spirit  true, 

Alike  in  good  and  ill. 

Sweet  Sister,  thou  wert  all  to  me, 
And  I,  sufficient  friend  for  thee  ;  — 
Where  was  a  happier  twain  than  we. 

Who  had  no  mate  beside  ? 
Like  wayside  flowers  in  merry  May, 
Our  pleasures  round  about  us  lay;  — 
A  joyful  morning  had  our  day, 

Whate'er  our  eve  betide  ! 


THE   INDIAN    BIRD. 

A  MAIDEN  had  an  Indian  bird. 
And  she  kept  it  in  her  bower  ; 
The  sweetest  bird  that  e'er  was  seen, — 
Its  feathers  were  of  the  light  sea-green. 
And  its  eye  had  a  mild  intelligence. 
As  if  it  were  gifted  with  human  sense :  • 
197 


188 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  the  English  tongue  it  had  no  narae, 
But  a  gentle  thing  it  was,  and  tame, 
And  at  the  maiden's  call  it  came: 

And  thus  it  sung  one  twilight  hour. 
In  a  wild  tone  so  sweet  and  low, 
As  made  a  luxury  of  woe. 

"The  nest  was  made  of  the  silver  moss, 

And  was  built  in  the  nutmeg  tree, 
Far  in  an  ancient  forest  shade, 

That  sprung  when  the  very  world  was  made. 

In  an  Indian  isle  beyond  the  sea. 

"There  were  four  of  us  in  the  little  neat. 
And  under  our  mother's  wings  we  lay  ; 
And  the  father,  the  nutmeg  leaves  among, 
To  the  rising  moon  he  sat  and  sung  — 
For  he  sung  both  night  and  day. 

"  And  oh,  he  sung  so  sweetly. 

The  very  winds  were  hushed  I 
And  the  elephant  hunters  all  drew  near, 
Jn  joy  that  wondrous  song  to  hear. 

That  like  wild  waters  gushed. 

"  And  the  little  creatures  of  the  wood 

To  hear  it  had  a  great  delight. 
All  but  the  wild  wolf-cat,  that  prowls 

To  seek  his  prey  at  night. 

"  The  wild  wolf-cat  of  the  mountains  old, 

He  stole  to  that  tree  of  ours  — 
All  silently  he  stole  at  night, 

Like  the  green  snake  'mong  the  flowers. 

"  His  eyes  were  like  two  dismal  fires. 

His  back  was  dusky  grey; 
And  he  seized  our  father  while  he  sung. 

Then  bounded  with  him  away! 

"  Wild  was  the  cry  the  father  gave. 

Till  the  midnight  forest  rang ; 
And  'Oh  !'  said  the  kindly  hunters  then, 
'  Some  savage  creature,  from  its  den 
Hath  pounced  upon  that  gentle  bird, 

And  seized  it  as  it  sang !' 

"  All  wearily  passed  that  woful  night 

With  our  poor  mother's  wail ; 
And  we  watched,  from  out  our  little  nest, 
The  great  round  moon  go  down  to  rest, 

And  the  little  stars  grow  i>ale. 

"  And  then  I  felt  our  mother's  heart 

Flutter,  as  in  a  wild  surprise  ; 
And  we  saw  from  a  leafy  bough  above, 

The  basilisk-snake,  with  its  stony  eyes. 

"  It  lay  on  the  bough  like  a  bamboo  rod. 

All  freckled  and  barred  with  green  and  brown; 

And  the  terrible  light  of  its  freezing  eyes 
Through  the  nutmeg  boughs  came  down. 

"  And  lithely  towards  the  little  nest 

It  slid,  and  nearer  it  drew. 
And  its  poisonous  'oreath,  like  a  stifling  cloud, 

Mong  the  nutmeg  leaves  it  threw. 


"  Ah  me  !  and  I  felt  our  mother's  heart. 

As  it  beat  in  awful  fear. 
And  she  gave  a  cry  that  any  beast 

But  the  basilisk-snake  had  been  woe  to  hear. 

"  But  he  spared  her  not  for  her  beautiful  wings ; 

He  spared  her  not  for  her  cry ; 
And  the  silence  of  death  came  down  on  the  woods. 

That  had  rung  with  her  agony. 

"  And  there  we  lay,  four  lonely  ones  ! 

That  live-long  day,  and  pined,  and  pined  ; 
And  dismally  through  the  forest-trees 

Went  by  the  moaning  wind. 

"  We  watched  the  dreary  stars  come  out. 
And  the  pitiless  moon  come  up  the  sky. 

And  many  a  dreadful  sound  we  heard  — 
The  serpent's  hiss  and  the  jackal's  cry. 

And  then  a  hush  of  downy  wings 
The  nutmeg  tree  went  by. 

"  And  ever  and  ever  that  dreamy  sound. 

For  a  long,  long  hour  we  heard  ; 
And  then  the  eyes  so  terrible. 
And  the  hooked  beak,  we  knew  them  well. 

Of  the  cruel  dragon-bird ! 

"  We  were  his  prey ;  and  then  there  came 

In  the  light  of  the  morning  sun. 
The  giant  eagle  from  the  rock ; 
He  swooped  on  the  nest  with  a  heavy  shock. 

And  left  but  me,  the  lonely  one  I 

"Oh  sorrow  comes  to  the  feeble  thing, 

And  I  was  feeble  as  could  be ! 
And  next  the  arrowy  lightning  came, 

And  smote  our  nutmeg  tree. 

"  Down  went  the  tree ;  down  went  the  nest. 

And  I  had  soon  been  dead  of  cold. 
But  that  a  Bramin  passing  by. 
Beheld  me  with  his  kindly  eye : 
He  bore  me  thence,  and  for  a  space 
He  kept  me  in  a  holy  place. 

Within  a  little  cage  of  gold. 

"The  Bramin's  daughler  tended  me, 

A  gentle  maid  and  beautiful ; 
And  all  day  long  to  me  she  sung. 
And  all  around  my  cage  she  hung 

The  large  white-lily  fresh  and  coul. 

"And  so  I  lived,  —  in  joy  I  lived  ; 

And  when  my  wings  were  strong. 
She  placed  me  in  a  banyan  tree. 
Of  her  sweet  will  to  set  me  free. 

For  the  Bramin  doth  no  creature  wrong. 

"  But  I  could  not  leave  that  kind  old  man 
I  could  not  leave  that  maiden  bright :  ' 

And  so  my  little  nest  I  built 

Beneath  iheir  temple's  roof,  and  dwelt 

Among  sweet  flowers  and  all  fair  things 

The  Indian  people's  offerings; 

And  me  shfe  called  her  'soul's  delight,' 

In  that  land's  speech  a  loving  name  ; 

And  thenceforth  it  niv  name  became. 
l'.)3 


TALES  IN  VERSE. 


189 


"  But  bloody  war  was  in  the  land  ; 

The  old  man  and  the  maid  were  slain ; 
The  precious  things  were  borne  away  — 
A  ruined  heap  the  temple  lay. 

And  I  among  the  spoil  was  ta'en. 

"They  said  I  was  an  idol  bird, 
That  I  had  been  enshrined  there. 

And  that  the  people  worshipped  me. 
And  that  my  gentle  maiden  fair 

Was  priestess  to  the  sea-green  bird ! 

'T  was  false ! — yet  thus  they  all  averred, 

And  in  the  city  I  was  sold 

For  a  great  price  in  counted  gold. 

Thy  merchant-father  purchased  me, 

And  I  was  borne  across  the  sea; 

Thou  know'st  the  rest  —  I  am  not  sad  ; 

With  thee,  sweet  maiden,  all  are  glad  !" 


THE  CHILDREN'S  WISH. 

Oh  for  an  old,  grey  traveller. 

By  our  winter  fire  to  be. 
To  tell  us  of  each  foreign  shore. 
Of  sunny  seas  and  mountains  hoar. 

Which  we  can  never  see ! 

To  tell  us  of  those  regions  stem. 
Covered  with  frost  and  snow. 
Where,  not  the  hardy  fir  can  bear 
The  bitter  cold  of  that  northern  air, — 
'Along  the  dwarfish  Esquimaux  ! 

Or  where,  on  the  high  and  snowy  ridge 

Of  the  Dofrine  mountains  cold. 
The  patient  rein-deer  draws  the  sledge. 
With  rattling  hoofs,  along  the  ledge 
Of  mountains  wild  and  old  I 

Or,  if  that  ancient  traveller 

Had  gone  o'er  the  hills  of  Spain, 
Of  other  scenes  he  would  proudly  speak, 
Than  icy  seas  and  mountains  bleak ; 
And  a  weary  way  of  pain. 

He  would  tell  of  green  and  sunny  vales. 

Thick  woods  and  waters  clear, 

Of  singing  birds,  and  summer  skies, 

And  peasant  girls  with  merry  eyes, 

And  the  dark-browed  muleteer! 

Or,  think  if  he  had  been  at  Rome, 

And  in  St.  Peter's  stood, 
And  seen  each  venerable  place. 
Built,  when  the  old,  heroic  race 

Of  Rome  was  great  and  good  I 

And  more,  if  he  had  voyaged  o'er 

The  bright  blue  Grecian  sea, 
'Mong  isles  where  the  white-lily  grows, 
And  the  gum-cistus  and  the  rose. 
The  bay  and  olive  tree  I 

And  had  felt  on  old  Parnassus'  top 
The  pleasant  breezes  blow ; 


In  Athens  dwelt  a  long,  long  time, 
And  noted  all  of  that  fair  clime, 
Which  we  so  long  to  know. 

And  then,  as  he  grew  old  and  wise, 

He  should  go  to  Palestine, 
And  in  the  Holy  City  dwell. 
Till,  like  his  home,  he  knew  it  well, 

With  the  Bible,  line  by  line. 

He  should  have  stood  on  Lebanon, 

Beneath  the  Cedar's  shade  ; 
And,  with  a  meek  and  holy  heart. 
On  the  Mount  of  Olives  sate  apart, 

And  by  the  Jordan  strayed. 

And  have  travelled  on  where  Babylon 

Lay  like  a  desert  heap. 
Where  the  pale  hyacinth  grows  alone, 
And  where  beneath  the  ruined  stone 

The  bright,  green  lizards  creep ! 

And  if,  the  great  world  round  about. 

Through  flowery  Hindostan  ; 
To  the  Western  World ;  to  the  Southern  Cape, 
Where  dwell  the  zebra  and  the  ape. 

Had  gone  this  pleasant  man. 

What  tales  he  would  tell  on  winter  nights  ! 

Of  Indian  hunters  grim, 
As  they  sit  in  the  pine-bark  wigwam's  bound, 
While  the  hungry  wolf  is  barking  round, 

In  the  midnight  forest  dim. 

Or  how  they  meet  by  the  council  fire. 
Wearing  the  hen-hawk's  feather, 

To  hear  some  famous  Sagum's  "  talk," 

To  see  them  bury  the  tomahawk. 
And  smoke  the  pipe  together. 

Or  of  the  bloody  Indian  wars. 

When  'neath  each  forest-tree 
Was  done  some  fell  deed  of  aflfright. 
And  the  war-whoop  rang  at  dead  of  night, 

Through  the  wild  woods  dismally. 

He  would  tell  of  dim  and  savage  coasts, 

Of  shipwrecks  dark  and  dread  ; 
Of  coral  reefs  in  sleeping  seas  ; 
Of  bright  isles  of  the  Hesperides  — 

And  more  than  we  have  read  I 

And  oh,  that  such  old  man  were  here, 
With  his  wise  and  travelled  look, 

With  thought,  like  deep  exhausiless  springs  ; 

And  a  memory  full  of  wondrous  things, 
Like  a  glorious  picture-book .' 


THE  ENGLISH  MOTHER. 

An  English  matron  sate  at  eve 

Beneath  the  stalely  tree 
That  grew  before  her  husband's  hall, 

With  her  young  son  at  her  knee  : 
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190 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  green  and  ancient  were  the  woods 

That  grew  around  their  home, 
And  old  and  quaint  armorial  stones 

Adorned  their  stately  dome  : 
And  'mid  dark  trees,  a  little  church 

Its  holy  form  displayed, 
Within  whose  deep  and  quiet  vaults 

Their  noble  dead  were  laid. 
The  boy  turned  up  his  eager  eyes 

To  his  mother,  as  she  told 
Of  the  proud  race  from  whom  he  sprung, 

And  their  achievements  old. 
"  My  son,  the  legend  of  our  house, 

Is  simply  '  Trust  in  God,' 
And  none  unworthy  of  such  trust, 

Within  ils  halls  have  trod. 
The  blood  of  thy  heroic  line 

Has  reddened  many  a  field, 
And  trophies  of  the  fights  they  won 

Are  blazoned  on  thy  shield  ; 
The  banners  which  they  bore  away. 

All  soiled  and  torn  and  red, 
Are  mouldering  in  yon  holy  pile. 

Above  the  warrior  dead  ; 
And  many  an  ancient  coat  of  mail, 

And  plumed  helm  and  sword. 
All  proved  in  some  heroic  cause. 

Within  thy  home  are  stored. 
Thou  bear'st  the  noble  name  they  bore. 

Their  blood  is  in  thy  veins, 
And  much  thy  worthy  sires  have  done. 

But  more  for  thee  remains. 
They  shrunk  not  in  the  dreadful  hour 

Of  persecution's  scathe. 
And  some  'mid  bonds  and  some  'mid  fire, 

Maintained  their  righteous  faith. 
Thou  must  not  shrink,  thou  must  not  fear. 

Nor  e'er  belie  their  trust. 
For  God  who  brought  the  mighty  low, 

He  raised  them  from  the  dust- 
And  in  our  dangerous  hour  of  pride, 

When  honours  gird  us  round, 
Alas !  the  boasted  strength  of  man 

Is  often  weakest  found  ; 
And  they  who  put  their  trust  in  heaven, 

'Mid  darkness  and  dismay. 
Too  soon  forget  the  God  they  sought, 

When  fear  has  passed  away. 
The  hour  of  chiefest  danger  now 

Is  nigh  —  so  heaven  thee  guide! — 
Prosperity  will  try  thee,  boy, 

As  ne'er  thy  sires  were  tried  ! — 
And  oh,  unworthy  of  thy  sires. 

Not  here  couldst  thou  find  rest ; 
Thou  mighl'st  not  stand  beneath  these  trees. 

Were  thine  a  guilty  breast ; 
These  ancient  walls,  yon  holy  fane, 

This  green  and  stately  tree, 
Couldst  thou  disgrace  thy  noble  name. 
Would  speak  reproach  to  thee  !" 

Again  the  boy  looked  in  her  face, 
His  bright  eyes  dimmed  with  tears. 


And  ■'  Not  unworthy  of  my  sires, 
Shall  be  my  manhood  years  I" 

Said  he,  in  a  proud,  but  artless  tone. 
And  his  mother  kissed  his  brow. 

And  said,  "  I  trust  in  God  that  none 

Of  thy  noble  sires  in  the  ages  gone. 
Had  a  nobler  son  than  thou !" 


THE    DEPARTED. 

"  From  the  woods  and  the  summer  fields  he  is  gone, 
With  his  merry  laugh  and  his  sunny  brow  I 

The  garden  looks  dim  and  the  house  is  lone. 
Where,  dearest  mother,  is  he  wandering  now?" 

"He  is  gone  in  a  brighter  home  to  dwell. 

With  beautiful  creatures  all  love  and  joy. 
Where  death  comes  not,  and  no  sad  farewell 

With  its  parting  tone  can  his  bliss  alloy. 
He  is  gone  to  a  happier  home  than  ours. 

Beneath  the  light  of  more  radiant  skies. 
And  his  path  is  bright  with  more  lovely  flowers 

Than  in  the  sweet  summer  e'er  met  thine  eyes. 

"Thou  wilt  meet  him  no  more  in  the  fields  of  earth, 

For  the  pleasant  days  of  his  life  are  o'er, 
And  the  joyful  peals  of  his  laughing  mirih 

Will  ring  from  our  evening  hearth  no  more. 
Thou  wilt  see  him  no  more  as  he  used  to  be; 

Thou  wilt  sleep  by  his  side  no  more  at  night, 
Nor  with  thee  again  will  he  bend  the  knee. 

And  his  evening-prayer  with  thine  unite!" 
"  Mother,  his  cheeks  are  cold  and  pale, 

His  eyes  are  closed,  yet  he  does  not  sleep. 
For  he  wakens  not  at  my  earnest  call ; — 

Is  it  death,  dear  mother, — that  rest  so  deep  ?" 

"  My  child,  his  sleep  is  the  sleep  of  death ; 

Yet  we  may  not  deem  it  a  darkened  lot, 
And  his  spirit,  more  pure  than  the  breezes'  breath, 

May  be  v\iandering  near,  though  we  know  it  not  I 
And  wish  him  not  back,  thou  lonely  child, 

Though  we  miss  his  love,  and  his  pleasant  voice, — 
Thou  wilt  soon  to  thy  loss  be  reconciled, 

And  again  in  the  summer-woods  rejoice. 

"  He  dwells  where  the  fields  can  never  fade. 

Where  night  comes  not,  nor  day  is  dim  ; 
Where  the  glory  of  God  is  the  sun,  and  the  shade 

Is  the  shadowing  wing  of  the  cherubim. 
And  oh  !  in  yon  bright  and  happy  land, 

Thou  again  mayst  his  sunny  beauty  see. 
And  hear  his  voice,  'mid  a  joyful  band. 

From  the  shades  of  death  as  it  welcomes  thee !" 


A  POETICAL  CHAPTER  ON  TAILS. 

One  evening  three  boys  did  their  father  assail. 
With  "  tell  us  a  tale,  papa,  tell  us  a  tale !" 
"  A  tale  '."  said  their  father,  "  Oh  yes  !  you  shall  see. 
That  a  tale  of  all  tails  it  this  evening  shall  be; 
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TALES  IN  VERSE. 


191 


A  tale  having  reference  to  all  tails  whatever, 
Of  air  or  of  ocean,  of  field  or  of  river  ! 
First  the  tail  of  a  cat, — now  this  tail  can  express 
All  passions,  all  humours,  than  language  no  less." 
"  Oh,  you  're  joking,  papa,"  cried  at  once  all  the  three, 
"  Yours  are  tails  with  an  j,  and  not  tales  with  an  e!" 
"Well,  well,"  said  their  father,  "I  shall  be  surprised. 
If  my  tails  with  an  i  in  the  end  are  despised  ; 
So,  sirs,  I  '11  procoetl :  now  this  tail,  as  I  said. 
Expresses  what  moves  her  in  heart  or  in  head. 
Is  she  pleased  — you  know  it  is  iiiiiet,  no  doubt ; 
Is  she  angry  —  you  know  liow  she  wags  it  about; 
Would  she  coax  you, — she  rubs,  and  she  purrs,  and 

her  tail. 
With  her  back  at  right  angles,  she  lifls  like  a  rail ; 
Then  the  tail  of  a  dog, — you  need  hardly  be  told. 
What  tales  this  same  tail  of  a  dog  can  unfold. 
In  his  joy  how  he  wags  it — from  turn.spit  to  hound  ; 
In  his  trouble,  poor  rogue  !  how  it  droops  to  the  ground. 
Then  the  tails  of  the  horse  and  the  cow,  need  I  say ! 
What  useful  and  excellent  fly-traps  are  they? 
But  away  I  and  the  hot  sandy  deserts  exploring. 
Do  you  hear  how  the  terrible  lion  is  roaring! 
And  see  in  the  thicket  his  fiery  eye  flashing. 
And  his  furious  tail  on  his  tawny  sides  lashing! 
Yes,  he  is  the  king  of  all  beasts,  and  can  send 
Most  marvellous  power  to  his  very  tail's  end. 
The  same  with  the  tiger  —  and  so  of  each  kind. 
The  tail  is  a  capital  index  of  mind. 
Then  the  tail  of  the  rattle-snake — should  you  not  fear 
Its  dry,  husky  sound  in  the  forest  to  hear  ? 
Suppose  you  were  sleeping,  the  tree-roots  your  bed. 
And  this  terrible  monster  had  crept  to  your  head, 
And  his  tail  should  awake  you, — I  'm  sure  you  'd  be 

glad 
That  a  tail  with  a  larum  the  rattle-snake  had. 
Apropos  of  the  snake  —  you  've  heard,  I  dare  say, 
Of  the  wasp  and  the  hornet,  and  such  things  as  they; 
Of  a  venomous  weapon  they  carry  about. 
And  moreover,  you  all  know,  1  make  not  a  doubt, 
That  't  is  placed  in  the  tail,  which  same  venomous 

thing 
The  wise  of  all  nations  have  christened  a  sting  ; 
But  the  tail  of  a  bird  for  no  mischief  is  sent, 
A  most  scientific,  and  good  instrument, 
Constructed,  indeed,  on  an  excellent  plan. 
Light,  flexible  too,  and  spread  out  like  a  fan; 
'T  is  ballast  and  rudder,  which  ill  he  could  spare, 
And  a  buoy  to  keep  up  the  small  creature  in  air. 
Of  the  ostrich,  the  tail  is  an  elegant  thing, 
Wiiich  is  not  despised  by  the  mightiest  king, 


And  the  handsomest  ladies  I  often  have  heard. 
Give  a  monstrous  price  for  the  tail  of  this  bird  ; 
Then  the  sweet  bird  of  Paradise — don't  you  remem- 
ber 
The  beautiful  creature  we  saw  last  November, 
With  his  banner-like  tail,  that  gracefully  spre.id. 
And  was  seen  like  a  glory  encircling  his  head  ? 
Of  that  of  the  peacock  no  word  will  I  say. 
The  thing  is  so  common,  you  see  it  each  day. 
And  now  your  attention  to  change  1  could  wish 
To  a  different  tail — even  that  of  a  fish  ; 
And  no  less  than  the  tail  ol'  the  bird  is  this  made 
With  wonderful  knowledge  the  creature  to  aid. 
'T  is  his  helm,  and  with  it  no  more  could  he  keep, 
Than  a  ship  without  rudder  his  place  in  the  deep. 
And  the  wisest  philosophers  all  have  decided. 
That  no  fitter  instrument  could  be  provided. 
That  the  shark,  my  dear  boys,  has  a  tail,  without  doubt. 
From  some  book  or  other  you  '  ve  long  since  made  out ; 
And  you  know  how  it  puts,  without  hesitation. 
The  crew  of  a  ship  into  great  consternation, 
When  he  flaps  down  his  tail  on  the  deck,  and  no 

wonder, 
For,  like  a  sledge-hammer,  it  falleth  in  thunder; 
And  lest  that  its  force  'gainst  the  ship  should  prevail, 
The  first  thing  they  do,  is  to  chop  off  its  tail ! 
Besides  there  are  others, — the  monkey's  tail ;  you 
Know  well  what  a  monkey  with  his  tail  can  do. 
And  have  we  forgotten  the  beaver  ?  it  yields 
The  poor,  patient  creature  great  help  when  he  builds, 
'T  is  the  wagon  he  draws  his  materials  upon, 
'T  is  the  trowel  to  finish  his  work  when  't  is  done. 
Of  the  fox,  too,  in  Norway,  you've  heard,  without  fail, 
How  he  angles  for  crabs  with  his  great  bushy  tail. 
And  there  is  the  pigtail  that  gentlemen  wore, 
With  its  various  fashions,  about  half  a  score. 
And  the  great  cat-o'-nine  tails !  that  terrible  beast, 
Has  made  itself  famous  by  its  tails,  at  least. 
And  the  tail  of  a  comet!  that  tail,  in  its  strength. 
Extending  some  thousands  of  miles  in  its  length. 
Is  nothing  to  laugh  at ;  a  most  awful  thing, 
That  could  sweep  down  the  world  with  its  terrible 

swing  ! 
And  now  since  we've  conned  over  bird,  beast,  and  fish. 
What  greater  amusement,  my  boys,  could  you  wish  ? 
But  the  next  time,  however,  I  think  we  must  try 
For  some  nobler  subject  than  tails  with  an  ( ; 
And  so,  good  night  to  each  one,  now  this  the  last  line 

is  — 
And  the  book  and  the  chapter  shall  here  have  their 
FINIS. 


2  A 


201 


192 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


M^inttii^ntou&  ^itttu. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


THE  VOYAGE  WITH  THE  NAUTILUS. 

I  MADE  myself  a  little  boat, 

As  trim  as  trim  could  be, 
A  little  boat  out  of  a  great  pearl  shell. 

That  was  found  in  the  Indian  sea. 

I  made  my  masts  of  wild  sea  rush. 

That  grew  on  a  secret  shore ; 
And  the  scarlet  plume  of  the  halcyon-bird. 

Was  the  pleasant  flag  I  bore. 

I  took  for  my  sails  the  butterfly's  wings, 

For  my  ropes  the  spider's  line ; 
And  that  mariner  old,  the  Nautilus, 

To  steer  me  over  the  brine. 

For  he  crossed  the  sea  six  thousand  years. 

And  he  knew  each  isle  and  bay  ; 
And  I  thought  that  we,  in  my  little  boat, 

Could  merrily  steer  away. 

The  stores  I  took  were  plentiful  : 

The  dew  as  it  sweetly  fell ; 
And  the  honey-combs  that  were  hoarded  up 

la  the  wild  bees'  summer  cell. 

"  Now  steer  away,  thou  helmsman  good. 

Over  the  waters  free; 
To  the  charmed  isle  of  the  seven  kings, 

That  lies  in  the  midmost  sea !" 

He  spread  the  sail,  he  took  the  helm  ; 

And  long  ere  ever  I  wist. 
We  had  sailed  a  league,  we  reached  the  isle 

That  lay  in  the  golden  mist. 

The  charmed  isle  of  the  seven  kings, 

'Tis  a  place  of  wondrous  spell  I 
But  all  that  happ'd  unto  me  there 

In  a  printed  book  I  '11  tell. 

"  Now,"  said  I  one  day  to  the  Nautilus, 

As  we  stood  on  the  strand, 
"  Unmoor  my  ship,  ihou  helmsman  good, 

And  steer  me  back  to  land. 

"  For  my  mother  I  know  is  sick  at  heart. 

And  longs  my  face  to  see  ; 
What  ails  thee  now,  thou  Nautilus, 

Art  slow  to  sail  witii  me  ? 
Up  —  do  my  will  —  the  wind  is  fresh. 

To  set  the  vessel  free !" 


He  turn'd  the  helm,  and  away  we  sail'd, 

Away  towards  the  setting  sun: 
The  flying-fish  were  swift  on  the  wing. 

But  we  outsped  each  one. 

And  on  we  went  for  seven  days, 

Seven  days  without  a  night; 
And  we  follow'd  the  sun  still  on  and  on, 

In  the  glow  of  his  setting  light. 

Down  and  down  went  the  setting  sun. 

And  down  and  down  went  we  ; 
'T  was  a  glorious  sail  for  seven  days, 

On  a  smooth,  descending  sea. 

"  Good  friend,"  said  I  to  the  Nautilus, 

"  Can  this  the  right  course  be  ? 
And  shall  we  come  again  to  land  ?" 

But  answer  none  made  he. 

So  on  we  went ;  but  soon  I  heard 

A  sound,  as  when  winds  blow. 
And  waters  wild  are  tumbled  down 

Into  a  gulf  below. 

And  on  and  on  flew  the  little  bark. 

As  a  fiend  her  course  did  urge; 
And  I  saw,  in  a  moment,  we  must  hang 

Upon  the  ocean's  verge. 

I  snatch'd  down  the  sails,  I  snapp'd  the  ropes, 

I  broke  the  masts  in  twain ; 
But  on  flew  the  bark,  and  against  the  rocks 

Like  a  living  thing  did  strain. 

"Thou  hast  steer'd  us  wrong,  thou  helmsman  vile  !" 

Said  I  to  the  Nautilus  bold  , 
"  We  shall  shoot  down  the  gulf!  we  're  dead  men 
both! 

Dost  know  what  a  course  we  hold  ?" 

And  I  seized  the  helm  with  a  sudden  jerk. 

And  we  wheel 'd  round  like  a  bird  ; 
But  I  saw  the  gulf  of  etermty. 

And  the  tideless  waves  I  heard. 

"  Good  master,"  said  the  Nautilus. 

"  I  thought  you  might  desire. 
To  have  some  wondrous  things  to  tell. 

Beside  your  mother's  fire. 

"  What's  sailing  on  a  summer  sea  ? 

As  well  sail  on  a  jxjoI  ! 
Oh,  but  1  know  a  thousand  things 

That  are  wild  and  beautiful ! 

202 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


193 


'•  And  if  you  please  to  see  them  now, 

You  've  but  to  say  the  word  — " 
■  Have  done  I"  said  I  to  the  Nautilus, 
■  Or  I  '11  throw  thee  overboard. 

'  Have  done !"  said  I,  "  thou  mariner  old, 

And  steer  me  back  to  land," 
No  other  word  spake  the  Nautilus, 

But  took  the  helm  in  hand. 

I  looked  up  to  the  lady  moon. 

She  was  but  like  a  glow-worm's  spark; 
And  never  a  star  shone  down  to  us. 

Through  the  sky,  so  high  and  dark. 

And  we  had  no  mast,  we  had  no  ropes. 

And  every  sail  was  rent ; 
And  the  stores  I  brought  from  the  charmed  isle. 

In  the  seven  days'  sail  were  spent. 

But  the  Nautilus  was  a  patient  thing. 

And  he  steer'd  with  all  his  might 
On  that  up-hill  sea,  and  he  never  slept, 

And  he  kept  the  course  aright. 

And  for  thrice  seven  nights  we  sail'd  and  sail'd  : 

At  length  I  saw  the  bay 
Where  I  built  my  bark,  and  my  mother's  house, 

'Mong  the  green  hills  where  it  lay. 

"Farewell!"  said  I  to  the  Nautilus, 

As  I  leapt  to  the  shore : 
"Thou  art  a  skilful  mariner. 

But  I  '11  sail  with  thee  no  more." 


DELICI^   MARIS. 

Once,  when  I  was  a  thoughtless  child, 

I  sate  beneath  a  tree, 
Beside  a  little  running  stream, 

And  a  mariner  sate  by  me  ; 
And  thus  he  spake :  —  "  For  seventy  years 

I've  sail'd  upon  the  sea. 

"  Thou  thinkest  that  the  earth  is  fair. 
And  full  of  strange  delight  ; 

Yon  little  brook,  that  murmurs  by. 
Is  glorious  in  thy  sight. 

"  Thou  callest  j-on  poor  butterfly 

A  very  marvellous  thing, 
And  listen'st,  in  a  fond  amaze. 

When  the  morning  lark  doth  sing. 

"Thou  speak'st  as  if  God  only  made 

Valley,  and  hill,  and  tree. 
Yet  I  blame  thee  not,  thou  simple  child ! 

Wise  men  have  spoke  like  thee. 

"  But  glorious  are  the  ocean-fields, — 
On  land  you  're  trammell'd  round  ,■ 

On  the  right,  and  on  the  left  likewise, 
Doth  lie  forbidden  ground. 


"  But  the  ocean-fields  are  free  to  all. 

Where'er  they  list  to  go. 
With  the  heavens  above,  and  round  about, 

And  the  wide,  wide  sea  below . 

"  Oh  !  it  gladdeneth  much  my  very  soul 

The  smallest  ship  to  see ; 
For  I  know,  where'er  a  sail  is  spread, 

God  speaketh  audibly. 

"  Up  to  the  north,— the  polar  noith, 

With  the  whalers  did  I  go, 
'Mong  the  mountains  of  eternal  ice, 

To  the  land  of  the  thawless  snow. 

"  We  were  hemmed  in  by  icy  rocks, 
The  strength  of  man  was  vain  ; 

But  at  once  the  arm  of  God  was  shown. 
The  rocks  were  rent  in  twain  ! 

"  The  sea  was  parted  for  Israel, 

The  great  Red  Sea,  of  yore. 
And  Moses,  and  the  Hebrew  race. 

In  joy  went,  dry-shod,  o'er. 

"  And  a  miracle  as  great  was  wrought 

For  us  in  the  polar  sea. 
When  the  rocks  were  rent,  from  peak  to  bas 

And  our  southern  course  was  tree  I 

"  Yet,  amid  those  seas  .=o  wild  and  stem. 
Where  man  hath  left  no  trace, 

The  sense  of  God  came  down  to  us, 
As  in  a  holy  place. 

"Great  kings  have  piled  up  pyramids. 
And  built  them  temples  grand  ; 

But  the  sublimest  temple  far 
Is  in  yon  northern  land. 

"  Its  pillars  are  of  the  adamant. 
By  a  thousand  winters  hew'd  ; 

Its  priests  are  the  awful  silence, 
And  the  ancient  solitude! 

"  And  then  we  sailed  to  the  tropic  seas. 

That  are  like  crystal  clear; 
Thou  wilt  marvel  much,  thou  little  child, 

Their  glorious  things  to  hear. 

"I  have  looked  down  to  those  ocean  depths, 

Many  thousand  fathoms  low, 
And  seen,  like  woods  of  mighty  oak. 

The  trees  of  coral  grow ; — 

"The  red,  the  green,  and  the  beautiful 
Pale-branch'd  like  the  chrysolite, 

Which,  amid  the  sun-lit  waters,  spread 
Their  flowers  intensely  bright. 

"  Some,  they  were  like  the  lily  of  June, 

Or  the  rose  of  Fairy-land, 
Or  as  if  some  poet's  glorious  thought 

Had  inspired  a  sculptor's  hand. 

"  And  then  the  million  creatures  bright 
That,  sporting,  went  and  came ! 

Heaven  knows,  but  I  think  in  Paradise 
It  must  have  been  the  same: — 
203 


194 


HO  WITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  When  'neath  the  trees  that  God  had  set, 

Tlie  land  was  free  to  all ; 
When  the  lion  gamboU'd  with  the  kid, 

The  great  ones  with  the  small. 

"  There  are  no  wastes  of  burning  sand. 

There 's  neither  heat  nor  cold  ; 
And  there  doth  spring  the  diamond  mine, 

There  flow  the  veins  of  gold. 

"  There,  with  the  divers  of  the  East, 
Who  down  in  those  depths  have  been, 

I  've  conversed  of  the  marvels  strange. 
And  the  glories  they  had  seen. 

"And  they  say,  each  one,  not  halls  of  kings 
With  the  ocean-caves  can  vie. 

With  the  untrod  caves  ol"  the  carbuncle. 
Where  the  great  sea-treasures  lie. 

"  And  well  I  wot  it  must  be  so : 

Man  parteth  evermore 
The  miser-treasures  of  the  earth  ; 

The  sea  hath  all  its  store. 

"Then  I've  cross'd  the  line  fall  fifteen  times, 
And  down  in  the  southern  sea 

I  've  seen  the  whales,  like  bounding  lambs, 
Leap  up, — the  strong,  the  free : — 

"  Leap  up,  the  creatures  that  God  had  made, 

To  people  the  isleless  main ; 
They  have  no  bridle  in  their  jaws, 

And  on  their  necks  no  rein. 

"  But,  my  little  child,  thou  sittest  here, 
-     Still  gazing  on  yon  stream. 
And  the  wondrous  things  that  I  have  told 
To  thee  are  as  a  dream ; — 

"  But  to  me  they  are  as  living  thoughts, 

And  well  I  understand. 
Why  the  sublimest  sea  is  still 

More  glorious  than  the  land : 

"For  when  at  first  the  world  awoke 

From  its  primeval  sleep  ; 
Not  on  the  land  the  Spirit  of  God 

Did  move,  but  on  the  deep !" 


FLOWERS. 
I. 

On  the  third  day  of  creation. 

Before  mankind  had  birth. 
Ten  thousand  thousand  flowers  sprang  up, 

To  beautify  the  earth : 
From  the  rejoicing  earth  sprang  up 

Each  radiant,  bursting  bud  ; 
And  God  looked  down,  at  eventide, 

And  saw  that  they  were  good. 
And  now,  as  then,  ten  thousand  flov\er3 

From  the  gracious  earth  outburst. 
And  every  flower  that  springeth  up 

Is  goodly  as  at  first  : 


The  red  rose  is  the  red  rose  still ; 

And  from  the  lily's  cup 
An  odour,  fragrant  as  at  first. 

Like  frankincense  goes  up. — 
Oh,  flowers,  fair  shining  flowers. 

Like  crowned  kings  ye  are ! 
Each,  in  the  nature  of  its  kind. 

Unchanging  as  a  star: — 
Empires  have  fallen  to  decay. 

Forgotten  e'en  in  name  — 
All  man's  sublimest  works  decay, 

But  ye  are  still  the  same ! 

IF. 

Ye  flowers  —  ye  little  flowers 

Were  witnesses  of  things. 
More  glorious  and  more  wondrous  far 

Than  the  fall  and  rise  of  kings! — 
Ye,  in  the  vales  of  Paradise, 

Heard  how  the  mountains  rang. 
When  the  sons  of  God  did  shout  for  joy. 

And  the  stars  of  morning  rang ! 
Ye  saw  the  creatures  of  the  earth. 

Ere  fear  was  felt,  or  pain  ; 
Ve  saw  the  lion  with  the  lamb 

Go  sporting  o'er  the  plain  ! 
Ye  were  the  first  that  from  the  earth 

Sprang,  when  the  floods  were  dried, 
And  the  meek  dove  from  out  the  ark 

Went  wandering  far  and  wide ; — 
And  when  upon  Mount  Ararat 
^  The  floating  ark  was  stayed. 
And  the  freshness  of  the  flowering  earth 

The  Patriarch  first  surveyed, — 
Ye  saw  across  the  heavens 

The  new-made  bended  bow, — 
Ye  heard  the  Eternal  bind  himself. 

Upon  its  glorious  show. 
That  never  more  the  waters  wild 

Should  rage  beyond  their  shore  ; 
That  harvest-time  and  time  of  seed 

Should  be  for  ever  more  ! 

III. 

Oh  flowers !  sweet,  goodly  flowers ! 

Ye  were  loved,  in  times  of  old, 
And  better  worth  were  crowns  of  flowers 

Than  crowns  of  beaten  gold. 
They  wore  ye  at  the  marriage-feast. 

When  merry  pipes  were  blown  ; 
And,  o'er  their  most  beloved  dead. 

Fit  emblems,  were  ye  strewn ! 
— The  poets  ever  loved  ye, 

For  in  their  souls  ye  wrought. 
Like  seas,  and  stars,  and  mountains  old. 

Enkindling  lofty  thought! 
But  greater  far  than  ail  — 

Our  blessed  Lord  did  see 
How  beautiful  the  lilies  grew. 

In  the  fields  of  Galilee: — 
Consider  now  these  flowers,  he  said, 

They  toil  not,  neither  spin, — 

204 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


19i 


And  God,  himself,  the  garment  made 

Which  they  are  clothed  in  ;  — 
In  the  perCectiiess  of  beauty 

Each  several  tlower  is  made, 
And  Solomon,  in  all  his  pomp, 

Was  not  like  them  arrayed  ;  — 
They  are  but  of  the  field,  yet  God 

Has  clothed  them  as  ye  see  :  — 
Oh,  how  much  more,  immortal  souls. 

Will  he  not  care  for  ye  I 


THE  SALE  OF  THE  PET  LAMB  OF  THE 
COTTAGE. 

'  Oh  I  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  't  is  full  of  grief  and 
I         pain, 

I  It  boweth  down  the  heart  of  man,  and  dulls  his  cun- 
t         ning  brain, 

I  It  maketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs 
complain ! 

The  children  of  the  rich  man  have  not  their  bread  to 

win  : 
They  hardly  know  how  labour  is  the  penalty  of  sin ; 
'  Even  as  the  lilies  of  the  field,  they  neither  toil  nor  spin. 

.\nd  year  by  year,  as  life  wears  on,  no  wants  have 

they  to  bear ; 
In  all  the  luxury  of  the  earth  they  have  abundant 
share ; 
'  They  walk  among  life's  pleasant  waj's,  and  never 
know  a  care. 

]  The  children  of  the   poor  man  —  though   they  be 
I  young,  each  one, 

,  Early  in  the  morning  they  rise  up  before  the  rising  sun, 
i  And  scarcely  when  the  sun  is  set,  their  daily  task  is 
done. 

I  Few  things  have  they  to  call  their  own,  to  fill  their 
hearts  with  pride, — 

]  The  sunshine  of  the  summer's  day,  the  flowers  on 

I  the  highway  side, 

;  Or  their  own  free  companionship,  on  the  heathy  com- 
mon wide. 

IHinger,  and  cold,  and  weariness,  these  are  a  frightful 
three  ; 

But  another  curse  there  is  beside,  that  darkens  po- 
verty :  — 

It  may  not  have  one  thing  to  love,  how  small  soe'er 
it  be. 

A  thousand  flocks  were  on  the  hills  —  a  thousand 

flocks,  and  more, — 
Feeding  in  sunshine  pleasantly, — they  were  the  rich 

man's  store ; 
I  There  was  the  while,  one  little  lamb,  beside  a  cottage 

door: 

A  little  lamb  that  did  lie  down  with  the  children 
'neaih  the  tree ; 

That  ate,  meek  creature,  from  their  hands,  and  nes- 
tled to  their  knee  ; 
18 


Thar  had  a  place  within  their  hearts,  as  one  of  the 
family. 

But  want,  even  as  an  armed  man,  came  down  upon 

their  shed. 
The  father  laboured  all  day  long,  that  his  children 

might  be  fed  ; 
And,  one  by  one,  their  household  things,  were  sold 

to  buy  them  bread. 

That  father,  with  a  downcast  eye,  upon  his  thres- 
hold stood. 

Gaunt  poverty  each  pleasant  thought  had  in  his  heart 
subdued ; 

"  What  is  the  creature's  life  to  us  ?"  said  he,  "  't  will 
buj'  us  food  ! 

".Ay,  though  the  children  weep  all  day,  and  with 

down-drooping  head 
Each  does  his  small  craft  mournfully  I —  the  hungry 

must  be  fed ; 
And  that  which  has  a  price  to  bring,  must  go,  to  buy 

us  bread  I" 

It  went — oh !  parting  has  a  pang  the  hardest  heart  to 

wring. 
But  the  tender  soul  of  a  little  child  with  fervent  love 

doth  cling. 
With  love  that  hath  no  feignings  false,  unto  each 

gentle  thing  I 

Therefore  most  sorrowful  it  was  those  children  small 

to  see. 
Most  sorrowful  to  hear  them  plead  for  their  pet  so 

piteously ;  — 
"  Oh  !  mi  ther  dear,  it  loveth  us ;  and  what  beside 

have  we  ? 

"Let's  take  him  to  the  broad,  green  hills,"  in  his 

impotent  despair. 
Said  one  strong  boy, "  let 's  take  him  cfC,  the  hills  are 

wide  and  fair  ; 
I  know  a  little  hiding-place,  and  we  will  keep  him 

there !" 

'T  was  vain  I — they  took  the  little  lamb,  and  straight- 
way tied  him  down. 

With  a  strong  cord  they  tied  him  fast ; — and  o'er  the 
common  brown. 

And  o'er  the  hot  and  flinty  roads,  they  took  him  to 
the  town. 

The  little  children  through  that  day,  and  throughout 

all  the  morrow 
From  everything  about  the  house  a  mournful  thought 

did  borrow ; 
The  very  bread  they  had  to  eat  wa.«  food  unto  their 

sorrow  I  — 

Oh  I  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  't  is  full  of  grief  and 

pain  — 
It  keepeth  down  the  soul  of  man,  as  with  an  iron 

chain; 
It  maketh  even  the  little  child,  with   heavy  sighs 

complain  I 

205 


190 


HO  WITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE    FAERY    OATH. 

"Thy  voice  is  weak,  thine  eyes  are  dim," 

The  holy  father  said  to  him  ; 

"  The  damp  of  death  is  on  thy  brow, — 

What  is  thy  sin  ?  —  confess  it  now  I 

Confess  it  —  ere  it  be  too  late;  — 

Is  it  blood,  or  pride,  or  restless  hate  ?" 

"  I  have  shed  no  blood,"  he  thus  replied, — 

"  I  have  hated  none  —  I  have  known  no  pride, — 

Yet  have  sitined  as  few  men  beside  :  — 

I  have  bound  myself  by  oath  and  spell, 

To  the  faery  people  of  field  and  fell, — 

With  solemn  rites  and  mysteries  ;  — 

Can  the  church  absolve  such  sins  as  these?" 

"  My  son,"  said  the  friar,  "  tell  to  me 

How  such  enchantment  fell  on  thee  ; 

For  thou  hadst  sinned,  or  it  might  not  be." 

The  sick  man  lay  on  the  greensward  low. 

But  he  raised  himself  and  his  words  were  slow:  — 

"  I  dwelt,  as  the  minstrel  dwells  at  best. 

The  thymy  wo!d  was  my  couch  of  rest ; 

I  watched  on  the  ancient  mountains  grey, 

I  dwelt  in  the  greenwood,  day  by  day; 

I  knew  each  bird  that  singelh  free, 

I  had  knowledge  of  each  herb  and  tree  ; 

I  called  each  little  star  by  name, 

I  watched  the  lightning's  subtle  flame; 

I  was  learned  in  the  skies  and  seas. 

And  earth's  profoundest  mysteries. 

But,  best  t  loved,  in  the  moonlight  glade, 

To  be  where  the  faery  people  played  ; 

And  list  to  their  music,  sweet  and  low, 

Too  soft  for  joy,  too  wild  for  woe  ! 

And  I  tuned,  both  even  and  morn. 

To  the  witching  airs  of  the  faery  horn, 

Till  I  knew  them  all,  and  at  will  could  bnng 

The  revellers  w'ild  from  their  grassy  ring. 

Then  I  sate  with  them  at  a  banquet  spread, 

I  drank  their  wine  that  was  ruby  red. 

And  a  deadly  sleep  came  o'er  my  brain  ;  — 

But  when  I  opened  my  eyes  again, 

I  was  not  beneath  my  eartiily  tree  — 

A  heavy  darkness  hung  over  me. 

I  lay  in  a  couch-like  chariot  wide, 

And  one  who  drove  me  sat  beside  : 

I  heard  him  urge  the  horses  fleet. 

And  I  heard  the  sound  of  their  ceaseless  feet ; 

On  they  went,  o'er  the  rugged  road, 

For  days  and  days,  with  tiieir  easy  load  ; 

Swiflly  we  sped,  and  the  passing  air 

Was  cool  on  my  cheek,  and  lifie<i  my  hair;  — 

On  we  went  —  over  mountains  high. 

And  roaring  waters,  we  journeyed  by ; 

And  through  thick  woods,  where  the  air  was  cold : 

O'er  sandy  wastes,  and  the  furzy  wold  : 

Day  after  day,  as  it  seemed  to  me. 

In  a  gloom  like  the  night  of  eternity. 

At  length,  I  sate  in  another  land. 

With  the  faery  people  on  either  hand  ; 


Where  was  that  land,  I  cannot  say  — 
Its  light  was  not  like  the  light  of  day, 
Its  air  was  not  like  the  air  of  earth  — 
'Twas  the  vi'ondrous  land  where  dreams  have  birth! 
There  were  glorious  things  of  shape  divine, 
There  were  fountains,  that  poured  forth  purple  wine ! 
There  were  trees,  that  bent  with  their  golden  load 
Of  fruits,  that  all  gifts  of  mind  bestowed  I 
The  very  air  did  breathe  and  sigh. 
As  if  o'erburthened  with  melody!  — 
But  then  there  were  frightful,  creeping  things, 
The  coil  of  the  adder,  the  harpy's  wings, — 
The  screech  of  the  owl,  the  death-bed  moan, — 
And  eyes  that  would  turn  the  blood  to  stone! 
I  was  set  to  the  feast  —  and  half  in  dread 
I  drank  of  the  cup,  and  I  ate  the  bread  : 
I  was  told  to  bathe  —  and  half  in  fear 
I  bathed  myself  in  those  waters  clear ;  — 
I  ate  —  I  drank  —  I  bathed — and  then 
I  could  no  longer  have  part  with  men. 
I  dwelt  'mong  the  faeries,  their  merry  king, — 
I  danced  on  the  earth,  in  the  charmed  ring; 
I  learned  the  songs  of  awful  mirth. 
That  were  made  ere  man  abode  on  earth  ; 
In  the  time  of  chaos,  stern  and  grey, 
'Mid  ruins  of  old  worlds  passed  away. 
A  careless,  joyful  life  I  led. 
Till  thrice  seven  years,  as  a  day,  had  sped  ;  — 
Then  a  longing  wish  was  in  hny  mind. 
To  dwell  once  more  among  human  kind : 
So  up  I  rose,  but  I  told  to  none, 
What  journey  I  was  departing  on  ; 
And  at  the  close  of  a  summer's  day, 
I  laid  me  down  on  the  Leeder  brae. 
Ere  long,  came  one,  and  a  friar  was  he. 
Muttering  over  his  rosary  ; 
He  was  lean,  and  crabbed,  and  old, — 
His  voice  was  thick,  and  his  prayers  were  cold, — 
He  moved  not  my  heart ;  —  then  came  there  by 
A  fair  child,  chasing  a  butterfly; 
'T  was  a  lovely  boy  —  with  his  free  light  hair, 
Like  a  sunny  cloud,  o'er  his  shoulders  bare  ; 
And  as  he  danced  in  his  glee  along. 
He  filled  the  air  with  a  joyful  .song; 
I  blessed  the  child  from  my  inmost  heart. 
With  a  faery  gift,  that  could  ne'er  depart. 
Next  came  a  maiden,  all  alone. 
And  down  she  sate  on  a  mossy  stone : 
Fair  was  she,  as  the  morning's  smile. 
But  her  serious  eye  had  a  tear  the  wiiile  ; 
Then  she  raised  to  heaven  her  thoughtful  look. 
And  drew  from  her  bosom  a  clasped  book; 
Page  by  page  of  that  book  she  read, — 
Hour  by  hour  I  listened;  — 
Still  on  she  read,  sedate  and  low. 
And  at  every  word  I  was  wrung  with  woe ; 
For  she  taught  what  I  ne'er  had  known  before 
The  holy  truths  of  the  Christian  lore  I 
And  I  saw  the  sinful  life  I  led. 
And  my  human  heart  was  shook  with  dread 
And  I,  who  had  lived  in  pleasures  wild, 
i  Now  wept  in  awe,  like  a  stricken  child  ! 

206 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIKCES. 


197 


Down  I  knell,  and  I  strove  to  piray. 
,  But  never  a  liope  to  my  soul  found  way  ; 

For  with  tliat  spell  I  was  bound  and  bound, 
I  And  with  elvish  snares  was  compassed  round  ;  — 

But  a  prayer  was  ever  on  my  tongue, 
'.  For  soon  1  learnt  that  prayers  were  strong, 
,  To  unweave  the  webs  that  were  in  my  track, 

To  win  my  soul  to  the  faery  back. 

I  have  wrestled  hard,  I  have  fiercely  striven 

'Gainst  them,  and  for  my  peace  with  heaven  ;  — 

But  now  my  strength  doth  ebb  apace  — 

Father,  can  the  church  award  me  grace, 
;  And  among  the  blessed  a  dwelling-place?" 

"  My  son,"  the  reverend  friar  spake, 

"  Behold  !  how  the  faery  web  shall  break  ; 

Thou  hast  fought  the  fight — thou  hast  battled  long — 
■  And  the  victor  here  is  not  the  strong; 

But  the  gates  of  heaven  are  opened  wide, 

And  the  contrite  heart  is  the  sanctified  I 
,  Give  up  —  stand  like  the  Hebrews,  still  — 

And  behold  the  wonders  of  God's  will ;  — 

Lay  down  tiiy  strift —  lay  down  thy  pride  — 

Lay  all  thy  hope  on  Christ  who  died. 

And  thou  art  saved  ; —  for  at  his  spell 

Kot  faery  wtbs,  but  the  gates  of  hell 

Are  dashed  aside,  like  the  morning  mist  — 

Oh,  vainly  might  fay  or  fiend  resist! 

Have  faith  !  't  is  the  spell  of  glory,  given 

To  burst  all  bars  on  the  way  to  heaven; 

Have  faith  —  have  heaven,  my  son."  — There  ran 

A  sudden  joy  through  the  dying  man  ; 

And  the  holy  father  bent  his  knee, 
'  Chanting,  "  Te  laudamus,  Domine  I" 


I  CHILD'S    FAITH. 

j  Beautiful  it  is  to  behold  thee  sit. 

Listening  the  words  thy  father  speaks  of  death  ! 
!  To  see  thine  nnrebelhous  soul  submit, 
j  And  thine  unquestioning  faith  I 

0  that  I  had  thy  faith,  thou  gentle  child  ! 

Thy  trust  in  the  bright  future,  —  and  could  see 
Clearly,  by  human  reasoning,  undefiled, 
The  spiritual  land,  like  thee! 

Teach  me  thy  love,  thou  meek  philosopher ! 
'■      Show  me  thy  nightly  visions,  bright-eyed  seer  ! 
Give  me  thy  faith  !  —  why  should  I  blindly  err, 
And  shrink  with  anxious  fear  ! 

Why  should  my  soul  be  dark,  while  I  can  pour 
Forth  from  my  feeble  longings,  light  on  thine? 
;  Why  tremble  I,  where  thou  canst  proudly  soar? 
Oh  that  thy  faith  were  mine ! 

Death  cannot  chill  thy  heart,  nor  dim  thine  eye. 

For  thou  dost  fear  it  not ;  —  thou  hast  no  dread, 
In  looking  towards  the  future  mysierj', — 
No  dark  fears  for  the  dead. 


With  thee,  the  dead  are  blest:  —  they   have   gone 
forth. 
Thou  knowest  not  whither,  but  to  some  liiir  home, 
Brighter,  iar  brighter  than  our  summer  earth, — 
Where  sorrow  cannot  come. 

It  matters  not  to  thee,  that  angel-guest 

IVor  spirit  hath  come  down  to  tell  thee  where 
Lie  those  delicious  islands  of  the  blest, — 
Thou  knowest  that  they  are! 

What  marvel,  then,  that  thou  shouldcst  shed  no  tear, 
Standing    beside    the    dead,   that   thou   shouldst 
wreathe 
Thyself  with  flowers,  and  thy  bright  beauty  wear 
Even  in  the  house  of  death  ? 

Oh  !  thou  undoubling  one,  who  from  the  tree 

Of  life  hast  plucked  and  eaten,  well  mayst  thou, 
Unknowing  evil,  walk  in  spirit  free, 
W'ith  thine  unclouded  brow  ! 

Thy  faith  is  knowledge,  —  and  without  a  fear 
Lookest  thou  onward  in  the  light  revealed  ! 
Thou  blessed  child !  In  thee  will  J  revere 
The  truth  which  God  has  sealed. 

I  will  not  doubt —  like  thee  I  will  arise. 

And  clothe  my  soul  in  light,  nor  more  repine 
That  life,  and  death,  and  heaven,  are  mysteries : 
Thy  strong  faith  shall  be  mine ! 

Then  may  I  see  the  beautiful  depart, 

The  fair  flowers  of  ray  spring-time  fade  and  die. 
With  an  unquestioning,  nnrebellious  heart, 
Strong  in  God's  certainty  ! 


AMERICA. 

A    STORY    OF    THE    INDIAN    WAR. 

"I  WAS  at  William  Penn's  country-house,  called 
Pensbury,  in  Pennsylvania,  where  I  staid  some  days. 
Much  of  my  time  I  spent  in  seeing  A\'illiam  Penn, 
and  many  of  the  chief  men  among  the  Indians,  in 
council  concerning  their  former  covenant,  now  re- 
newed on  his  going  away  for  England.  To  pass  by 
several  particulars,  I  may  mention  the  following: 
'They  never  broke  covenant  v\ith  any  people,'  said 
one  of  their  great  chiefs  ;  and,  smiling  his  hand  upon 
his  head,  he  said,  '  they  made  not  their  covenants 
there,  but  here,'  said  he,  smiting  on  his  breast  three 

times. 

****** 

"  I,  being  walking  iti  the  wootls,  espied  several  wig- 
wams, and  drew  towards  them.  The  love  of  God 
filled  my  heart;  and  I  felt  it  right  to  look  for  an  inter- 
preter, which  I  did.  Then  1  signified  that  I  was 
come  from  a  far  country  with  a  message  from  the 
Great  Spirit  (as  they  call  God.)  and  my  message  was 
to  endeavour  to  persuade  them  that  they  should  not 
be  drunkards,  nor  steal,  nor  kill  one  another,  nor 
fight,  nor  put  away  their  wives  for  small  faults;  for 
207 


108 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


if  Ihey  did  these  things,  the  Great  Spirit  would  be  i 
angry  with  them,  and  would  not  prosper  them,  but  i 
bring  trouble  on  them.  On  the  contrary,  if  ihey  were 
careful  to  refrain  from  these  evils,  then  would  he 
love  them,  and  prosper  them,  and  speak  peace  to 
them.  And  when  the  interpreter  expressed  these 
things  to  them  in  their  own  language,  they  wept  till 
tears  ran  down  their  naked  bodies. 

****** 
"  They  manifested  much  love  towards  me  in  their 
way,  as  they  did  mostly  to  upright,  plain-dealing 
Friends ;  and  whilst  I  was  amongst  them  my  spirit 
was  very  easy:  nor  did  I  feel  that  power  of  darkness 
to  oppress  me,  as  I  had  done  in  many  places  amongst 
people  calling  themselves  Christians." — Journal  of 
John  Richardson,  one  of  the  early  Friends. 


Thev  read  of  rapine,  war,  and  woe, 

A  party  by  an  Knglish  fire, — 
Of  Indian  warfare  in  the  wood. 

Of  stern  and  ruthless  ire. 

They  read  of  torture  worse  than  death  — 
Of  treachery  dark  —  of  natures  base  — 

Of  women  savage  as  the  beast  — 
Of  the  red  Indian  race. 

"  Hold !"  said  the  matron  of  the  hearth, 

A  woman  beautiful  in  age  ; 
">  And  let  me  of  the  Indian  speak  ; 

Close,  close  that  faithless  page  ? 

"  My  father  was  the  youngest  born 

In  an  old  rural  English  hall ; 
The  youngest  out  of  five  stout  sons, 

With  patrimony  small. 

"  His  boyhood  was  in  greenwood  spent  ; 

His  youth  was  all  a  sylvan  dream  ; 
He  tracked  the  game  upon  the  hills  ; 

He  angled  in  the  stream. 

"  Quiet  was  he,  and  well  content, 

With  naught  to  fret,  and  none  to  chide  ,- 

For  all  that  his  young  heart  desired 
The  woods  and  streams  supplied. 

"Small  knowledge  had  a  youth  so  trained, 
College  or  school  ne'er  knew  his  face ; 

And  yet  as  he  grew  up,  he  grew 
Superior  to  his  race. 

"  His  brethren  were  of  sordid  sort. 

Men  with  coarse  minds,  and  without  range  : 

He  grew  adventurous  and  bold, 
Incpiisitive  ol'  change. 

"  And,  as  he  grew,  he  took  to  books. 
And  road  whale'er  the  hall  supplied  ; 

Histories  of  admirals,  voyages  old. 
And  travel  far  and  wide. 

"  He  read  of  settlers,  who  went  forth 
To  the  far  west,  and  pitched  their  tent 

Within  the  woods,  and  grew,  ere  long. 
To  a  great,  prosperous  settlement. 


"He  read  of  the  bold  lives  they  led, 
Full  of  adventure,  hardy,  free  ; 

Of  the  wild  creatures  they  pursued. 
Of  game  in  every  tree. 

"  And  how  the  Indians,  quaintly  gay. 
Came  down  in  wampum-belt  and  feather. 

To  welcome  them  with  courteous  grace; 

How  they  and  the  free  forest  race 
Hunted  and  dwelt  together. 

"  And  how  they  and  their  chosen  mates 
Led  lives  so  sweet  and  primitive : 

Oh  !  in  such  land,  with  one  dear  heart, 
What  joy  it  were  to  live ! 

"  So  thought  he,  and  such  life  it  were 
As  suited  well  his  turn  of  mind ; 

For  what  within  his  father's  house 
Was  there  to  lure  or  bind  ? 

"Four  needy  brothers,  coarse  and  dull; 

A  patrimony,  quite  outspent ; 
A  mother,  long  since  in  her  grave ; 

A  father,  weak  and  indolent! 

"  At  twenty  he  had  ta'en  a  mate, 
A  creature  gentle,  kind,  and  fair; 

Poor,  like  himself,  but  well  content 
The  forest-lile  to  share. 

"  She  left  an  old  white-headed  sire ; 

A  mother  loving,  thoughtful,  good  ; 
She  left  a  home  of  love,  to  live 

For  him,  within  the  wood. 

"  And  that  old  couple  did  provide, 
Out  of  their  need,  for  many  a  want 

Else  unforeseen  ;  their  daughter's  dower 
In  gifts  of  love,  not  scant. 

"  His  father  with  cold  scorn  received 
So  dowered  a  daughter,  without  name  ; 

Nor  could  his  purposed  exile  win 
Either  assent  or  blame. 

"All  was  a  chill  of  indifference ; 

And  from  his  father's  gate  he  went. 
As  from  a  place  where  none  for  him 

Had  kindred  sentiment. 

"  And  in  the  western  world  they  dwelt ; 

Life,  like  a  joyous  summer  morn. 
Each  hope  fulfilled  ;  and  in  the  wild 

To  them  were  children  born. 

"  All  that  his  youth  had  dreamed  he  found 
In  that  life's  freshness ;  peril  strange  ; 

Adventure;  freedom;  sylvan  wealth; 
And  ceaseless,  blameless  change. 

"  And  there  he,  and  his  heart's  true  mate, 
Essay'd  and  found  how  sweet  to  live, 

'Mid  Nature's  store,  with  health  and  love, 
That  life  so  primitive  ! 

"  But  that  sweet  life  came  to  an  end. — 
As  falls  the  golden-eared  corn 

Beffire  the  sickle,  earthly  bliss 
In  human  hearts  is  shorn. 

208 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


199 


"  Sickness  —  bereavement  —  widowhood  — 
Oh,  these  throe  awful  words  embrace 

A  weight  of  mortal  woe  that  fell 
Upon  our  sylvan  dwelling-place  I 

"It  matters  not  to  tell  of  pangs, 
Of  the  heart-broken,  the  bereft  ; 

I  will  pass  over  death  and  tears, 

I  will  pass  on  to  other  years. 
When  only  two  were  left! 

"  I  and  a  sister  ;  long  had  passed 
The  anguish  of  that  time,  and  we 

Were  living  in  a  home  of  love. 
Though  in  a  stranger's  family. 

"  Still  in  the  wilderness  we  dwelt. 
And  were  grown  up  towards  womanhood  ; 

When  our  sweet  life  of  peace  was  stirred 
By  tales  of  civil  feud. 

"  By  rumours  of  approaching  war, 
Of  battle  done,  of  armed  bands ; 

Of  horrid  deeds  of  blood  and  fire, 
Achieved  by  Indian  hands. 

"We  heard  it  first  with  disbelief; 

And  long  time  after,  when  had  spread 
Wild  war  throughout  the  land,  we  dwelt 

All  unassailed  by  dread. 

"For  they  with  whom  our  lot  was  cast, 
Were  people  of  that  Christian  creed 

Who  will  not  fight,  but  trust  in  God 
For  help  in  time  of  need. 

"  The  forest  round  was  like  a  camp. 
And  men  were  armed  day  and  night ; 

And  every  morning  brought  fresh  news 
To  heighten  their  affright. 

"  Through  the  green  forest  rose  the  smoke 
Of  places  burn'd  the  night  before  ; 

And  from  their  victims,  the  red  scalp 
The  excited  Indian  tore. 

"This  was  around  us,  yet  we  dwelt 
In  peace  upon  the  forest  bound  ; 

Without  defence,  without  annoy. 
The  Indian  camp'd  all  round. 

"The  door  was  never  barr'd  by  night. 
The  door  was  never  closed  by  day ; 

And  there  the  Indians  came  and  went. 
As  they  had  done  alway. 

"For  '  these  of  Onas  are  the  sons,' 
Said  they,  '  the  upright  peaceful  men  I 

Nor  was  harm  done  to  those  who  held 
The  faith  of  William  Penn. 

"But  I  this  while  thought  less  of  peace, 
Than  of  the  camp  and  battle  stir; 

For  I  had  given  my  young  heart's  love 
Unto  a  British  officer. 

"  Near  us,  within  the  forest-fort. 

He  lay,  the  leader  of  a  band 
Of  fierce  young  spirits,  sworn  to  sweep 

The  Indian  from  the  land  — 
18*  2B 


''The  native  Indian  from  his  woods  — 

I  deem'd  it  cowardly  and  base  ; 
And,  wilh  a  righteous  zeal  I  pled 

For  the  free  forest-race. 

"  But  he,  to  whom  I  pled,  preferr'd 

Sweet  pleading  of  another  sort  ; 
And  we  met  ever  'nealh  the  wood 

Outside  the  forest- fort. 

"The  Indian  passed  us  in  tiie  wood, 
Or  glared  upon  us  from  the  brake  ; 

But  he,  disguised,  with  me  was  safe. 
For  Father  Onas'  sake. 

"  At  length  the  crisis  of  the  war 

Approach'd,  and  he,  my  soul's  beloved,   ' 

With  his  hot  band,  impatient  grown. 
Yet  further  west  removed. 

"There  he  was  taken  by  the  foe, 
Ambush'd  like  tigers  'mid  the  trees: 

You  know  what  death  severe  and  dread 
The  Indian  to  his  foe  decrees. 

"  A  death  of  torture  and  of  fire  — 
Protracted  death  ;  I  knew  too  well, 

Outraged  and  anger'd,  as  of  late 
Had  been  the  Indian  spirit,  fell 

Would  be  their  vengeance,  and,  to  him, 
Their  hate  implacable. 

"  When  first  to  me  his  fate  was  told, 
I  stood  amazed,  confounded,  dumb; 

Then  wildly  wept  and  wrung  my  hands. 
By  anguish  overcome. 

"  '  Wait,  wait !'  the  peaceful  people  said  ; 

'  Be  still  and  wait,  the  Lord  is  good!' 
But  when  they  bade  me  trust  and  wait, 
I  went  forth  in  my  anguish  great. 

To  hide  me  in  the  wood. 

"  I  had  no  fear;  the  Indian  race 

To  me  were  as  my  early  kin  : 
And  then  the  thought  came  to  my  brain. 
To  go  forth,  and  from  death  and  pain, 

My  best-beloved  to  win. 

"  With  me  my  fair,  young  sister  went. 
Long  journeying  on  through  wood  and  swamp 

Three  long  days'  travel,  ere  we  came 
To  the  great  Indian  camp. 

"  We  saw  the  Indians  as  we  went. 

Hid  'mong  the  grass  with  tiger  ken  ; 
But  we  were  safe,  Ihey  would  not  harm 
'    The  daughters  of  the  peaceful  men. 

"  In  thickets  of  the  woods  at  length 

We  came  to  a  savannah  green  ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  open  day, 

The  Indian  camp  was  seen. 

"  I  turned  me  from  that  scene  of  war. 
And  from  the  solemn  council-talk. 

Where  stood  the  warriors,  stern,  and  cold, 

War-crested,  and  wilh  bearing  bold, 

Listening  unto  a  sachem  old. 
Who  held  aloft  a  tomahawk. 

SCO 


200 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  I  knew  they  were  athirst  for  blood  ; 

That  they  had  pity  none  to  spare;  — 
Besides,  bound  to  a  tree,  I  saw 

An  English  captive  there. 

"I  saw  his  war-plume,  soil'd  and  torn; 

I  knew  that  he  was  doom'd  to  die  ; 
Pale,  wounded,  feeble,  there  he  stood  ; 
The  ground  was  crimson'd  with  his  blood  ; 
Yet  stood  he  as  a  soldier  should  — 

Erect,  with  calm,  determined  eye. 

"  I  would  not  he  should  see  me  then, — 
The  sight  his  courage  had  betray'd  ; 

Therefore  unseen  we  stepp'd  aside, 
Into  the  forest-glade. 

"An  Indian  woman  there  was  set, 

We  knew  her,  and  to  her  were  known  ; 

The  wife  of  a  great  chief  was  she, 

Deck'd  in  her  Indian  bravery  ; 
Yet  there  she  sat  alone. 

"  '  Woman,'  I  said,  the  silence  breaking, 
•Thou  know'st  us  —  know'st  that  we  belong 

To  peaceful  people,  who  have  ne'er 
Done  to  thy  nation  wrong. 

"  '  Thou  know'st  that  ye  have  dwelt  with  us, 
As  friend  upon  the  hearth  of  friend  ;  — 

When  have  ye  ask'd  and  been  denied, 
That  this  good  faith  should  end  ?' 

"  The  Indian  did  not  raise  her  head, 

As  she  replied  in  accents  low, 
'  Why  come  ye  hither  unto  me. 

When  I  am  sitting'in  my  woe  ? 

"  '  Woman,'  I  said,  '  I  ask  for  life  — 
For  life,  which  in  your  hands  doth  lie; 

Go  bid  thy  tribe  release  the  bands 
Of  him  now  doomed  to  die  ! 

"  '  Go,  Indian  woman,  and  do  this, 
For  thou  art  mighty  with  thy  race  !' 

The  Indian  made  me  no  reply, 
But  looked  into  my  face. 

" '  Mighty !  said'st  thou  V  at  length  she  spoke, 
'  Mighty !  —  to  one  no  longer  wife  ! 

The  hatchet  and  the  tomahawk 

•Lie  by  me  on  the  forest-walk; 

The  great  chief  in  my  hut  lies  low. 

The  ruthless  pale-(ace  struck  the  blow  — 
And  yet  thou  com'st  to  me  for  life !' 

"  '  By  that  chief's  memory,'  I  cried, 
'  Whom  ne'er  the  peaceful  men  gainsaid  ; 

To  whom  the  peaceful  men  were  dear ; 
Rise,  though  thou  stricken  be,  and  aid  ! 

" '  Crave  not  revenge,'  and  with  my  words 
My  tears  flow'd  fast,  though  hers  were  dry  ; 

'But  look  upon  this  pictured  face. 
And  say  if  such  a  one  shall  die  !' 


"  Long  looked  ^e  on  the  pictured  face, 
Which  from  my  neck  I  took  and  gave; 

Long  looked  she  ere  a  word  was  spoke. 

And  then  she  slowly  silence  broke, 

'The  hatchet  is  not  buried  yet; 

The  tomahawk  with  blood  is  wet ; 
And  the  great  chief  is  in  his  grave  ! 

"  '  Yet  for  the  father  Onas'  sake  — 

For  their  sakes  who  no  blood  have  shed ; 
We  will  not  by  his  sons  be  blamed 
For  taking  life  which  they  have  claimed  ;- 
The  red  man  can  avenge  his  dead  I' 

"  So  saying,  with  her  broken  heart  — 
She  went  forth  to  the  council-stone; 
And  when  the  captive  was  brought  out, 
'Mid  savage  war-cry,  taunt  and  shout, 
She  stepp'd  into  the  fierce  array, 
As  the  bereaved  Indian  may. 
And  claim'd  the  victim  for  her  own. 

"  He  was  restored.    AVhat  need  of  more 

To  tell  the  joy  that  thence  ensued ! 
But  sickness  followed  long  and  sore. 
And  he  for  a  twelvemonth  or  more, 
With  our  good,  peaceful  friends  abode. 

"  But  we,  two  plighted  hearts,  were  wed  ; 

A  merry  marriage  ye  may  wis ;  — 
And  guess  ye  me  a  happy  life  — 
In  England  here,  an  honoured  wife, — 
Sweet  friends,  ye  have  not  guess'd  amiss ! 

"  But  never  more  let  it  be  said, 

The  red  man  is  of  nature  base  ; 
Nor  let  the  crimes  that  have  been  taught. 
Be  by  the  crafty  teachers  brought 
As  blame  against  the  Indian  race  I" 


THE    DOOMED    KING. 

The  voice  of  an  archangel  spake  — 
"  A  dark  one  draweth  near. 

Covered  with  guilt  as  with  a  robe ;  — 
Wherefore  doth  he  appear?" 

And  another  answered  solemnly  — 
"  He  comes  for  judgment  here  !" 

Through  myriad,  myriad  shapes  of  blis5 
On  went  the  Spectre  King, 

And  stood  before  the  judgment-seat, 
A  guilty,  trembling  thing  I 

"  I  was  an  earthly  king  last  night,"' 
With  a  hollow  voice  he  spoke  ; 

"  I  drank  the  wine,  I  sank  to  sleep  — 
Oh  !  how  have  I  awoke  ! 

"  Alas  I  my  life  has  been  a  dream  — 
A  sinful  dream:  'tis  o'er! 

And  through  eternity,  my  soul 
Shall  slumber  never  more ! 

210 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


201 


"  Back  through  the  past  my  soul  is  urged  ; 

Back  through  each  guilty  stain  ; 
And  every  thought,  and  word,  and  deed, 

Unperished  lives  again! 

"  For,  as  a  leaf  before  the  storm 

Is  bowed  and  borne  away. 
Some  mighty  power  compelleth  me. 

And  it  must  have  its  way  ; 
Though  every  word  condemn  my  soul, 

I  dare  not  disobey! 

"  I  see  a  white,  low  village-home ; 

I  see  a  woman  there; 
And  a  little  child  kneels  at  her  knee, 

And  murmurs  out  its  prayer. 

"  It  is  the  first-born  of  her  love  — 

Fairest,  and  most  caressed  ; 
Heaven  only  has  a  second  place 

Within  that  woman's  breast. 

"  Mother,  dear  mother !  by  thy  love, 
Thy  sorrowings,  and  thy  truth, 

Plead  for  me  in  my  hour  of  need ! 
Think  on  my  sinless  youth! 

Ah,  no !  thou  canst  not  plead  for  me ! 
0    A  dark  and  fearful  time 
Hath  parted  us,  and  death  hath  oped 
The  mystery  of  my  crime  ! 

"  I  made  thy  nights  a  weary  watch  ; 

I  gloomed  thy  days  with  shame ; 
And  a  dark  word  by  which  men  are  cursed, 

I  made  my  father's  name ! 

"  I  was  the  eldest  of  our  house  ; 

Beside  me  there  were  three; 
And  pure  and  simple  had  they  lived. 

Had  it  not  been  for  me ! 
But  now  their  blood  unto  my  soul 

Doth  cleave  like  leprosy ! 

"  I  stood  as  in  a  father's  place, 
As  the  sun  before  their  sight, 

Beloved  of  all ;  and  in  their  eyes 
Whate'er  I  did  was  right 

"  Alas !  my  heart  was  a  cursed  thing ! 

I  lured  them  on  to  sin, 
I  lured  them  to  a  dark  abyss. 

And  plunged  them  headlong  in! 

"  Bc<!ies  and  souls  I  ruined  them ; 

Yet  in  men's  sight  1  kept 
My  name  unstained  —  on  their's  alone 

The  infiimy  was  heaped. 

"They  were  my  tools,  and  subtly 

I  wrought  them  to  my  will ; 
A  tyrant  to  the  wretched  slaves 

I  bound  to  me  ibr  ill ! 

"  No,  no  !  for  me  thou  canst  not  plead  I 

I  spoke  not  for  the  three ; 
And  in  thy  brokcn-heartedness, 

I  kept  them  far  from  thee. 
With  cruel,  specious  lies  ! — no,  no, 

Thou  canst  not  plead  for  me  I 


"  The  first,  he  died  a  dreadful  death. 

Of  lingering,  horrid  pain  ; 
I  saw  him  as  a  stealthy  spy  — 

His  soul  had  broke  my  chain; 

"  Therefore  I  gave  him  to  a  power 

More  fell  than  death,  —  and  ho 
Was  racked  for  crime  he  had  not  wrought ;  — 

And  so  died  cruelly. 

"  The  second  had  a  feebler  soul ; 

A  gentle,  timid  thing ; 
A  child  in  spirit,  to  whose  heart, 

Good  never  ceased  to  cling. 

'T  was  vain  I  crushed  him,  scorned  him,  spurn'd  \ 

His  was  a  truth  unchanged  : 
Fallen  as  he  was,  his  steadfast  love 

Kept  with  me  unestranged  ! 

"  And,  in  my  after  misery. 

When  evil  days  came  down, 
He  saved  me  ;  and  my  coward  life 

He  ransomed  with  his  own ! 

"  Brothers !  why  rise  ye  not,  each  one. 

Upon  this  judgment-day; 
The  bitter  wrongs  I  heaped  on  you, 

Had  power  my  soul  to  slay  I 

"The  third,  a  spirit  like  to  mine  ; 

The  nearest  to  my  heart ; 
The  only  one  I  counselled  with, — 

V'l'ho  in  my  power  had  part  : 

"  He  sate  with  me  at  the  board  last  night. 

He  took  from  me  the  wine ; 
Traitor,  there's  blood  upon  thy  hand. 

And  judgment  will  be  thine ! 

"  Ah,  no  I  the  guilt  is  mine  —  is  mine ! 

I  drew  the  three  from  Heaven ; 
I  sold  them  to  work  wickedness. 

And  may  not  be  forgiven  ! 

"  Talents  and  time  —  the  noblest  gifts 

Ever  on  man  bestowed. 
Were  mine  ;  a  soft  and  winning  speech. 

And  beauty  like  a  god  ! 

"  All,  all  were  passion's  vilest  slaves  ;  — 

All  ministered  to  crime; 
And  now  a  dark  eternity 

Doth  make  account  with  time. 

"I  had  a  power,  an  awful  power 

Over  men's  minds  ;  I  wove, 
Base  as  I  was,  around  all  hearts 

A  chain,  half  lear,  half  love. 

"They  were  as  clay  ;  I  moulded  them 
With  the  light  words  of  my  tongue  ; 

Old  men  and  wise  alike  obeyed: 
And  thence  ambition  sprung. 

"  The  sin  of  angels  was  my  sin  ; 

And,  bold  as  was  my  thought. 
Men,  weak  and  willing  instruments, 

They  gave  me  what  I  sought  I 
211 


202 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"Then  woke  the  tyrant  stem  and  proud  ; 

And,  as  unto  the  three, 
I  did  to  them,  —  I  raised  myself 

On  weaii  humanity. 

"  And  I  and  my  companions  saw. 
Amid  our  shameless  mirth, 

A  small  train  of  poor  men,  who  bore 
Some  child  of  clay  to  earth. 

"  Rapine  and  outrage,  and  despair, 
Over  the  land  spread  wide  ; 

And  what  was  wrung  from  poverty. 
My  luxury  supplied. 

"  A  thought  of  mad  impiety 

Rushed  through  my  drunken  brain; 
I  seized  the  foremost  by  the  arm. 

And  slojjped  the  funeral  train. 

"  The  little  that  the  poor  man  had. 
In  vain  he  guarded  well  ; 

Mine  eye  was  as  the  basilisk's. 
That  withered  where  it  fell. 

" '  Let's  look  upon  the  dead  !'  I  cried  ; 

No  answering  word  they  said  ; 
But  gazed  on  me  upbraidingly, 

And  then  unveiled  the  dead  I 

"  My  sceptre  was  an  iron  rod ! 

The  suffering  people's  groan. 
Like  sullen  thunders  heard  afar. 

Was  echoed  to  the  throne : 

"The  dead  I  yes,  on  the  dead  I  looked  ! 

Oh !  sight  of  woe  to  me  ! 
The  one  I  drew  as  down  from  heaven, 

And  cast  to  infamy! 

"  To  me  it  was  a  mockery  I 
I  scoffed  at  wise  men's  lore ; 

And  to  the  madness  of  my  power 
I  gave  myself  still  more. 

"  Not  in  her  beauty  was  she  laid. 
As  for  the  high-born  meet; 

The  coarsest  garb  of  poverty 
Was  her  poor  winding-sheet! 

"Of  seven  dark  and  deadly  sins. 
Like  plague-spots  on  the  past  — 

Of  seven  dark  and  deadly  sins, 
I  must  recount  the  last :  — 

"The  drunken  frenzy  of  my  brain 
Was  gone  —  and  through  my  soul 

A  wild,  remorseful  agony,                              ^ 
Like  a  fierce  weapon  stole!                    " 

"  There  was  a  maid  — a  fair  young  thing — 

High-born,  and  undefiled 
By  thought  of  sin ;  so  meek,  so  wise  ; 
-  In  heart  so  like  a  child  ! 

"  From  that  night,  life  became  a  pang : 

A  dark,  upbraiding  sprite 
Seemed  ever  nigh,  for  that  one  sin 

Reproaching  day  and  night. 

"In  the  beauty  of  her  innocence. 
She  had  no  earthly  fear  : 

The  blackness  of  my  evil  heart 
I  masked  when  she  was  near. 

"The  gnawing  sense  of  evil  done. 

Was  as  a  desert  beast 
Above  its  prey  —  my  living  soul 

Its  unconsumed  feast  I 

"  With  subtle  mockery  of  good. 
Her  pure  soul  did  I  win  ; 

And  fervent,  lying  vows  I  paid. 
Ere  she  was  lured  to  sin. 

"  I  plunged  into  yet  madder  guilt. 
To  hush  the  ceaseless  cry  ; 

I  matched  my  strength  against  remorse. 
And  sinned  more  recklessly ! 

"  I  brought  destruction  on  her  house  — 
The  blameless  and  the  brave  I 

And  its  grey-headed  sire  went  down 
Dishonoured  to  the  grave. 

"Vain,  vain!  through  war,  through  civil  strife; 

Kept  with  me  in  each  place, 
The  broken-hearted  wretchedness 

Of  that  dead  woman's  face ! 

"This  was  the  triumph  of  my  art ; 

This  gave  her  to  my  power ; 
Poor  slave  to  passion's  tyranny, — 

The  idol  of  an  hour! 

"  So,  doomed  to  hopeless  misery, 

I  loathed  the  light  of  day; 
I  loathed  the  sight  of  human  eye, 

And  gave  tlie  passion  way !                • 

"  Vain  was  her  passionate  despair. 
My  callous  heart  to  wring  ; 

I  left  her  to  her  misery  — 
A  lorn,  heart-broken  thing ! 

"It  grew  a  cruel  moodiness; 

The  tyrant's  jealous  sense. 
To  which  the  joy  of  other  hearts 

Becomes  a  black  offence. 

"  I  took  of  her  no  further  thought  — 
My  life  was  in  its  prime ; 

And  in  a  wild  carouse  I  lived 
Of  luxury  and  crime. 

"  Thus  I  was  hated,  feared,  and  shunned  ; 

And  hatred  filled  my  mind 
For  all  my  race ;  and  long  I  lived 

In  warfare  with  mankind. 

"  'T  was,  staggering  from  a  long  debauch, 

From  some  impure  retreat. 
At  midnight,  in  a  dark  disguise. 

Along  the  city  street. 

"  The  cup  I  drained  was  a  poisoned  cup  — 
'T  was  red  wme  at  the  brim ; 

I  took  it  from  my  brother's  hand  — 
I  had  no  fear  of  him  I 

212 


*  MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


203 


"I  sank  down  on  the  couch  to  rest. 
The  while  he  watched  near; 

I  slept  —  I  woke  —  oh,  awful  Judge! 
I  woke  —  and  I  am  here!" 


THE  DREAM  OF  PETICIUS. 


Still  lay  the  vessel  like  a  sleeping  thing; 

The  calm  waves  with  a  quiet  ripple  died; 
The  lazy  breeze  seemed  all  too  iamt  to  bring 

The  cry  of  sea-birds  dipping  in  the  tide  ; 
The  flagging  streamer  droopingly  did  cimg 

Unto  the  inapt.  The  iniruflled  ocean  wide 
Lay  like  a  mirror,  in  whose  depths  were  seen 
Each  sunlit  peak,  and  woody  headland  green. 

II. 
More  than  a  league  they  had  not  sailed  that  day ; 

Yet  on  the  coast  W'as  seen  each  sleeping  hill; 
And  island,  that  at  noon  before  them  lay, 

In  the  calm  evening  lay  before  them  still. 
The  wearied  seamen  sped  the  time  away 

With  snatches  of  blithe  song  or  whistle  shrill ; 
And  in  a  group  apart,  the  people  told 
Wild  tales,  and  dreams,  and  dark  traditions  old. 

iir. 

The  captain  was  a  thoughtful  man,  whose  prime 
Had  been  in  foreign  lands  and  voyage  spent ; 

Who  brought  back  marvellous  history  from  each  clime, 
And  found  adventure  vvheresoe'er  he  went. 

And,  as  such  men  are  wont  in  idle  time, 
He  from  his  life  drew  pleasant  incident ; 

Then,  as  if  woke  to  thought,  began  to  say 

What  a  strange  dream  he  had  ere  break  of  day. 

IV. 

"  'T  was  while  our  vessel  scudding  to  the  breeze, 
Fled,  like  a  strong  bird,  from  your  pleasant  shore, 

My  dream  was  of  these  bright  and  stirless  seas. 
The  flagging  canvass,  and  the  useless  oar ; 

I  saw,  as  now  I  see,  in  slumbrous  ease 
Green  Pelion's  head,  and  those  dim  mountains  hoar 

Resting  afar  ;  I  saw  yon  glancing  bird  ; 

And  the  low  rippling  of  these  waves  I  heard. 

V. 

"While  then  I  stood,  as  even  now  I  stand, 

My  eye  upon  the  stilly  ocean  bent, 
I  saw  a  boat  push  quickly  from  the  land, 

And  eager  rowers  with  a  firm  intent 
Make  towards  the  ship.     Wiihin,  a  little  band 

Sate  in  mule  sadness,  as  by  travel  spent ; 
And  'mid  them  one,  superior  to  the  rest, 
Pale,  as  his  soul  by  heavier  thought  was  prest. 

VI. 

"They  neared, — and  marvelling  yet  more  and  more, 

I  saw  'twas  Pompey ;  not  as  1  beheld 
Ilim  in  the  senate,  when  he  stood  before 

Fierce  Sylla,  and  with  taunts  his  wrath  repelled,    j 


Till  the  Dictator  quaked ;  or  when  he  bore 

In  triumph  trophies  from  ten  nations  quelled. 
Ardent  and  bold,  whom  myriads  as  ho  went 
Hailed  as  immortal  and  magnificent. 

vir. 

"  Not  now  as  then  —  pale,  thoughtful,  ill  at  rest. 
His  fate  seemed  warring  with  his  mighty  will; 

His  hand  on  his  contracted  brow  was  prest. 

As  it  the  force  of  throbbing  thought  could  still ; 

Anon  he  wrapped  his  mantle  o'er  his  breast 
With  a  calm  hand,  as  nerved  for  coming  ill, 

Then  with  a  calm,  majestic  air  arose, 

And  claimed  protection  from  his  following  foes." 

VIII. 

Even  while  some  pondering  sate  with  thoughtful  air, 
And  some  made  merry  with  so  strange  a  tale. 

All  eyes  were  turned  in  sudden  wonder  where 
While  o'er  the  waters  gleamed  a  lillle  sail ; — 

On  through  the  calm  the  striving  pinnace  bare  ; — 
Then  sorrow  woke,  and  firmest  brows  grew  pale, 

For  worn  and  wearied,  Pompey  they  behold, 

E\en  as  that  prophetic  dream  foretold. 

IX. 

From  the  disastrous  field  of  Pharsaly 
He  fled  —  his  star  of  fale  was  in  the  wane ; 

He  had  lived  a  life  of  victory  to  see 

In  one  brief  hour  his  veteran  legions  slain  ; — 

But  yesterday  —  the  world's  proud  lord  was  he. 
To-day —  a  fugitive  upon  the  main  ; — 

Like  a  fair  tree  by  sudden  blight  defaced, 

Blasted  and  withering  in  the  desert  waste. 

X. 

The  sea  for  him  by  that  dead  calm  was  bound, 
For  now  a  strong  wind  filled  the  swelling  sail, 

And  shook  the  cordage  with  a  rattling  sound  ; 
Forward  the  pennon  floated  on  the  gale. 

And  the  dark  living  waters  heaved  around  ; 
No  more  the  islands  to  the  right  they  hail. 

Green  Pelion's  woody  crown  no  more  was  seen  ; 

But  the  ship  voyaged  free  to  Mitylene. 


LODORE,  A  SUMMER  VISION. 

Oft  in  the  days  of  bright  July, 
When  the  parched  earlli  is  brown  and  dry, 
And  the  hot  noon-day's  sun  looks  down 
Upon  the  dusty,  barren  Town, 
And  scorching  walls,  sun-smitten,  glare  — 
And  siilhng  is  the  breezeless  air, 
And  through  ihe  day,  flows  all  around 
A  ceaseless  lido  of  wearying  soinid. 
And  busy  crouds  with  restless  feet. 
Pass  up  and  down  the  burning  street, 
I  sit  in  some  siill  room  apart. 
And  sunnner  visions  fill  my  heart ; 


204 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Visions  of  beauty,  green  and  cool  — 

The  water-lily's  shadowy  pool : 

The  untrodden  wood's  sequestered  shine, 

Where  hides  the  lustrous  columbine, 

And  leaves  astir  for  ever  make 

A  breezy  freshness  through  the  brake. 

I  think  of  some  old  country  hall. 

With  carved  porch,  and  chimneys  tall, 

And  pleasant  windows  many  a  one, 

Set  deep  into  the  old,  grey  stone. 

Hid  among  trees  so  large  and  green, 

'Tis  only  dimly  to  be  seen. 

I  think  of  its  dusk  garden-bowers. 

Its  little  plots  of  curious  flowers, 

Its  casements  wreathed  with  jessamme, 

Flung  wide  to  let  all  odours  in. 

And  all  sweet  sounds  of  bird  and  bee. 

And  the  cool  fountain's  melody. 

I  think  of  mountains  still  and  grey, 

Stretching  in  summer  light  away. 

Where  the  blue,  cloudless  skies  repose 

Above  the  solitude  of  snows  ; 

Of  gleaming  lakes,  whose  waters  lie 

In  restless  beauty  sparklingly  ; 

Of  little  island-nooks  of  rest 

Where  the  grave  heron  makes  her  nest ; 

And  wild  cascades  with  hurrying  roar. 

Like  the  sweet  tumult  of  Lodore  — 

Lodore  !  —  that  name  recalls  to  me 

Visions  of  stern  sublimity. 

And  pastoral  vales,  and  lonely  rills. 

And  shepherd  people  on  the  hills, — 

And  more, — old  names  of  men  unknown 

Save  on  their  mouldering  church-yard  stone, 

Or  to  some  mountain-chronicler 

Who  talketh  of  the  days  that  were  ; — 

For,  in  gone  years,  they  of  my  race 

Had,  'mong  the  hills,  their  dwelling-place, 

In  an  old  mansion  that  doth  stand 

As  in  the  heart  of  fairy  land. 

Then  mountains,  lakes,  and  glorious  skies 

Lived  in  their  children's  memories. 

There  tended  they,  in  evening  hours. 

Their  garden's  antiquated  flowers. 

And,  on  the  Skiddaw  mountain  grey 

They  gambolled  through  the  sunny  day, — 

Blest  summer  revellers!  and  did  float 

On  Keswick  Lake  iheir  little  boat  I— 

Let  Mammon's  sons  with  visage  lean, 
Restless  and  vigilant,  and  keen. 
Whose  thought  is  but  to  buy  and  sell. 
In  the  hot,  toiling  city  dwell ; 
Give  me  to  walk  on  mountains  bare. 
Give  me  to  breathe  the  open  air. 
To  hear  the  village-children's  mirth. 
To  see  the  beauty  of  the  earth — 
In  wood  and  wild,  by  lake  ond  sea 
To  dwell  with  foot  and  spirit  free! 


DU  GUESCLIN'S  RANSOM. 

The  black  Prince  Edward  sate  at  meat 

Amid  his  chivalrie. 
Two  hundred  knights  at  the  board  were  set. 

And  the  rosy  \\  ine  ran  free : 
They  were  mailed  men  in  merry  cheer. 

And  the  Prince  sate  on  the  dais, 
And  his  laugh  was  loudest  through  the  hall, 

L''pon  that  day  of  grace  : 
And  some  they  told  the  jester's  tale. 

And  some  they  gaily  sang, 
Till  the  hall  of  old  Valenciennes 

To  the  dusky  rafters  rang; 
But  'mid  the  mirth  and  'mid  the  wine 

There  sale  an  aged  knight. 
And  heavy  thoughts  within  his  soul 

Had  dimmed  his  spirits  light ; 
Quoth  Edward,  "  By  my  faith,  this  man 

Doth  mar  our  heartsome  cheer! 
Sir  knight,  do  battle  with  thy  woe, 

Or  stay  no  longer  here." 
"  My  liege."  said  he,  "  my  soul  is  dark 

With  pondering  on  the  wrong, 
Done  to  the  bravest  man  of  France, 

Within  a  dungeon  strong. 
Where  night  and  day  he  pineth  sore 

To  hear  the  small  birds'  song. 
And  all  afar  through  Christendom 
Thou'rt  blamed  for  his  thrall. 
Even  by  the  knights  at  thy  right  hand. 

And  the  fair  dames  in  the  hall!" 
"  He  shall  be  free  !"  Prince  Edward  said, 

"  JN'o  longer  on  a  name, 
So  fair  and  far  renowned  as  mine 

Shall  rest  unknightly  shame  ! 
Go  fetch  him  from  his  dungeon  deep. 

Myself  will  do  him  right." 
Eftsoons  into  that  banquet  room 

Was  brought  the  prisoned  knight. 
Quoth  Edward,  "Thou'rt  a  noble  knight, 

Name  now  thy  ransom  fee. 
How  small  soe'er,  by  my  good  sword, 

Thy  ransom  it  shall  be  I" 
Du  Guesclin  in  his  prison  garb 

Stood  proudly  in  the  ring. 
And  named  such  ransom  as  would  free 

From  thrall  a  captive  king; 
Prince  Edward's  brow  grew  darkly  red; 

"  Sir  Knight,  I  say  thee  nay  ; 
Such  ransom  as  thou  nam'st,  by  Heaven, 

No  Christian  knight  could  pay! 
Three  paces  stepped  Du  Guesclin  on. 

And  haughtier  grew  his  brow, 
Quoth  he,  "Is  knighthood  thus  esteemed 

By  such  a  man  as  thou  ! 
The  kings  of  France  and  fair  Castile 

The  sum  would  not  gainsay, 
And  if  I  lacked  elsewhere  the  gold. 
My  ransom  they  would  pay ; 

214 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


205 


I  know  a  hundred  Breton  knigliL=, 

All  men  of  high  degree. 
And  each  his  old  and  fair  doninin 

Would  sell  to  make  me  free; 
There's  not  a  woman  at  her  wheel 

Throughout  liiis  chivaintus  iantl. 
That  would  not  labour  night  and  day 

To  free  me  from  thy  hand." 
Prince  I'^dvvard  from  the  ilais  stepped  down, 

"  Give  me  thy  hand  !"  said  he, 
"Sir  Knight,  thou'rt  hravc  as  thou  art  proud. 

And  thou  lionourest  chivalrie, 
And  theref()re  like  thy  chainiess  soul, 

I'nransomed,  thou  art  free  I" 
Then  burst  forth  plaudits  long  and  loud. 

And  they  sate  till  set  of  sun. 
And  the  old  knight  said,  as  he  poured  the  wine, 

•'  'T  was  a  fair  deed  nobly  done." 

iVext  morning,  on  his  gallant  steed, 

With  his  own  good  sword  and  lance, 
Rode  forward,  from  that  castle-gate, 

The  bravest  man  of  France  ; 
And  the  people,  as  he  passed  along. 

In  the  sunshine  shouted  free, 
"  Du  Guesclin  hath  great  honour  done 

To  France  and  chivalrie !" 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  FESTIVAL. 

'T  WAS  when  the  harvest-moon  came  slowly  up, 
Broad,  red  and  glorious  o'er  dark  groves  of  pine  ; 

In  the  hushed  eve,  when  closed  the  flow'rei's  cup, 
And  the  blue  grape  hung  dewy  on  the  vifie. 
Forth  from  a  porch  where  tendrilled  plants  entwine, 

Weaving  a  shadowy  bovver  of  odorous  things. 
Rich  voices  came,  telling  that  there  were  met 

Beauty  and  youth,  and  mirth  whose  buoyant  wings 
Soaring  aloft  o'er  thoughts  that  gloom  and  fret. 
Gave  man  release  from  care  or  lured  him  to  forget. 

And,  as  the  moon  rose  higher  in  the  sky. 
Costing  a  mimic  day  on  all  around. 

Lighting  dim  garden  paths,  through  branches  high, 
That  cast  their  chequered  shadows  on  the  ground ; 
Light  maidens,  dancing  with  elastic  bound. 

Like  fairy  revellers,  in  one  place  were  seen ; 
And  gentle  friends  were  slowly  pacing  where 

The  dark,  thick  laurels  formed  a  bowery  screen ; 
And  merrj'  children,  like  the  moonlight  fair. 
With  their  wild,  pealing  laughter  fdled  the  perfumed 
air. 

Another  hour, — and  in  a  lighted  room 
Where  glorious  pictures  lined  the  lofty  wall. 

They  sate  in  social  ease  ; — no  brow  of  gloom. 
No  saddened,  downcast  eye,  that  might  recall 
Sorrowful  musing,  dimmed  the  festival. 

It  was  in  honour  of  a  gallant  youth 
Those  friends  were  met,  —  the  friends  he  dearest 
loved, — 

All  wishing  he  were  there  —  and  well,  in  sooth, 


Might  his  grey  father  unto  tears  be  moved, 
Listening  his  grateful  praise,  —  his  tears  were  un- 
reproved. 

ller  bright  eyes  sparkling  with  delight  and  love, 
Told  his  young  sis'er  r)f  his  travel  wide. 

Of  |)leasaiit  sojourn  in  some  palmy  grove, 
And  Indian  cities  in  their  gorgeous  pride  ; 
Of  desert  isles  wlicrc  savage  tribes  abide, 

And  glorious  shores  and  regions  of  old  fame : 
Then  were  his  trophies  from  all  lands  displayed, 

Belt,  baracan,  and  bow  of  wondrous  frame, 
High,  nwlding  crest,  and  deadly  battle  blade. 
And  birds  of  curious  note  in  glittering  plumes  arrayed. 

And,  in  her  joyful  phrase,  she  told  how  he, 
Ere  their  next  meeting,  o'er  the  wave  would  come. 

Like  a  glad  spirit,  to  partake  their  glee. 
And  cast  delight  and  interest  round  his  home : 
Gaily  she  told,  how  sitting  in  that  room 

When  the  next  harvesi-moon  lit  up  the  pane. 
He  should,  himself,  his  marvellous  tales  relate. 

— Alas!  encircled  by  the  Indian  main. 
That  night  beneath  a  tamarind  tree  he  sate, 
Heart-sick  with  thoughts  of  home  and  ponderings  on 
his  fate. 

The  heavy  sea  broke  thundering  on  the  shore. 
The  dark,  dark  night  had  gathered  in  the  sky, 

And  from  the  desert  mountains  came  the  roar 
Of  ravening  creatures,  and  a  wild,  shrill  cry 
From  the  scared  nigiit-birds  slowly  wheeling  by. — 

And  there  he  lay,  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
Feverish  and  faint,  and  over  heart  and  brain 

Rushed  burning  love,  and  sense  of  misery, 
And  wild,  impatient  grief,  and  longings  vain 
Within  his  blessed  home  to  be  at  rest  again. 

Another  year — and  the  relentless  wave 
Had  washed  away  the  white  bones  I'rom  the  shore;   - 

And  mourning  (()r  his  son,  down  to  the  grave 
Had  gone  the  old  man  with  his  locks  all  hoar; — 
The  household  festival  was  held  no  more ; — 

And  when  the  harvest-moon  came  forth  again. 
O'er  the  dark  pines,  in  red  autumnal  state, 

Her  light  fell  streaming  through  the  window-pane 
Of  that  old  room,  where  his  young  sister  sate 
With  her  down-drooped  head,  and  heart  all  desolate. 


THE  THREE   AGES. 

How  beautiful  are  ye. 

Age,  Youth,  and  Infancy! 

She,  with  slowly  tottering  pace. 

She,  with  light  and  youthful  grace. 

And  the  child  with  clustering  locks; 

All,  all  are  beautiful ! 

For  in  them  I  can  see. 

Thus  pictured  forth,  n  lesson  that  is  full 

Of  the  stwng  interests  of  humanity. 

Childhood  all  sorrow  mocks; 

215 


206 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  dwells  in  pleasant  places; 

Sees  ever-smiling  faces ! 

Flowers,  and  fair  butterflies,  and  pebbly  brooks, 

These  are  its  teachers  and  its  lesson-books  I 

If  chance  a  cloud  come  over  it  to-day, 

Before  to-morrow  it  hath  passed  away. 

It  has  no  troubling  dreams ; 

No  cogitations  dark,  no  wily  schemes; 

It  counteth  not  the  cost 

Of  what  its  soul  desires,  with  thoughtful  trouble; 

Knovv's  not  how  days  are  lost  — 

How  love  is  but  a  bubble ; 

Knows  not  an  aching  forehead,  a  tired  brain ; 

Nor  the  heart  sickening  w  ith  a  hopeless  pain ! 

Oh,  happy  infancy! 

Life's  cares  have  small  companionship  with  thee ! 

A  child  no  more !  a  maiden  now, 
A  graceful  maiden,  with  a  gentle  brow  ; 
A  cheek  tinged  lightly,  and  a  dove-like  eye ; 
And  all  hearts  bless  her,  as  she  passes  by ! 
Fair  creature,  in  this  morning  of  her  youth, 
She  is  all  love,  she  is  all  truth ! 
She  doubteth  none  ;  she  doth  believe 
All  true,  for  she  can  not  deceive  I 
Dear  maiden,  thou  must  learn,  ere  long. 
That  hope  has  but  a  Syren's  song ; 
That  Love  is  not  what  he  would  sviear ; 
That  thou  must  look  before,  behind  — 
The  gentlest  need  be  most  aware  — 
A  serpent  'mong  the  flowers  is  twined  ! 
I  mourn,  sweet  maiden,  thou  must  leam 
Aught  so  ungracious,  aught  so  stern  ! 

Oh,  youth!  how  fair,  how  dear  thou  art ; 
How  fairer  yet  thy  truth  of  heart ! 
That  guileless  innocence,  that  clings 
Unto  all  pure,  all  gentle  things ! 
Alas!  that  Time  must  lake  from  thee 
Thy  beautiful  simplicity ! 

Age,  leaning  on  its  staff;  with  feeble  limb, 

Grey  hair,  and  vision  dim. 

Doth  backward  turn  its  eye. 

And  few  and  evil  seem  the  days  gone  by ! 

Oh !  venerable  age !  hast  thou  not  proved  all  things, 

Love,  Hope,  and  Promise  fair. 

And  seen  them  vanish  into  air. 

Like  rainbows  on  a  summer's  eve! 

Riches  unto  themselves  have  taken  wings; 

Love  flattered  to  deceive; 

And  Hope  has  been  a  traitor  unto  thee ! 

And  thou  hast  learned,  by  many  a  bitter  tear, 

By  days  of  weary  sorrow,  nights  of  fear. 

That  all  is  vanity  ! 

Yet,  venerable  age, 

Full  of  experience  sage. 

Well  may  the  good  respect  thee,  and  the  wise ! 

For  thou  hast  living  faith, 

Triumphant  over  death. 

Which  makes  the  future  lovely  to  thine  eyes! 

Thou  knowest  that,  ere  long, 

'Twill  be  made  known  to  thee, 


Why  virtue  is  so  weak,  why  evil  strong ; 
Why  love  is  sorrow,  joy  a  mockery. 
And  thus  thou  walkest  on  in  cheerfulness, 
And  the  fair  maiden  and  the  child  dost  bless ! 

Oh !  beautiful  are  ye. 

Age,  Youth,  and  Infancy ! 

These  are  your  names  in  Time, 

When  the  eye  darkens  and  the  cheek  grows  pale ; 

But  in  yon  fairer  clime. 

Where  Life  is  not  a  melancholy  tale. 

Where  woe  comes  not,  where  never  enters  Death, 

Ye  will  have  other  names — Joy,  Love,  and  Faith! 


MOURNING  ON  EARTH. 

She  lay  down  in  her  poverty, 
Toil-stricken,  though  so  young ; 

And  the  words  of  human  sorrow 
Fell  trembling  from  her  tongue. 

There  were  jialace-houses  round  her ; 

And  pomp  and  pride  swept  by 
The  walls  of  that  poor  chamber, 

Where  she  lay  down  to  die. 

Two  were  abiding  with  her, 

The  lowly  of  the  earth,  — 
Her  feeble,  weeping  sister, 

And  she  who  gave  her  birth. 

She  lay  down  in  her  poverty, 
Toil-stricken,  though  so  young ; 

And  the  words  of  human  sorrow 
Fell  from  her  trembling  tongue. 

"Oh,  Lord,  thick  clouds  of  darkness 

Abotit  my  soul  are  spread, 
And  the  waters  of  affliction 

Have  gathered  o'er  my  head  ! 

"Yet  what  is  life  ?    A  desert. 
Whose  cheering  springs  are  dry, 

A  weary,  barren  wilderness !  — 
Still  it  is  hard  to  die  ! 

"  For  love,  the  clinging,  deathless. 

Is  with  my  life  entwined  ; 
And  the  yearning  spirit  doth  rebel 

To  leave  the  weak  behind  ! 

"  Oh  Saviour,  who  didst  drain  the  dregs 

Of  human  woe  and  pain. 
In  this,  the  fiercest  trial-hour. 

My  doubting  soul  sustain ! 

"I  sink,  I  sink  !  support  me; 

Deep  waters  round  me  roll ! 
I  fear!  I  faint!    O  Saviour, 

Sustain  my  sinking  soul !" 


REJOICING  IN  HEAVEN. 

"  Oh  spirit,  freed  from  bondage, 
Rejoice,  thy  work  is  done  ! 

The  weary  world  is  'neath  thy  feet. 
Thou  brighter  than  the  sun ! 

216 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


207 


"  Arise,  put  on  tlie  garments 

Which  the  redeemed  wore  ! 
Now  sorrow  hath  no  part  in  thee, 

Thou  sanctihed  from  sin! 

"  Awake  and  breathe  the  living  air 

Of  our  celestial  clime! 
Awake  to  love  which  knows  no  change, 

Thou,  who  hast  done  with  time ! 

"  Awake,  lift  up  thy  joyful  eyes, 
See,  all  heaven's  host  appears; 

And  be  thou  glad  exceedingly, 
Thou,  who  hast  done  with  tears! 

••  Awake  !  ascend  !    Thou  art  not  now 
With  those  of  mortal  birth, — 

The  living  God  hath  touch'd  thy  lips, 
Thou  who  hast  done  with  earth !" 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  JUGGERNAUT. 


Tlii3  i3  the  most  celebrated  and  sacred  temple  in  Hindostan, 
and  was  built  about  the  year  ll'J8,  by  Rajah  Anonda  Bheem 
Deb,  at  a  cost  of  500,000  pounds  sterling.  The  principal  en- 
trance is  the  Pingha-Devor,   or  the  "  Lion-Gate,"  immedi- 

,   ately  in  front  of  which  is  a  beautiful  column  dedicated  to  the 
«un. 

The  chief  idol,  called  Juggernaut,  is  a  huge  unsightly  figure 
of  wood,  bearing  some  distant  resemblance  to  the  human 
form:  it  is  painted  black,  with  a  red  mouth,  and  large  red 

I    and  white  circles  for  eyes. 

The  ceremony  of  drawing  the  car  takes  place  in  June,  and 

;   it  is  calculated  that  about  200,000  pilgrims,  three-fourths  of 

'   ihem  females,  annually  resort  to  this  festival,  of  whom  at  least 
50.000  perish  by  sickness,  hunger,  and  fatigue,  and  by  volun- 

'   tarily  throwing  themselves  under  its  ponderous  wheels. 


The  winds  are  stirred  with  tumult — on  the  air 
Sound  drum  and  trumpet,  atabal  and  gong — 
Strong  voices  loud  uplift  a  barbarous  song. 

Vast  is  the  gathering — «hile  the  priests  declare 

The  seven-headed  god  is  passing  there. 
On  roll  his  chariot-wheels,  while  every  roll 
From  prostrate  bodies  crushes  forth  a  soul; 

Rejoicing  such  last  agony  to  bear. 
Such  are  thy  creeds,  O  man !  when  thou  art  given 

To  thy  own  fearful  nature — false  and  stern! 

What  were  we  now,  but  that  all-pitying  Heaven 

Sent  us  a  holier,  purer  faith  to  learn  ? — 
Type  of  its  message  came  the  white-winged  dove — 
What  is  the  Christian's  creed  ?  —  Faith,  Hope  and 
Love. 


HOUSEHOLD  TREASURES. 


What  are  they  ?  gold  and  silver, 

Or  what  such  ore  can  buy  ? 
The  pride  of  silken  luxury  ; 

Rich  robes  of  Tyrian  dye  ? 
(iuesis  that  come  thronging  in 

With  lordly  pomp  and  state  ? 
Or  thankless,  liveried  serving-men, 

To  stand  about  the  gate  ? 

19  2C 


Or  are  they  daintiest  meats 

Sent  up  on  silver  fine  ? 
Or  golden,  chased  cups  o'erbrimmed 

With  rich  Falernian  wine  ? 
Or  parchments  setting  forth 

Broad  lands  our  fathers  held  ; 
Parks  for  our  deer ;  ponds  for  our  fish  ; 

And  woods  that  may  be  felled  ? 

No,  no,  they  are  not  these !  or  else, 

God  help  the  poor  man's  need ! 
Then,  sitting  'mid  his  little  ones, 

He  would  be  poor  indeed  ! 
They  are  not  these  !  our  household  wealth 

Belongs  not  to  degree  ; 
It  is  the  love  within  our  souls  — 

The  children  at  our  knee  ! 

My  heart  is  filled  with  gladness 

When  I  behold  how  fair. 
How  bright,  are  rich  men's  children, 

With  their  thick  golden  hair  ! 
For  I  know  'mid  countless  treasure. 

Gleaned  from  the  east  and  west. 
These  living,  loving  human  things. 

Are  still  the  rich  man's  best ! 

But  my  heart  o'erfloweth  to  mine  eyes. 

And  a  prayer  is  on  my  tongue. 
When  I  see  the  poor  man's  children. 

The  toiling,  though  the  young. 
Gathering  with  sunburnt  hands 

The  dusty  wayside  flowers  ! 
Alas!  that  pastime  synibolleth 

Life's  after,  darker  hours. 

My  heart  o'erfloweth  to  mine  eyes, 

When  1  see  the  poor  man  stand, 
After  his  daily  work  is  done, 

With  children  by  the  hand  — 
And  this,  he  kisses  tenderly ; 

And  that,  sweet  names  doth  call  — 
For  I  know  he  has  no  treasure 

Like  those  dear  children  small ! 

Oh,  children  young,  I  bless  ye. 

Ye  keep  such  lo\  e  alive ! 
And  the  home  can  ne'er  be  desolate. 

Where  love  has  room  to  thrive! 
Oh,  precious  household  treasures, 

Life's  sweetest,  holiest  claim  — 
The  Saviour  ble.ssed  ye  w  hile  on  earth,  — 

I  bless  ye  in  His  name ! 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  SULTAN  ACHMET. 

AT   CONSTANTINOPLE. 

Young  Achmet  the  Sultan  ariseth  to-day, 
The  strength  of  his  sickness  hath  passed  away ; 
No  longer  he  feareth  the  might  of  his  foes. 
Nor  is  there  aught  living  to  mar  his  repose. 
217 


208 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Young  Achtnet  the  Sultan  with  power  hath  crowned 

him, 
And  his  will  is  the  fate  of  the  slaves  that  surround  him; 
There  is  gold  for  his  telling,  there's  pomp  to  beguile. 
And  beauty  that  liveth  alone  in  his  smile. 

What  aileth  him  tiien  that  he  .^ttelh  alone. 
And  breaketh  the  stillness  of  night  with  his  groan? 
There  is  fear  in  his  soul  which  no  pride  can  gainsay ; 
There  is  blood  on  his  hand  which  will  not  pass  away  I 

"I  have  sinned,"  said  young  Achmet,  "but  I  will 

atone 
For  my  sin  by  erecting  a  temple  of  stone  ; 
E'en  the  mosque  of  the  Prophet  at  Mecca  shall  yield, 
And  Santa  Sophia,  to  this  I  will  build  I 

"  Four  pillars  gigantic  the  whole  shall  uphold, 
With  gates  of  brass,  glorious  and  costly  as  gold  ; 
And  above  shall  domes,  semidomes,  cupolas  rise. 
With  six  slender  minarets  piercing  the  skies!" 

The  Mufti  came  up  to  young  Achmet  with  speed. 
Saying,  "  Sultan,  what  is  it  that  thou  hast  decreed  ? 
The  mosque  of  the  Prophet,  thou  know'st,  hath  but 

fi)ur  — 
Would'st   thou   raise  on   this  temple  two  minarets 

more ! " 

"Go,  fetch  in  the  Iladjee  !"  the  Sultan  replied, 
"  Who  came  in  from  Mecca  but  last  eventide!  — 
Now  tell  us  the  minarets'  number,"  said  he, 
'•  Of  the  great  mosque   at   Mecca  —  twice  two,   or 
twice  three  ?" 

The  Iladjee  bowed  low,  and  he  said  he  could  fix 
Without  question  the  number;  the  number  was  six; 
lie  had  counted  them  often,  morn,  noonday,  and  night. 
Six  tall,  slender  minarets  piercing  the  light! 

The  Mufti  arose  in  great  anger,  and  swore 
Dy  his  beard,  that  the  minarets  only  were  four: 
He  had  seen  them  himself;  he  had  counted  them  oft; 
Four  crescent-tipped  minarets  shooting  aloft! 

The  young  Sultan  Achmet  laughed  loud,  and  replied, 
•'That  a  band  of  good  pilgrims  the  truth  should  de- 
cide ;" 
And  as  they  reported,  so  soothly  should  be 
Ilis  minarets'  number —  twice  two,  or  twice  three!* 


*  The  Sultan  Achmet,  duriii<;  ihe  time  of  the  caravan's 
march,  had  ohiained  two  new  minarets  to  bo  added  to  the 
original  four  (if  the  mostiue  at  Mecca,  so  that  he  accomplished 
his  desifn  of  crowning  Wis  own  ereciion  with  six  minarets, 
without  offending?  the  piety  of  Ihe  tiue  iMnssulmans.  So  eager 
was  he  in  Ihe  building  of  his  mosque,  that  for  an  hour  every 
Friday,  after  prayers,  he  laboured  with  his  own  hands,  in 
order  lo  stimulate  the  workmen  by  his  own  example.  It  is  a 
remarkable  fact,  that  the  final  extirpation  of  the  janissaries, 
who  had  betn  the  personal  enemies  of  Ihe  Sultan  Achmet, 
Iwo  centuries  afterwards  was  cflected  in  this  mosque. 

The  reforming  Sultan  Muhmoud,  who  had  determined  on 
counteracling  the  influence  of  the  janissaries,  had  ordered  Ihe 
sa7iJja/;- sheriff,  or  sacred  standard  of  the  Prophet,  an  object 
exhibited  only  on  the  most  solemn  and  important  occasions, 
!n  be  unfoMcd  with  great  pomp  in  the  mosque  of  Achmet. 
No  true  Mussulman,  lo  whom  this  was  told,  dared  to  resist 
Ihe  summons;  thousands,  and  tens  of  thousands,  rushed  to 
the  temple.  The  banner  was  displayed  from  the  lofiy  pulpit 
of  the  Imaum.  and  ih"  Sultan  exhorted  the  people,  by  the 


Twelve  months  and  a  day  went  the  slow  caravan 
O'er  the  desert,  the  Mufti  still  placed  in  the  van  ; 
And  still  every  day  by  the  prophet  he  swore, 
That  at  Mecca  the  minarets  only  were  four! 

At  length  the  day  came  when  the  pilgrims  should  spy 
At  distance  the  minarets  piercing  the  sky  ; 
The  Mufti  rode  first  on  a  lleet-fjoied  steed. 
And  the  pilgrims  pressed  after  with  new-wakened 
speed. 

Why  standeth  the  Mufti  like  one  all  aghast ! 
What  vision  of  terror  before  him  hath  passed  ! 
He  seeth  the  mosque — he  hath  counted  them  o'er  — 
"  Allah  Kerira  !  six  minarets ! — Once  there  were  four!" 


THE  SOURCE  OF  THE  JUMNA. 


"  By  dint  of  untiring  perseverance,  we  had  at  last  reached 
the  confines  of  eternal  snow.  We  found  the  river  gliding  un- 
der arches  of  ice.  The  most  holy  spot  is  upon  the  left  bank, 
where  a  mass  ot  quartz  and  silicious  schist  rock  sends  forth 
tive  hot  springs  into  the  bed  of  the  river,  which  bnil  and  bub- 
ble at  a  furious  rate.  The  height  of  the  snow-bed  at  Jumno- 
tree,  is  about  ten  thousand  feet." 


Oh  for  some  old  mystery ! 

Something  that  we  could  not  know  — 
Something  that  we  could  not  fiithom, 

As  it  was  long  time  ago! 
Marvels  strange  have  ceased  to  be  — 
There  is  now  no  mystery ! 

There  were  islands  in  the  ocean. 

Once  upon  a  glorious  time. 
Fair,  Hesperian  islands  blooming 

In  a  golden  clime ! 
Rich  and  bright  beyond  compare, 
'Mid  the  waves,  we  know  not  where! 

There  were  cyclops  once,  and  giants; 

There  were  unicorns  of  old ; 
There  were  magic  carbuncles. 

And  cities  paved  with  gold ; 
How  the  world  has  changed  since  then! 
When  will  wonders  come  again ! 

Once  there  was  a  mystery 

In  a  mighty  river's  springs; 
Once,  the  cloudy  tops  of  mountains 

A'eiled  mysterious  things! 
Wondrous  pleasant  did  it  seem, 
Of  the  vast  and  veiled  to  dream ! 

Once,  together  side  by  side 
Sat  the  falher  and  the  child, 

Telling  by  the  glimmering  firelight. 
Histories  strange  and  wild ! 

But  philosophy  and  art 

Thrust  the  child  and  man  apart. 


faith  they  owed  the  Prophet,  to  rally  round  the  sacred  stand- 
ard.   A  deep  murmur  of  assent  filled  the  dome,  all  fell  pros- 
trate in  confirmation  of  their  resolve,  and  from  that  moment 
the  cause  of  the  janissaries  became  desperate. 
218 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


209 


Great  Philosophy  and  Art! 

This  is  now  the  wondrous  pair 
That  have  compassed  earth  and  ocean, 

That  have  travelled  air 
That  with  outstretched,  pitiless  arm 
Have  dispersed  each  fairy  charm ! 

Have  dissolved  the  carbuncle  ; 

Turned  the  cities'  gold  to  dust; 
Slain  the  miicoriis  ami  giants; 

Ta'en  our  ancient  trust! 
And  that  even  now  are  gone 
To  the  realms  of  Prester  John ! 

They  will  ransack  all  the  land ; 

Soar  alwve,  and  peep  below ; 
They  will  rend  the  rocks  asunder; 

Melt  the  eternal  snow; 
Not  a  stone  unturn'd  will  leave 
Each  old  mystery  to  unweave  I 

They  have  been  where  ne'er  before 
Human  foot  hath  ever  trod  ; 

They  have  found  the  real  cradle 
Of  the  Hindoo's  river-god  ! 

Jumna's  now  and  Ganges'  springs 

Are  no  longer  sacred  things  I 

Oh  for  some  old  mystery ; 

Something  that  we  could  not  know; 
Something  that  we  could  not  fathom, 

As  it  was  long  time  ago ! 
Pray,  ye  disenchanting  pair. 
Some  old  pleasant  mystery  spare ! 


THE  BARON'S  DAUGHTER. 

THE    LAY    OF    A    LANDLESS    POET. 

Lovely  Lady  Madeline! 

High-born  Lady  Madeline, 
What  a  heavenly  dream  had  I 

'Neath  the  moon  but  yester-e'en ! 

In  thy  gracious  beauty  bright. 
In  thy  bower  I  saw  thee  stand. 

Looking  from  its  casement  out, 
With  my  verses  in  thy  hand. 

Birds  were  singing  all  around  thee, 
Flowers  were  blooming  'neath  the  wall. 

And  from  out  the  garden  alleys 
Chimed  the  silvery  fountain's  fall. 

But  thy  thoughts  were  not  of  these; 

Loveliest  Lady  Madeline, 
Would  that,  in  that  blessed  hour, 

I  the  folded  scroll  had  been ! 

Madeline,  thv  race  is  proud, 
Fierce  thy  brethren,  stern  thy  sire; 

And  thy  lady-mother's  scorn 
Withereth  like  consuming  fire. 


How  is  it,  sweet  Madeline, 
That  thou  art  so  kind  of  cheer. 

That  the  lowliest  in  the  house 
Thinks  of  thee  with  love,  not  fear. 

Even  the  sour  old  gardener, 
Through  the  winter's  icicHi  hours, 

Works  with  cheerful-hearlod   will 
If  It  be  to  tend  thy  llowers. 

As  for  me  —  Oh,  Madeline, 

Though  thy  brethren  fierce  and  high 
Scarce  would  deign  to  speak  my  name. 

'T  would,  for  thee,  be  heaven  to  die! 

Madeline,  my  love  is  madness! 

How  should  I  aspire  unto  thee; 
How  should  I,  the  lowfy-born. 

Find  fit  words  to  woo  thee ! 

Every  goodly  chamber  beareth 
Proudly  on  its  pictured  wall. 

Lords  and  ladies  of  renown, 
Richly  robed,  and  noble  all. 

Not  a  daughter  of  thy  house 
But  did  mate  in  her  degree; 

'Twas  for  love  I  learned  by  rote. 
Long  years  past,  thy  pedigree! 

And  in  those  old  chronicles. 

Which  the  chaplain  bade  me  read, 

Not  a  page,  but  of  thy  line 
Telleth  some  heroic  deed. 

And  within  the  chancel  aisle, 

'Neath  their  banners  once  blood-dyed. 

Lie  the  noble  of  thy  house, 
In  their  marble,  side  by  side. 

As  for  me  —  my  father  lieth 

In  the  village  churchyard-ground. 

And  upon  his  lowly  head-stone 
Only  may  his  name  be  found. 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  love 
One  like  thee,  high  Madeline! 

I,  a  nameless  man  and  poor. 
Sprung  of  kindred  mean. 

Without  houses,  without  lands. 
Without  bags  of  goodly  gold  ; 

What  have  1  to  give  pretence 
To  my  wishes  wild  and  bold! 

What  have  I?    Oh,  Madeline, 

Small  things  to  the  poor  are  great ; 

Mine  own  heart  and  soul  have  made 
The  wealth  of  mine  estate. 

Walking  'neath  the  stars  at  even. 
Walking  'neath  the  summer's  noon ; 

Spring's  first  leaves  of  lender  green. 
And  fair  flowers  sweet  and  boon  : 

These,  the  common  things  of  earth, 
But,  more,  our  human  kind  ; 

The  silent  suffering  of  the  heart; 
The  mystery  of  mind  : 

219 


210 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  lowly  lot  of  peasant  folk, 
Their  humblest  hopes  and  fears  ; 

The  pale  cheek  of  a  woman, 
And  even  children's  tears; 

All  circumstance  of  mortal  life. 

The  lowly  though  it  be ; 
And  pure  thought  garnered  in  the  soul, 

The  wealth  of  poesy  — 
Have  made  me,  high-born  Madeline, 

Kot  quite  unworthy  thee  I 


SMYRNA. 

A  STREET  in  Smyrna  !    Let  me  think  - 
Of  Smyrna  nought  I  kyow. 

Except  that  Homer  was  a  child 
In  Smyrna  long  ago  I 

I  care  not  although  seven  towns 

Contended  for  his  birth, 
Smyrna  shall  bear  the  palm  away 

From  all  the  towns  of  earth  I 

And  who  shall  say  that  when  a  boy 
He  played  not  in  this  street, 

Or  sat  beside  his  mother's  door 
And  sung  his  ballads  sweet  ? 

Yes,  it  was  in  this  very  street, 
Where  stands  that  open  door, 

Critheis  sat,  and  spun  for  bread  — 
The  poet's  mother  poor. 

And  there  her  boy  sat  at  her  side; 

"  And  tell  me  more,"  said  he, 
"Sweet  mother,  of  the  wars  of  Troy  — 

They  please  me  mightily! 

"  And  tell  me  of  the  godlike  man, 

Ulysses  and  his  woes. 
For  I  love  the  lale,  and  seem  to  be 

With  him  where'er  he  goes!" 

And  so  Critheis  told  the  tale 

Unto  her  sightless  boy, 
About  Ulysses  and  his  woes. 

And  of  the  wars  of  Troy. 

There  sat  she  all  the  day  and  spun; 

And  Phemius  on  his  way, 
Morning  and  night  unto  his  school 

Beheld  them  every  day. 

The  mother  she  was  meek  and  young; 

The  boy  was  blind ;  but  ne'er 
Had  Phemis  'mid  his  scholars  seen 

A  child  so  wondrous  fair: 
With  such  a  glorious  countenance; 

With  such  a  thoughtful  air. 

And  thus  the  mother  and  the  boy, 
Became  a  pleasant  thought, 

In  the  good  heart  of  Phemius 
The  while  his  school  he  taught. 


And  even  on  his  homeward  way 
He  stayed  his  willing  feet. 

To  hear  the  boy  a  lesson  say, 
Or  sing  his  ballads  sweet. 

Oh,  city  by  the  Lesbian  sea, 
Great  glory  'tis  to  know 

That  Homer  sang  within  thy  street 
Some  thousand  years  ago ! 


OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

The  offspring  of  a  troubled  time ; 
The  appointed  human  instrument 
Of  mighty  change ;  the  agent  sent 

To  work  heaven's  will,  ni  whom  even  crime 
Becomes  to  good  subservient. 
Such  wert  thou,  Cromwell,  in  thy  day. 

The  needful  scourge,  perhaps  no  less 

The  slave  of  thine  own  worldliness. 
But  still  a  mightier,  loftier  sway 
Meted  the  work  that  on  thee  lay. 

Thou  wert  of  those  who,  in  the  turn 

Of  a  great  nation's  ftte,  arise. 
Her  scorpion-whip,  her  teachers  stern, 
From  whom  she  hath,  in  blood,  to  learn. 

Through  suffering,  to  be  wise  ! 
Man  of  a  million,  not  alone 

For  thine  own  will,  thyself  to  please, 

Gave  God  unto  thy  hand  the  keys 
Of  empire;  made  the  ancient  throne 
Of  kings  thy  servile  stepping-stone. 

A  higher  power  controUeth  man 

Than  his  own  self;  his  direst  deed 
Assistelh  the  benignant  plan 
Of  the  Supreme;  his  fiercest  ban. 

Of  afler-mercy  is  the  seed ! 
We  are  not  what  we  were  before, 

The  melancholy  monarch  fell, 

And  Cromwell's  spirit,  like  a  spell. 
Works  at  the  nation's  heart.     Restore, 
O  God,   without  their  crime,  those  steadfast  souls 
once  more! 


MARSHAL  SOULT. 

THE   MEETING   OF   THE  WARRIORS — SOULT  AND 
WELLINGTO.X. 

Thkv  met  amid  the  bloody  fields  of  Spain, 
When  the  swart  peasant  lel't  his  reaping-hook, 
And,  heedless  of  the  ripe  ungarnered  grain, 
A  sharper  weapon  in  his  right-hand  took, 
For  other  harvests;  when  the  green  hills  shook 
With  battle's  thunder,  and  the  carnage  flood 
Swelled  to  a  river  many  a  mountain  brook. 
There  met  they,  and  like  gods  of  battle  stood, 
Each  girt  with  armed  hosts,  and  all  athirst  for  blooil ! 
220 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


211 


Again  they  met  —  't  was  on  a  summer's  day, 
And  half  a  million  people  with  them  met, 
Not  girt  with  arms  in  slaughterous  array. 
With  crimson  banners  torn,  and  swords  blood-wet; 
But  each  in  his  hiii;h  place  of  honour  set, 
When  all  the  bells  of  joyous  London  rung; 
When  window,  balcon,  roof,  and  jiarapet 
Were  thronged  with  people,  and    with   garlands 
hung. 
And  one  "  God  save  the  Queen !"  pealed  from  the 
nation's  tongue ! 

There  met  they;  and  like  brethren,  side  by  side, 
Swelled  the  glad  pomp  of  that  great  jubilee. 
—  Oh  proudest  triumph  of  that  day  of  pride. 
When  met  the  nation's  ancient  chivalry, 
With  ceremonial  old,  to  reverence  thee. 
Thou  young  and  favoured  Queen  of  many  lands — 
That  every  neighbour-land  and  every  sea 
With  an  according  gladness  clapped  their  hands. 
And,  that  those  mighty  warriors  met  with  sheathed 
brands  ! 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SWEET  WATERS. 


"  Sweet  Waters"  does  not  imply  that  they  are  distinguished 
by  any  remarkable  sweetness  of  taste,  but  simply  that  they 
are  not  salt.  Two  rivulets  are  so  named  by  the  Franks,  one 
in  Europe,  and  the  other  in  Asia:  their  banks  are  rich  and 
verdant,  enammelled  with  flowers,  and  are  places  of  resort, 
where  say  and  festive  parties  meet  for  recreation.  At  these 
pic-nics,  even  the  members  of  a  family  never  mix  together. 
The  unsocial  jealousy  of  a  Turk  so  separates  the  sexes,  that 
the  father,  husbund.  and  brother  are  never  seen  in  the  same 
eroups  with  their  female  relatives.  The  women  assemble  on 
one  side  round  the  fountain,  and  the  men  on  the  other. 


All  cities  have  their  outlets  of  delight ; 

We  have  our  Greenwich,   Richmond,  Hampstead, 

Harrow, 
To  appease  the  popular  rural  appetite. 
For  which  the  crowded  city  is  too  narrow ; 
Thither  the  people  throng,  in  dust's  despite. 
Of  happiness  to  suck  the  very  marrow; 
Thither  throng  rich  and  jioor,  the  grave,  the  merry. 
In  steara-boat,  omnibus,  and  cab,  and  wherry. 

The  streets  are  stifling,  bustling,  noisy,  dry  ; 
Hot  are  the  pavements  as  an  oven-floor. 
Dingy-red  brick  grows  tiresome  to  the  eye  ; 
The  bell,  the  knocker,  and  the  green  street-door 
The  weary  senses  quickly  satisfy  ; 
And  then  we  send  our  gadding  fancy  o'er 
Rich  golden  meadows  deep  in  summer  grass. 
To  leafy  trees,  and  rivers  smooth  as  glass. 

And  then  we  rush  into  the  popular  stream, 
And  find  ourselves  with  very  prompt  good-will. 
Borne  down  the  silvery  Thames  on  wings  of  steam. 
Or  dragged  by  horses  up  the  Hampstead  hill. 
The  Turkish  people,  solemn  as  they  seem, 
Of  the  dense  city  likewise  get  their  fill. 
And  sally  forth,  athirst  for  flf)wers  and  trees. 
To  drain  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  lees. 
19* 


Unto  the  Valley  of  Sweet  Waters  bound. 
Sails  forth,  brim-full  of  men,  the  smart  caique  ; 
And  in  their  curtain'd  chariots'  depth  profound 
The  women  go  in  crowds,  mouth,  brow,  and  cheek 
In  muslin  veil  and  shrouding  i/ns/iinar  wound  : 
'Tis  wonderful  how  they  c;iii  breathe  or  speak  I 
But  'lis  the  mode;  and  forth  the  chariot  goes. 
Guarded  by  negroes,  drawn  by  bufliiloes. 

Although  the  cups  of  yaoxirt  may  be  full. 
Although  each  soul  for  pleasure  deeply  delves, 
A  Turkish  pic-nic  must  be  rather  dull ; 
And  these  poor  ladies,  grouped  in  lens  and  twelves, 
Can  only  tiny  sprigs  of  pleasure  cull. 
Muffled  and  cushioned,  sitting  by  themselves. 
Especially  when  just  at  hand  they  see 
The  men  who  might  be  talking  pleasantly. 

Well,  Mahmoud  Second  loveth  reformation, 
He  hath  done  mighty  wonders  in  his  day  ; 
He  slew  the  standing  army  of  his  nation. 
He  threw  his  soldiers'  turbans  all  away; 
Perchance  he'll  make  another  innovation  — 
The  best  of  all  I  —  and,  if  he  like,  he  may  — 
Ordain  that  henceforth,  in  the  summer  weather, 
Women  and  men  may  sit  and  talk  together. 


THE  BURIAI^GROUND  AT  SIDON. 


"The  burial  ground,  with  the  old  ruin,  supposed  to  be  the 
castle  of  Louis  IX.,  ia  without  the  town  :  the  tall  trees  cast 
their  shadow  on  the  sepulchres,  some  fallen  and  ruined,  others 
newly  whited  and  gilt,  and  covered  with  sentences  in  the 
Turkish  character,  the  head-stones  usually  presenting  a  liirban 
on  a  pedestal.  Several  women  had  come  to  mourn  over  the 
graves  of  their  relatives,  in  white  cloaks  and  veils  that  envel- 
oped them  from  head  to  foot :  they  mostly  mourned  in  silence, 
and  knelt  on  the  steps  of  the  tomb,  or  amon;?  the  wild  flowers 
which  grew  rank  on  the  soil.  The  niornine  light  fell  partially 
on  the  sepulchres,  and  on  the  broken  towers  of  the  ancient 
castle:  but  the  greater  part  of  the  thickly-peopled  cemetery 
was  still  in  gloom — the  gloom  which  the  Orientals  love.  They 
do  not  like  to  come  to  the  tombs  in  the  glare  of  day :  early 
morn  and  evening  are  the  favourite  seasons,  especially  the 
latter.  This  Burial-ground  of  Sidnn  is  one  of  the  most  pictu- 
resque on  the  coast  of  Syria.  The  ruin,  of  Louis,  tells,  like 
the  sepulchres,  that  this  life's  hope  and  pride  is  ■■•s  "  a  tale  that 
is  told."  When  the  moon  is  on  its  lowers,  i,n  the  trees,  and 
tombs  beneath,  and  on  the  white  Heures  that  sluwly  move  to 
and  fro,  the  scene  is  solemn,  and  cannot  be  forgotten." 


The  dead  are  everywhere ! 
The  mountain-side;  the  plain;  the  woods  profound; 
All  the  wide  earth  —  the  fertile  and  ilie  fair. 

Is  one  vast  burial-ground  ! 

Within  the  populous  street ; 
In  solitary  homes  ;  in  places  high  ; 
In  pleasure-domes  where  pomp  and  luxury  meet. 

Men  bow  themselves  to  die. 

The  old  man  at  his  door ; 
The  unweaned  child  murmuring  its  wordless  song; 
The  bondman  and  the  free ;  the  rich,  the  poor  ; 

All,  all  to  death  belong! 

221 


212 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  sunlight  gilds  the  walls 
Of  kingly  sepulchres  enwrought  with  brass ; 
And  the  long  shadow  of  the  cypress  falls 

Athwart  the  common  grass. 

The  living  of  gone  time 
Builded  their  glorious  cities  by  the  sea, 
And  awful  in  their  greatness  sat  sublime, 

As  if  no  change  could  be. 

There  was  the  eloquent  tongue; 
The  poet's  heart ;  the  sage's  soul  was  there  ; 
And  loving  women  with  their  children  young, 

The  faithful  and  the  fair. 

They  were,  but  they  are  not ; 
Suns  rose  and  set,  and  earth  put  on  her  bloom. 
Whilst  man.  submitting  to  the  common  lot. 

Went  down  into  the  tomb. 

And  still  amid  the  wrecks 
Of  mighty  generations  passed  away. 
Earth's   boonest  growth,   the   fragrant   wild-flower, 
decks 

The  tombs  of  yesterday. 

And  in  the  twilight  deep. 
Go  veiled  women  forth,  like  her  who  went. 
Sisters  of  Lazarus,  to  the  grave  to  weep 

To  breathe  the  low  lament. 

The  dead  are  everywhere ! 
V\'here'er  is  love,  or  tenderness,  or  faith  ; 
Where'er  is  power,  pomp,  pleasure,  pride ;  where'er 

Life  is  or  was,  is  death ! 


THE  ARRIVAL. 

Scene. — A  Castle  in  the  Scotch  Highlands. 

Time  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  —  Louisa  and 
Cecilia  in  morning  dresses. 

LOUISA. 

Of  what  availeth  blonde  and  lace 
Here  in  this  melancholy  place! 
My  pearls  have  never  seen  the  day ; 
Your  emeralds  they  are  stowed  away  ; 
And  my  white  satin  !   I  declare,  it 
Will  be  quite  passe  ere  I  wear  it! 

I  can't  conceive  whate'er  possessed 
Papa  to  take  this  eagle's  nest, 
Perched  among  mountains  bleak  and  drear. 
Without  a  decent  neighbour  near! 
I  wonder  more  what  men  can  find 
So  vastly  suited  to  their  mind, 
In  riding  o'er  those  moorlands  dreary, 
Thro\igh  wild  ravines  so  black  and  eerie; 
Past  highland  huts  of  turf  and  stone. 
Whence  peeps  forth  many  a  withered  crone ; 
Through  spongy  bog,  o'er  mountains  high. 
To  shoot  at  grouse  that  lliey  might  buy  ! 

CECILIA. 

I  'm  sure  our  English  country-seat 
Was  quite  enough  of  a  retreat ; 


A  solitary  grand  old  hall. 
Shut  up  within  its  high  park-wall ! 
And  there,  at  least,  was  no  despair 
Our  robes  of  price  too  good  to  wear. 

LOUISA. 

No,  what  with  Henry's  friend  Sir  John, 

And  the  young  Lord  of  Erlington, 

And  Lady  Peter's  guests,  and  all 

The  people  from  Combe-Merival, 

And  Captain  Matthews  and  his  bride. 

And  all  our  London  friends  beside, 

One  ne'er  pined  for  a  human  face, 

Nor  mourned  o'er  unsunned  pearls  and  lace. 

But  I  protest  it  was  unkind, 
To  bring  Court-Aspley  back  to  mind. 
With  guests  for  ever  on  the  floor,  — 
Even  poor  Miss  Weld  I  now  adore ! 
I  can't  think  how  they  spend  their  lives  — 
These  dull  Scotch  nobles  and  their  wives — 
The  Macnamara  and  Mackay ! 

Ah !  I  'd  a  dream  at  break  of  day, 
Nor  hath  the  charm  yet  passed  away  '. — 
Why  do  you  smile,  sweet  sister,  say  ? 

CECILIA. 

I  too  had  dreams  —  but,  what  is  belter, 
I  even  now  have  had  a  letter ! 

LOUISA. 

A  letter !  and  from  whom  and  whence  ? 

CECILIA. 

You  '11  see  the  writer  two  hours  hence ! 

LOUISA. 

Ah,  by  your  blush  I  know  !  —  Sir  John! 

CECILIA. 

And  with  him  comes  — 

LOUISA. 

Lord  Erlington  I 

CECILIA. 

The  very  same ! 

LOUISA. 

Oh  joyful  day! 

CECILIA. 

But  let  us  dress ;  time  wears  away  ; 
In  two  hours'  time,  or  even  less, 
They  will  be  here ! 

LOUISA. 

Ah,  let  us  dress! 
Two  hours  later  —  Louisa  and  Cecilia  dressed. 

LOUISA. 

You  wear  no  ornaments  to-night. 
Not  even  a  ring !  —  well,  you  are  right. 
You  know  his  taste  ;  —  you  can't  do  better 
Than  please  a  lover  to  the  letter. 

CECILIA. 

Lovers  we  satisfy  with  ease, 
'T  is  husbands  that  are  hard  to  please. 
But  truce  to  thought !     You  look  your  best. 
Come  when  they  will,  you  're  sweetly  drest; 
Marshall  has  used  her  utmost  care  ; 
How  well  those  pearls  become  your  hair! 
But  let  us  to  the  turret-stair. 
We  get  a  glorious  prospect  there ! 
222 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


213 


LOUISA. 

One  little  glimpse  sufliceth  me, 
I  see  the  view  I  wish  to  see. 
Two  horsemen  riding  merrily  I 

CECILIA. 

Tis  but  my  lather  and  my  brother! 
Look  sister,  't  is  indeed  none  other  I 

LOUISA. 

Now  may  your  beauty  fair  befall ! 
Just  look  below  the  castle-wall  ; 
Who  rides  bare-headed  ? 

CECIUA. 

'T  is  Sir  John, 
And  by  his  side  Lord  Erlington! 

LOUISA. 

And  now  I  hear  my  father's  laughter, 
As  he  and  Henry  gallop  after ! 


AN  ENGLISH  GRAVE  AT  MUSSOOREE. 


Mussooree.  the  site  of  a  station  which  is  now  one  of  the  chief 
resorts  of  the  visiters  from  the  plains,  stands  at  an  elevation 
of  seven  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea, 
and  is  situated  on  the  southern  face  of  the  ridge  called  the 
Landour  Range,  and  overlooking  the  village  of  that  name, 
which  lias  been  chosen  for  the  establishment  of  a  military 
sanitarium,  for  those  oflicers  and  privates  bclonsing  to  the 
Bengal  army,  who  liave  lost  their  health  in  the  plains. 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  delicious  to  an  invalid,  half 
dying  under  the  burning  sun  of  India,  than  the  being  removed 
into  the  fine,  bracing,  and  cool  atmosphere  of  this  station. 
All  round  him  are  the  most  sublime  natural  objects — the  most 
stupendous  rivers  and  mountains  of  the  world,  but  all  subdued 
into  a  character  of  astonishing  beauty  ;  while  the  growth  of 
the  hills,  and  of  the  very  ground  under  his  feet,  must  transport 
liim  back  into  his  native  Britain. 


"Tell  me  about  my  son,  dear  friend,  for  I  can  bear 

to  know, 
Now  that  my  heart  is  stayed  by  prayer,  that  history 

of  woe  I 
But  whence  was  it,  of  seven  sons,  all  men  of  strength 

and  pride. 
This  only  one — the  gentlest  one — forsook  his  mother's 

side  I 

"That  he  in  whom  a  flower,  a  star,  a  love-inspired 
word, 

The  poet's  heart,  all  tenderness,  even  from  his  boy- 
hood stirred  ; 

Who  was  my  dearest  counsellor,  in  his  dead  father's 
place ; 

Who  was  a  daughter  unto  me,  who  ne'er  did  one 
embrace. 

"  How  vias  it  that  he  only  left  his  home,  his  native 

land. 
He   only,  kindest,    gentlest,  and  youngest  of  my 

band  ? 
That  he  whom  I  had  looked  to  close  mine  eyes  —  to 

lay  me  low. 
Died  first,  and  far  away  I    Oh  God,  thy  counsels  who 

shall  know ! 


"  But  murmuring  thus,  I  sin !  Dear  friend,  forgive  a 
mother's  grief. 

And  tell  me  of  my  son  ;  thy  words  will  bring  a.s8ured 
relief: 

Tell  me  of  each  minutest  look  — even  of  his  suffer- 
ings tell. 

My  heart  takes  comfort  from  thy  voice,  for  thou  didst 
love  him  well!" 

"I  loved  him  well,  oh,  passing  well!  all  he  had 

been  to  thee  — 
Friend,  coiinsellor,  the  spirit's  life  —  so  had  he  been 

to  me! 
Yet  murmur  not,  thou  broken  heart,  our  vision  fails 

to  show 
The  scope  of  that  mysterious  good  whose  base  is 

human  woe ! 

"Thy  best-beloved   murmured   not,   his  faith   was 

never  dim. 
And   that  strong  love  which  was  his  life,  sprang 

everywhere  for  him. 
We  saw  him  droop,  and  many  a  one,  else  scarce  to 

love  beguiled. 
Watched  him,  as  tender  parents  watch  a  favourite 

drooping  child. 

"  For  the  hot  plains  where  he  had  lain,  by  cureless 

wounds  oppressed. 
We  bore  him  to  the  northern  hills,  to  a  sweet  land 

of  rest. 
Oh,  what  a  joy  it  was  to  him  to  feel  tlic  cool  winds 

blow. 
To  see  the  golden  morning  light  array  the  peaks  of 

snow! 

"  What  joy  to  see  familiar  things  where'er  his  foot- 
steps trod ; 

The  oak-tree  in  the  mountain-cleft ;  the  daisy  on  the 
sod  ; 

The  primrose  and  the  violet ;  the  green  moss  of  the 
rill; 

The  crimson  wild-briar  rose,  and  the  strawberry  of 
the  hill! 

"  How  often  these  sweet  living  flowers  were  bathed 

in  blissful  tears. 
For  then  his  loving  spirit  drank  the  joy  of  bygone 

years  ; 
And  sitting  'mong  those  giant  hills,  his  boyhood  round 

him  lay  — 
That  sunny  time  of  carelese  peace,  so  long  since  past 

away. 

"  He  told  me  of  his  English  home ;  I  knew  it  well 
before ; 

Mine  eyes  had  seen  its  trees,  or  ere  my  shadow 
crossed  the  door ; 

The  very  sun-dial  on  the  green,  I  knew  its  face 
again  ; 

And  this  small  summer  parlour  with  its  jasmine- 
wreathed  pane. 

"  And  thou  I  all  thou  hadst  been  to  him,  he  told  me  ; 

bade  me  seek 
Thy  face,  and  to  thy  broken  heart  dear  words  of 

comfort  speak : 

223 


214 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh,  mother  of  the  blessed  dead,  weep  not ;  sweet 

thoughts  of  thee, 
Like  ministering  angels  at  the  last,  the  joyous  soul 

set  free ! 

"  Oh,  mother  of  the  dead,  weep  not  as  if  that  far-off 

grave 
Possessed  thy  spirit's  best  beloved  — '  thy  beautiful, 

thy  brave ;' 
The  gifted,  living  soul  lies  not  beneath  that  Eastern 

sod. 
All  thou  hast  cherished  liveth  still,  and  calleth  thee 

to  God !" 


THE  ODALIQUE. 

THE   FAVOURITE  OF   THE  HAREM. 

Large  the  eye,  and  dark  as  night; 
Smooth  the  skin,  as  ivory  white ; 
Small  the  foot,  and  fair  as  snow ; 
Rich  the  voice,  yet  soft  and  low ; 
White  the  neck,  and  round  the  arm; 
Small  the  hand,  and  soft  and  warm; 
Red  the  lip,  and  fair  the  cheek 
Of  the  favourite  Odalique ! 

Let  her  robes  be  silks  and  gold. 
Round  her  waist  the  cashmere  fold ; 
Let  her  velvet  boddice  shine 
With  the  treasures  of  the  mine ; 
Let  her  turban,  pearl-inlaced. 
On  her  queenly  brow  be  placed; 
And  her  ivory  finger-tips 
Be  rosy  as  her  rosebud  lips. 

In  the  harem's  brightest  room. 
Hung  with  silks  of  Iran's  loom, 
Breathing  odours  rich  as  those  . 
Of  the  summer's  sunniest  rose ; 
Silken  carpets  'neath  her  tread, 
Arabesques  above  her  head, 
One  of  four  she  lingers  there, 
Fairest  far  where  all  are  fair. 

Odalique,  the  years  were  few 
Which  thy  blooming  childhood  knew 
In  the  vales  Circassian, 
Ere  thy  troubled  life  began! 
Scarcely  wert  thou  ten  years  old 
Ere  to  strangers  thou  wert  sold ; 
Parted  from  thy  willing  mother. 
Parted  from  thy  shepherd  brother. 
Parted  from  thy  sisters  twain. 
With  no  hope  to  meet  again ! 

Months  went  on,  and  years  came  by, 

And  the  tear  had  left  thine  eye ; 

Grief  was  gone,  save  what  but  lent 

To  thy  beauty  sentiment: 

And  thy  laughter  might  be  heard 

Joyous  as  a  singing-bird  ; 

And  thy  rich  voice  keeping  time 

To  the  zebec's  merry  chime. 


Wherefore  this?  for  thou  wert  still 
Slave  unto  another's  will. 
Chosen  for  eye,  and  lip,  and  cheek, 
JVot  the  wife,  but  Odalique ! 
Wherefore  then  the  joyous  measure 
Of  thy  heart's  unceasing  pleasure  ? 
Wherefore  then  the  love  tliat  lies 
In  thy  bright  but  serious  eyes  ? 
And  the  voice  whose  lightest  word 
Is  like  soul-toiiched  music  heard ! 
Wherefore  this?  thou  art  but  still 
Slave  unto  a  master's  will ! 

This  it  is  that  maketh  thee 

Beautiful  exceedingly  — 

That  thy  woman's  heart  pines  not 

With  an  unpartaken  lot; 

That  the  one  thy  love  doth  bless 

Truly  loveth  thee  no  less! 

This  it  is  that  makes  thy  hours 

Like  a  sunny  path  of  flowers ! 

That  in  eye  and  brow  doth  speak. 

Thou  beloved  Odalique! 


THE  TOMB  OF  ST.  GEORGE. 


"This  romantic  spot  is  on  the  route  from  Beirout  to  Tripoli, 
in  the  bay  of  Kesrouaii,  the  shores  of  which  display  au  exqui- 
site verdure,  cultivation,  and  cheerfulness ;  the  vdlasjea  and 
convents,  one  situated  above  anoiher  up  the  declivities,  have 
a  most  romantic  appearance.  This  strange  excavation  ap- 
pears to  have  been  once  a  chapel,  and  is  commonly  called  the 
Tomb  of  St.  George,  our  tutelar  saint,  whose  combat  with 
the  dragon  is  said  to  have  taken  place  at  no  great  distance. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay  is  a  Roman  arch,  and  a  beau- 
tiful rocky  promontory.  This  spot  is  between  Nahr-el-kelb 
and  Batroun.  The  villages  on  the  hills  are  neatly  built,  all 
flat-roofed,  with  little  latticed  windows;  two  or  three  of  the 
larger  edifices  are  convents,  with  a  pleasant  aspect  towards 
the  sea,  each  having  its  garden  and  vineyard  :  the  soil  is  very 
fruitful.  In  the  hiils  in  the  interior  of  Asia  Minor,  the  roclts 
are  not  unfrequcntly  excavated  into  a  kind  of  chambers,  an- 
ciently sepulchral,  but  now  inhabited  by  peasants  and  sliep- 
herds,  and  which  otler  to  the  Iravellcr  a  warr.ier  shelter  than 
a  ruined  khan ;  the  woods  supply  a  good  fire,  and  neiiliir 
wind  nor  rain  find  a  passage.  Many  of  these  rock?,  pierced 
with  ancient  catacombs,  present,  at  a  small  distance,  the 
exact  appearance  of  towers  and  castles :  the  people,  as  in  tlio 
time  of  .)<d),  "embrace  the  caverns  of  the  rock  fur  shelter. 
and  dwell  in  the  chfls  of  the  valley,  fleeing  into  the  wilderness 
desolate  and  waste." 


The  wondrous  days  of  old  romance 
Like  summer  flowers  are  fled ; 

Their  mighty  men;  their  lovely  dames; 
Their  minstrels  all  are  dead  I 

The  ancient  times  are  gone  indeed; 

And  where  their  forests  grew 
The  corn  waves  green,  and  busy  towns 

Are  thronged  with  people  new. 

Tintagel  is  a  heap  of  stone ; 

And  where  Caerleon  lay 
We  know  not,  all  beside  its  name 

Ilalh  passed  from  earth  away. 
224 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


!I5 


Gone  are  the  knights  of  Italy  ; 

The  paladins  of  Spain; 
And  brave  king  Arihur  in  the  dust, 

Lies  low  as  Charlemagne. 

Sir  Bevis  and  Sir  Lancelot, 

In  England  or  in  France, 
Would  meet  with  no  adventure  now 

Worth  lifting  of  the  lance. 

Throughout  the  land  of  Libya 
Were  good  St.  George  to  speed, 

No  fair  king's  daughter  would  he  find, 
From  dragons  to  be  freed. 

The  Guys  of  Warwick  all  are  dead. 

Or  if  they  linger  still. 
No  brave  achievements  they  perform, 

No  dire  dun-cows  they  kill. 

The  breast-plates  and  the  caps  of  steel, 
'Mongst  common  things  are  laid ; 

Even  Wallace's  two-handed  sword 
Is  now  a  rusty  blade. 

The  earth  is  not  what  once  it  was ; 

Its  caves  and  castles  strong ; 
Its  monsters  and  ils  mighty  men 

Live  but  in  ancient  song! 

Oh!  wondrous  days  of  old  romance, 

How  pleasant  do  ye  seem; 
For  sunlit  hours  in  summer  bovvers. 

For  winter-nights  a  theme! 

How  have  I  loved  from  childhood's  years 

To  call  to  life  again 
Brave  prince,  and  paladin,  and  peer. 

And  those  Caerleon  men ! 

To  see  the  steeds  whereon  they  rode. 

It  was  a  goodly  sight; 
Such  horses  are  not  now-a-days, 

So  coal-black  and  so  white ! 

Oh,  'twas  a  wondrous  pleasant  thing. 

When  I  was  but  a  child, 
To  live  in  those  old  times,  to  meet 

Adventure  strange  and  witd! 

And  even  still  the  charm  is  strong; 

But  'tis  not  now  as  then. 
For  I  see  the  tombs  wherein  they  lie, 

And  not  the  livmg  men! 


VESPERS  L\  THE  CAPELLA  REALE. 

1282. 

"TwAS  on  the  Easter  Monday,  in  the  evening. 
After  the  Sabbath  of  the  Saviour's  rising  — 
Twelve  hundred  years,  and  eighty  years  and  two. 
From  this  same  Easter  Monday — that  at  vespers. 
The  blessed  Saviour,  who  had  not  ascended 
Yet  to  the  Father,  walked  upon  the  sea-shore. 
2D 


There  met  he  six  of  his  forlorn  disciples. 

Who,  spirit-crushed  and  heart-sore,  had  that  even 

Gone  out  a-(ishing.     With  them  went  ihe  Master. 

— Oh,  love  surpassing  human  understandnig! 

Oh,  Friend,  Instructor,  Comlbrter,  and  Saviour, 

Thou  didst  that  night,  when  heaven  was  opened  for 

thee. 
When  angels  and  archangels  were  awaiting 
u'hy  coming  to  the  Father, — with  thy  children. 
Thy  mourning,  desolate,  heart-broken  children. 
Yet  go  a-fishing ! 

"  Friends,  as  was  the  Lord  then, 
Full  of  sweet  love  and  pity  for  the  aillicted. 
So  is  he  still!     He  pitieth  all  our  sorrows  ; 
He  knoweth  all  our  inward  tribulations  I 
Ye  who  have  trouble,  call  upon  the  Saviour! 
Ye  who  are  hopeless,  fearful,  or  afflicted 
In  mind  or  body,  call  upon  the  Saviour! 
Oh,  all  of  ye,  and  I,  for  we  are  sinners. 
Let  us  bow  down  and  call  upon  the  Saviour! 
Oh  Guide,  oh  Friend,  oh  crucified  Lord  Jesus, 
Be  with  us,  all  of  us,  now  and  for  ever !" 

Such,  in  the  royal  chapel  of  Palermo, 
Such  was  the  sermon  on  that  Easter  Monday 
Whereon  the  bloody  Pedro,  thence  the  Cruel, 
Ordained  at  the  holy  time  of  vespers 
To  slay  eight  thousand  Christian  worshippers ! 

Low  bent  the  crowd  within  the  royal  chapel, 
White-headed  men,  mothers,  and  little  children,         ' 
To  bless  the  Lord !    Even  then  the  armed  ruffians 
Entered  the  holy  place,  and  the  white  marble 
Ran  down  with  streams  of  blood  ! 


NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 


This  town  has  the  distinguished  honour  of  being  the  birth- 
place of  Lords  Eldon  and  Stowell,  who  were  also  both  edu- 
cated at  ils  grammarschool.  The  eighth  anniversary  of  the 
British  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science  was  held 
here  during  the  autumn  of  1838.  On  that  occasion  Dr.  Buck- 
land,  referring  to  the  many  noble  literary  and  scientific  insti- 
tutions which  now  adorn  the  place,  remarked,  that  "twenly- 
(ive  years  ago  he  was  in  Newcastle,  and  the  Literary  and 
Philosophical  Society  was  the  only  institution  of  a  literary  or 
scientitic  character;  but  in  subsequent  years  many  other  so- 
cieties had  spiung  up.  It  was  in  the  recollection  of  persons 
now  living,  that  before  any  of  these  societies  existed  in  New- 
castle, cock-fighting,  and  bull  and  bear  baiting,  were  the  re- 
creations of  the  inhabitants  ;  but  in  this  latter  day,  how  great 
a  change  !  In  the  former  period,  Newcastle  was  cliiefiy 
famous  as  the  centre  whence  radiated  physical  heat,  and  for 
its  transcendent  grindstones,  which  were  celcbiiiled  fioni  China 
to  Peru  :  but  now  it  gave  out  to  afar,  mental  light  and  heat — 
and  was  an  intellectual  whetstone  for  the  mimls  of  men." 


A  Cily-Slreet. 

I  LOVE  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  streams. 
The  wild-flowers  fresh  and  sweet. 

And  yet  I  love  no  less  than  these. 
The  crowded  cily-sireet; 

For  haunts  of  man,  where'er  they  be, 

Awake  my  deepest  sympathy. 

225 


216 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  see  within  the  city-street 

Life's  most  extreme  estates, 
The  gorgeous  domes  of  palaces ; 

The  prison's  doleful  grates; 
The  hearths  by  household  virtues  blest, 
The  dens  that  are  the  serpent's  nest. 

I  see  the  rich  man,  proudly  fed 
And  richly  clothed,  pass  by; 

I  see  the  shivering,  homeless  wretch, 
With  hunger  in  his  eye ; 

For  life's  severest  contrasts  meet 

For  ever  in  the  rity-street ! 

And  lofty,  princely  palaces  — 

What  dreary  deeds  of  woe, 
What  untold,  mortal  agonies 

Their  arras  chambers  know! 
Yet  is  without  all  smooth  and  fair. 
As  heaven's  blue  dome  of  summer  air! 

And  even  the  portliest  citizen. 

Within  his  doors  doth  hide 
Some  household  grief,  some  secret  care, 

From  all  the  world  beside  : 
It  ever  was,  it  must  be  so. 
For  human  heritage  is  woe! 

Hence  is  it  that  a  city-street 
Can  deepest  thought  impart. 

For  all  its  people,  high  and  low, 
Are  kindred  to  my  heart; 

And  with  a  yearning  love  I  share 

In  all  their  joy,  their  pain,  their  care! 


VIEW  NEAR  DEOBUN,  AMONG  THE 
HIMALAYAS. 

A   SUMMER  DAY-DREAM. 

I  SIT  'mid  flowery  meadows, 

I  list  the  cuckoo's  cry ; 
I  see  the  oak-tree  shadows 

Athwart  the  green  grass  lie. 

Hard  by,  a  little  river 

Iliiiis  shimmering  in  the  sheen; 
And  silvery  aspens  quiver 

Along  its  margent  green. 

I  hear  the  warbling  linnet; 

The  wild  bee  humming  round; 
And  every  passing  minute 

Gives  some  sweet  English  sound. 

I  see  in  green  nooks  pleasant 
Small  children  at  their  play; 

And  many  a  cheerful  peasant 
That  toilelh  all  the  day. 

'Tis  English  all!  birds  singing. 
Cool  shadows,  flowers,  and  rills; 

And  the  village-bells'  low  ringing 
Among  the  sleeping  hills! 


The  quiet  cattle  feeding 
In  meadows  bright  as  gold. 

In  pastoral  vales  exceeding 
Their  Aroady  of  old, — 

Are  England's,  and  surround  me; 

But  far-off  regions  gleam 
In  golden  light  around  me. 

And  shapes  as  of  a  dream. 

Old  realms  of  Indian  story. 

By  witchery  of  thought, 
Wrapt  in  a  hazy  glory 

Before  my  soul  are  brought! 

The  Himalaya  mountains. 
The  heavenly  lands  below, 

The  Ganges'  sacred  fountains 
Beneath  the  eternal  snow! 

I  see  them  like  the  vision 

That  fills  the  poet's  eye, 
A  cloudland-world  elysian 

Built  in  the  sunset-sky. 

I  see  them  in  far  ages 
In  primal  splendour  shine. 

Peopled  by  kings  and  sages. 
Earth's  oldest,  proudest  line. 

With  them  the  great  World-Giver, 

As  they  believed,  abode. 
And,  symbolled  in  their  River, 

Diffusing  blessing,  flowed. 

The  cities  which  they  builded 
With  gold  were  overlaid. 

The  sceptres  which  they  wielded 
To  rule  the  world  were  made. 

Earth  kept  no  hidden  treasure, 
Gold,  marble,  or  rich  gem; 

And  the  water  without  measure 
Poured  out  its  wealth  for  them. 

Upon  their  silken  raiment 
Was  set  the  diamond-stone; 

And  kingly-given  payment 
Was  but  in  gold  alone. 

While  England  yet  was  forest, 

And  idol-gods  adored ; 
While  yet  her  wounds  were  sorest 

Beneath  the  Roman  sword ; 

These  kingliest  of  earth's  children 
Sate  on  their  ivory  thrones, 

Their  golden  sceptres  wielding 
O'er  myriad-peopled  zones. 

But  the  glory  hath  departed ! 

Earth's  oldest,  proudest  born. 
Gold-robed,  imperial-hearted. 

Lie  in  their  tombs  forlorn! 

And  the  great  River's  waters 
Are  swollen  with  blood,  not  rain! 

And  Brahma's  sons  and  daughters 
Cry  from  the  earth  in  vain. 
226 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


217 


Oh,  Himalaya  mountains. 

Still.  siiU  ye  stand  unshaken; 
Nor  have  the  river-ibuiitains 

Their  ancient  bed  forsaken  ! 

Thou  wast  no  god,  oh  River, 
Or  thou  Jiadst  risen  in  power, 

Thy  people  to  deliver, 
The  spoiler  to  devour! 

But,  than  the  mountains  stronger, 
And  greater  than  the  River, 

Ariseth  the  avenger. 
To  smite,  and  to  deliver! 

The  God  of  earth  and  heaven 

Ariseth  to  set  free  I  — 
Oh,  England,  thou  hast  striven 

Agamst  him  I  woe  to  thee ! 


THE  NEW  PALACE  OF  ISIAHMOUD  H. 

A  MIGHTY  spirit  is  abroad !    The  same 
That  gave  th'  unknown  to  Galileo's  ken ; 
That  guided  Luther's  world-awakening  pen; 

Whence  Milton,  Hampden,  Sidney,  souls  a-flarae 

With  liberty  and  light,  drew  strength  and  aim! 
The  same  that  to  the  great-souled  Genoese, 
Compass  in  hand,  and  dreaming  of  far  seas. 

With  glorious  visions  of  the  New  World  came ! 

Ob,  moral  renovation,  that  dost  shake. 
And  overturn  ;  dost  often  bathe  in  blood 

The  earth's  most  gracious  bosom,  yet  dost  make 
All  change,  all  desolation  bring  forth  good. 

Spirit  of  love,  thou  hast  lit  thy  torch  benign 

Within  the  city  of  the  Constantine  ! 


THE  MONASTERY  OF  SANTA  SABA. 


"The  monastery  of  St.  Saba  is  in  tho  wilderness  of  Zlph, 
and  a  few  hours'  distance  from  .leriisalem.  A  more  dreary 
Eituation  cannot  be  conceived  ;  its  walls,  towers,  and  terraces, 
are  on  the  brink  of  precipices  ;  but  could  the  world  aftord  a 
more  sublime  or  memorable  home  ?  We  sat  down  and  gazed 
on  the  deep  glen  of  Ihe  Kedron  far  beneath — the  wilderness 
on  every  side,  where  David  fled  from  the  pursuit  of  Saul ;  and 
the  Dead  Sea  and  its  sublime  shores  full  in  front,  illumined  by 
<hc  setting  sun.  [I  was  fuuuded  by  this  saint  in  the  middle  of 
the  fourth  century,  nrd  has  ever  since  been  a  reliiiinus  retrial 
of  great  f.ime.  St.  Saba  died  when  nearly  a  hundred  years  of 
age.  Feeling  his  end  approach,  he  implored  to  be  carried  to 
his  beloved  retreat,  that  his  bones  might  rest  there  -,  and  here 
they  have  been  preserved  to  this  day." 


Saint  Saba's  hours  were  drawing  to  their  close  ; 
And,  "  carry  me.  my  pious  friends,"  said  he, 
"  Into  the  chapel  of  my  last  repose. 
Nigh  to  the  waters  of  the  dark  Dead  Sea  I 

'■  There  have  I  gathered  for  my  latest  need. 
Many  a  sweet  token  of  the  faith  we  hold. 
Let  us  depart!  my  spirit  will  be  freed 
From  its  clay  prison  ere  the  day  be  told  ! 


"  And  I  would  see,  before  mine  eyes  grow  dim, 
The  mountains  and  the  Dead  Sea's  desert  shore ; 
And  I  would  hear  the  brethren's  vesper-hymn 
Chime  to  tho  Kedron's  melody  once  more ! 

"Oh  friends,  the  Saviour  in  the  desert-place, 
Sustained  the  fainting  multitude  with  bread; 
And  in  my  mountain-cavern,  witii  his  grace 
Have  1,  his  humblest  little  one,  been  fed. 

"The  voice  of  God,  vviiile  1  was  yet  a  child. 
Called  me  from  man  and  from  his  works  to  part; 
I  left  my  father's  house,  and  in  Ihe  wild 
Wandered  three  days  with  meek,  submissive  heart. 

"  Upon  the  fourth  I  found  an  ancient  man 
Stretched  on  the  rock,  as  if  in  mortal  jiain ; 
Friends,  I  am  old,  but  his  life's  lengthened  span 
One-half  my  years  had  numbered  o'er  again. 

"  At  sight  of  me  he  slowly  raised  his  head, 

And  gazed  upon  me  with  a  kindling  eye  ; 

'  'Tis  well ;  I  knew  that  thou  woiild'st  come  I'  he  said, 

'  Now  list  my  missioned  words,  and  let  me  die !' 

"  Therewith  he  told  a  blessed  history  ; 
As  how  his  father  had  the  gardener  been. 
Who  kept  the  garden  where  the  Lord  did  lie, 
And  who  the  ascending  from  the  tomb  had  seen. 

"  Of  the  Lord's  friends  on  earth,  how  much  he  told. 
For  them  he  knew,  or  they  who  liad  them  known; 
Far  more  than  any  written  book  could  hold, 
That  day  to  my  enlarged  mind  was  shown  ! 

"  And  of  the  Lord  such  living  form  he  brought. 
It  seemed  that  I  beheld  him  in  that  place; 
That  there  I  saw  the  miracles  he  wrought; 
That  I  had  converse  with  him  face  to  face ! 

"  Oh,  wondrous  knowledge  I  and  from  that  day  forth 
I  have  not  ceased  to  preach  the  blessed  word ; 
For  fourscore  years  and  upwards,  through  the  earth 
Have  I  proclaimed  glad  tidings  of  the  Lord ! 

"  But  in  the  city,  'mid  the  crush  of  men, 
I  would  not  ye  should  dig  my  low  ly  grave. 
But  carry  me  unto  the  Kedron's  glen. 
And  lay  me  in  the  mountain's  chapelled  cave  ! 

"  For  there  I  laid  the  old  man's  bones  in  peace, 
And  there  would  I  my  earthly  part  should  rest! 
Carry  me  hence!  for  ere  the  daylight  cease 
I  must  be  with  the  Lord,  a  marriage-guest !" 


THE  GIPSY  MOTHER'S  SONG. 

The  merry  miller's  rosy  dame 
Hath  not  a  wish  her  heart  to  tame; 
The  baron's  lady,  young  and  fair. 
Hath  gold  to  spend,  and  gold  to  wear; 
The  Queen  of  England,  richer  still. 
Hath  all  the  world  to  do  her  will ! 
227 


218 


HOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  England's  Queen,  with  all  her  state, 
Nor  baron's  wife,  nor  miller's  mate, 
With  all  their  wealth,  are  blest  as  we, 
Within  the  tent,  beneath  the  tree, — 
As  thou  and  I,  my  bright-eyed  dove, 
And  he,  the  father,  whom  we  love! 


THE  ORDEAL  OF  TOUCH. 


"  On  occasion  of  these  practices  upon  the  credulity  of  the 
ignorant,  the  face  of  the  corpse  was  bared,  as  well  as  the 
breast  and  arms ;  the  body  was  wrapped  in  a  winding-sheet 
of  the  whitest  hnen,  so  that  if  blood  should  flow,  it  would  be 
instantly  observed.  After  a  mass  peculiarly  adapted  to  the 
ordeal,  the  most  suspected,  calling  down  the  signal  vengeance 
of  heaven  if  they  spoke  falsely,  successively  approached  the 
bier,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  the  dead  man's 
breast." 


"Stand  back!  and  let  me  pass 

On  to  the  holy  place ! 
Stand  back,  my  i'riend,  if  such  thou  be;  — 
Stand  back,  my  slanderous  enemy;  — 
Impede  me  none!  and  let  me  see 

The  dead  man  face  to  face! 

"  Oh  body  stiff  and  stark, 

If  I  have  done  thee  ill, 
Let  every  cruel  wound  of  thine 
Pour  to  the  earth  the  sanguine  sign! 
Hide  not  the  guilt  if  it  is  mine, 

Oh,  body  stark  and  still ! 

"  I  that  have  been  thy  friend, 

And  with  thee  counsel  ta'en. 
To  whom  thy  secret  thoughts  were  shown  j 
Whose  soul  was  precious  as  mine  own  — 
Oh!  if  this  deed  were  mine,  make  known 

By  blood  outpoured  like  rain! 

"  Here,  on  thy  stony  brow. 

My  bared  right-hand  I  lay; 
Here,  on  thy  loving,  wounded  breast, 
Into  thy  wounds  my  hand  is  prest ! 
Oh,  body,  by  black  wrong  distrest, 

If  I  am  guilty,  say! 

"  My  hand  hath  not  a  stain ! 

The  death-robe  yet  is  white ! 
Now  slanderer,  come  forth,  an  thou  dare. 
And  here  upon  this  altar-stair, 
Stand,  with  (irm  foot,  and  right-hand  bare! 

So  heaven  attest  the  right ! 

"  I  challenge  thee  to  proof! 

I  know  the  secret  wood. 
Where  thou  and  thine  accomplice  ran ! 
Here  lieth  he,  thy  min-dered  man ! 
Now,  touch  that  body  stark  and  wan. 

And  dare  the  accusing  blood!" 


THE  ANDALUSIAN  LOVER. 

A  Picture. 

Scene  —  The  Boudoir  of  an  English  Hall. 

Mrs.  Alvarez  and  her  Daughter,  and  Mrs.  Ash- 
BURNHAM,  her  mother. 

MRS.  ASH. 

Lucy,  your  mother  does  not  like  young  Westwood. 

LUCY. 

But  you  would  like  him,  dearest  grandmamma! 

MRS.  ASH. 

Perhaps  I  might,  my  love;  but  now  sit  down, 

And  take  your  work,  your  drawing,  or  your  books; 

And  if  you  mean  to  wed  a  poor  man,  Lucy, 

Learn  to  be  an  economist  of  time. 

—  So,  daughter  Alvarez,  what  I  have  heard 

Is  really  true ;  this  match  meets  not  your  wishes. 

MRS.  ALVA. 

My  wishes!    Is't  not  natural  for  a  mother 
To  wish  her  only  child  the  fairest  fortune ! 

MRS.  ASH. 

No  doubt  on 'I,  daughter  Alvarez;  but  still 
What  is  that  fairest  fortune,  is  the  question. 

MRS.  ALVA. 

There  is  no  question  here !    I  'm  not  a  child. 
To  form  imperfect  judgments! 

MRS.  ASH. 

No,  my  daughter; 
But  let  me  hear  your  reasons  'gainst  this  match : 
The  viorld  speaks  well  of  Westwood. 

MRS.  ALVA. 

As  a  man 
I  can  say  nought  against  him  —  but  as  husband 
For  Lucy  Alvarez  —  for  your  granddaughter. 
He  is  unmeet  indeed ! 

MRS.  ASH. 

Is  he  well-bred  ? 

MRS.  ALVA. 

Oh,  perfectly — or  we  should  ne'er  have  known  him! 

MRS.  ASH. 

Handsome  and  clever,  is  he  ? 

MRS.  ALVA. 

So  he  's  thought. 
But  to  my  taste  is  neither ;  scarce  above 
The  middle  stature,  and  too  grave  by  far  ; 
And  as  for  cleverness,  all  men  are  taught 
To  make  some  show  of  learning. 

MRS.  ASH. 

Is  he  moral  ? 
A  good  son,  and  a  generous  landlord,  is  he  ? 

MRS.  ALVA. 

Oh,  most  absurd !   Landlord  !  He  has  no  tenants ! 
Why,  the  poor  IVesfwoods  is  a  county  proverb: 
The  fiilher  wasted  all  his  patrimony ; 
He  sold  and  mortgaged  his  broad,  ancient  manors, 
And  by  illegal  means  despoiled  the  heir, 
Till,  at  his  death,  the  very  furniture  — 
Costly  as  that  of  any  ducal  mansion  — 
Was  sold  to  pay  his  debts.     Landlord  indeed  ! 
Why,  the  old  house  and  grounds  alone  remain. 
And  how  they  're  kept  up  is  a  miracle ! 
It  makes  one  melancholy  but  to  drive 
228 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


219 


Fast  iliose  old  gates,  where  never  carriage  enters — 
Which  only  will  be  opened  for  the  hearse! 

.MRS.  ASH. 

But  said  you  not  he  had  a  mother  living  ? 

MRS.  ALVA. 

Oh  yes  !  she  was  a  Cavendish,  and  brought 
A  noble  fortune. 

MRS.  ASH. 

True  —  poor  Margaret  Cavendish ! 
We  were  at  school  together ;  a  fine  creature, 
A  generous-hearted,  noble-minded  girl 
Was  Margaret  Cavendish! 

MRS.  ALVA. 

But  now  none  see  her ; 
She  keeps  no  company ;  she  has  no  carriage, — 
Has  lived  so  long  out  of  society, 
That  no  one  misses  her. 

MRS.  ASH. 

'Tis  the  world's  way! 
Well,  but  her  son,  I  hope,  is  dutiful. 

MRS.  ALVA. 

No  doubt  on  't — I  ne'er  heard  a  word  against  him ; 
But  with  a  ruined  name  and  broken  fortune 
He  IS  no  match  for  Lucy  Alvarez! 
—  Why  does  he  enter  not  the  church  or  army, 
And  get  preferment  there  !  —  't  were  nobler  far  — 
'Twere  manlier  far,  than  being  a  fortune-hunter! 

MRS.  ASH. 

Now,  daughter  Alvarez,  one  little  word  : 
And  Lucy,  you  may  lay  your  book  aside  — 
But  small  attention  have  you  given  your  book  — 
And  take  this  footstool.    Now  recall  your  youth. 
Dear  daughter  Alvarez! 

.MRS.  ALVA. 

There  are  not  many 
Would  bid  me  call  again  what  is  scarce  past. 

.MRS.  ASH. 

I  am  no  flatterer,  but  your  matron  years 
Become  your  brow  like  youth  ;  and  now,  my  Alice, 
Cast  back  your  memory  twenty  living  years. 
And  what  is  present  with  you  >. 

.MRS.  ALVA. 

Ah,  I  see 
You  would  entrap  me  !    But  the  case  is  not 
A  parallel.    Don  Pedro  .Alvarez 
Was  more  than  of  a  noble  slock  —  was  rich. 
And  I  was  thought  to  be  the  dowerless  child 
Of  a  poor  Englishman. 

MRS.  ASH. 

But,  dearest  Alice, 
Did  you  not  suffer  him  to  woo  you,  spite 
Your  father's  wishes  and  your  mother's  prayers  — 
Nay,  chide  me  not  with  looks  — our  gentle  Lucy 
Shall  not  be  disobedient  in  her  love ! 

MRS.  ALVA. 

But  time  proved  I  was  right.    Poor  Alvarez ! 
Throughout  all  Andalusia  was  there  none 
To  equal  him  I    You  loved  him  like  a  son ! 

MRS.  ASH. 

So  might  you  love  young  Westwood  I 
And  even  as  I,  my  .\lice,  and  your  father, 
20 


Did  grant  your  judgment  right,  although  you  fled. 
As  Lucy  shall  not —  like  a  guilty  thing  — 
So  may  you,  in  this  matter  of  her  wooing. 
Find  that  our  little  Lucy  chooseth  well, 
Despite  her  mother's  judgment. 

Ah,  my  Lucy, 
You  knew  not,  did  you,  that  j'our  mother's  marriage 
Was  one  of  stealth  ?  —  that  she  was  wooed 
Like  Juliet,  in  the  play? 

LUCY. 

Oh,  yes  ;  for  many  a  year 
I  've  had  a  guess  at  some  such  sweet  romance  ! 
There  was  a  famous  painter  made  a  picture, 
And  that  same  picture  from  my  earliest  childhood 
Fixed  my  regard;  'tis  in  the  drawing-room. 
Hung  just  above  the  Indian  cabinet, 
And  it  is  called  "The  Andalusian  Lover;" 
I  thought  it  was  the  [xsrtrait  of  my  mother; 
And  that  the  lover  bore  a  strong  resemblance 
Unto  the  miniature  my  mother  wears, — 
I  understand  it  now  ! 

But,  mother  dear. 
Have  I  said  aught  to  grieve  you  ? — Oh,  forgive  me ! 

MRS.  ALVA.     {Kissi7ig  her.) 
No,  my  dear  girl !    But  had  you  known  your  father, 
You  could  not  laughingly  have  spoken  of  him  ! 

MRS.  ASH. 

My  Alice,  let  these  memories  of  the  past 

Bring  blessings  to  your  daughter !    Good  Don  Pedro 

Was  worthy  of  your  never-dying  love ; 

And  Arthur  Westwood — nay,  I  '11  have  my  will — 

Is  not  less  worthy  Lucy's. 

Come,  this  day 
I  '11  visit  my  old  friend  who  hath  been  schooled 
By  hard  adversity,  good  Margaret  Cavendish; 
And  you  shall  go  with  me  ! 


INSTALLATION  OF  THE  BISHOP  OF 
MAGNESIA. 

'T  WAS  morning,  and  the  city  was  astir, 

As  if  some  new  joy  were  awaiting  her. 

Doors  were  thrown  wide,  and  all  adown  the  street 

The  pavement  answered  to  the  tread  cf  feel ; 

And  every w  here  some  eager-sj)oken  word 

About  the  expected  Bishop  might  be  heard. 

And  then  'twas  told,  how,  while  the  people  slept, 

Ere  the  first  streaks  of  day,  the  church  was  swept ; 

How  holy  water  all  about  was  spilled  ; 

How  every  censer  was  with  incense  filled  ; 

And  furthermore,  that  even  now  might  they 

Expect  the  Bishop  on  his  onward  wav, 

For  they  who  rode  to  meet  him  had  been  gone 

Three  hours  at  least.    They  must  be  here  anon ! 

Anon  the  throng  returned;  the  cavalcade 
Along  the  street  their  easy  progress  made  ; 
And  all  admired  the  horses'  stately  tread. 
And  the  mixed  rider's  vestments,  blue  and  red; 
But  chiefly  all  regards  to  him  were  given. 
Who  came  the  anointed  delegate  of  heaven, 
2-29 


220 


IIOWITT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Who  in  the  midst  in  solemn  state  appeared, 

With  high,  pale  forehead,  and  a  curled  black  beard. 

The  church  was  reached ;   the  holy  hymn  was 
raised, 
And  to  the  roof  a  thousand  tapers  blazed  ; 
Priests  robed  in  white  received  him  at  the  door, 
And  turbaned  foreheads  touched  the  marble  floor.    . 

Upon  his  throne  the  patriarch  took  his  seat, 
In  silken  vesture  flowing  to  his  feet. 
Wrought  in  rich  needlework  with  gold  and  gem, 
Of  pictured  saints  embroidered  round  the  hem. 

Lights  beamed ;  the  censer's  silver  chains  were 
swayed, 
And  clouds  of  incense  every  hand  obeyed. 
The  Bishop  rose,  and  o'er  the  kneeling  crowd 
Thrice  waved  the  rood,  and  blessing  spake  aloud. 
Again  hymns  pealed,  and  incense  warm  and  rich 
In  cloudy  volumes  veiled  each  sainted  niche. 
The  Bishop  rose ;  the  pictured  saints  were  kissed, 
And  from  the  door  the  people  were  dismissed. 

The  Bishop  was  installed  ;  the  golden  sun 
Blazoned  the  purple  sea,  and  day  was  done. 


A  FOREST  SCENE 
IN  THE   DAYS  OF  WICKLIFFE. 

A  LITTLE  child  she  read  a  book 

Beside  an  open  door ; 
And,  as  she  read  page  after  page. 

She  wonder'd  more  and  more. 

Her  little  finger  carefully 
Went  pointing  out  the  place ;  — 

Her  golden  locks  hung  drooping  down. 
And  shadow'd  half  her  face. 

The  open  book  lay  on  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  on  it  were  bent; 
And  as  she  read  page  after  page, 

The  colour  came  and  went. 

She  sate  upon  a  mossy  stone 

An  open  door  beside ; 
And  round,  for  miles  on  every  hand, 

Stretch'd  out  a  forest  wide. 

The  summer  sun  shone  on  the  trees. 
The  deer  lay  in  the  shade; 

And  overhead  the  singing  birds 
Their  pleasant  clamour  made. 

There  was  no  garden  round  the  house, 
And  it  was  low  and  small, — 

The  forest  sward  grew  to  the  door ; 
The  lichens  on  the  wall. 

Tliere  was  no  garden  round  about. 
Yet  flowers  were  growing  free, 

The  cowslip  and  the  daffodil, 
Upon  the  forest-lea. 


The  butterfly  went  flitting  by. 

The  bees  were  in  the  flowers; 
But  the  little  child  sate  steadfastly, 

As  she  had  sate  for  hours. 

"Why  sit  you  here,  my  little  maid?" 

An  aged  pilgrim  spake; 
The  child  look'd  upward  from  her  book. 

Like  one  but  just  awake. 

Back  fell  her  locks  of  golden  hair. 

And  solemn  was  her  look, 
As  thus  she  answer'd,  witlessly, 

"Oh,  sir,  I  read  this  book!" 

"  And  what  is  there  within  that  book 

To  win  a  child  like  thee  ? — 
Up!  join  thy  mates,  the  merry  birds. 

And  frolic  with  the  bee!" 

"Nay,  sir,  I  cannot  leave  this  book, 

I  love  it  more  than  play;  — 
I  've  read  all  legends,  but  this  one 

Ne'er  saw  I  till  this  day. 

"  And  there  is  something  in  this  book 
That  makes  all  care  be  gone, — 

And  yet  I  weep,  I  know  not  why. 
As  I  go  reading  on!" 

"  Who  art  thou,  child,  that  thou  shouldst  read 

A  book  with  mickle  heed?  — 
Books  are  for  clerks  —  the  King  himself 

Hath  much  ado  to  read !" 

"  My  father  is  a  forester  — 

A  bowman  keen  and  good ; 
He  keeps  the  deer  within  their  bound. 

And  worketh  in  the  wood. 

"My  mother  died  in  Candlemas, — 

The  flowers  are  all  in  blow 
Upon  her  grave  at  Allonby 

Down  in  the  dale  below." 

This  said,  unto  her  book  she  turn'd, 

As  steadfast  as  befijre; 
"Nay,"  said  the  pilgrim,  "nay,  not  yet, 

And  you  must  tell  me  more. 

"  Who  was  it  taught  you  thus  to  read  1" 
"  Ah,  sir,  it  was  my  mother, — 

She  taught  me  both  to  read  and  spell  — 
And  so  she  taught  my  brother ; 

"My  brother  dwells  at  Allonby 
With  the  good  monks  alway;  — 

And  this  new  book  he  brought  to  me, 
But  only  for  one  day. 

"Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  wondrous  boolv. 

Better  than  Charlemagne, — 
And,  be  you  pleased  to  leave  me  now, 

I  '11  read  in  it  again  I" 

"Nay,  read  to  me,"  the  pilgrim  said; 

And  the  little  child  went  on. 
To  read  of  CiinisT,  as  was  set  forth 

In  the  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

230 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


221 


On,  on  she  read,  and  gentle  tears 

Adovvn  her  cheeks  did  slide; 
The  pilgrim  sale,  with  bended  head, 

And  he  wept  at  her  side. 

"I've  heard,"  said  he,  "the  Archbishop, 
I  've  heard  tiie  Pope  of  Rome, 

But  never  did  their  spoken  words 
Thus  to  my  spirit  come! 

"The  book,  it  is  a  blessed  book! 

Its  name,  what  may  it  be  ? 
Said  she,  "  They  are  the  words  of  Christ 

That  I  have  read  to  thee; 
Now  done  into  the  English  tongue 

For  folks  unlearn'd  as  we !" 

"  Sancta  Maria !"  said  the  man, 

Our  canons  have  decreed 
That  this  is  an  unholy  book 

For  simple  folk  to  read  I 

"Sancta  Maria!  Bless 'd  be  God! 

Had  this  good  book  been  mine, 
I  need  not  have  gone  on  pilgrimage 

To  holy  Palestine ! 

"Give  me  the  book,  and  let  me  read! 

My  soul  is  strangely  stirr'd;  — 
They  are  such  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  ne'er  before  I  heard!" 

The  little  girl  gave  up  the  book. 
And  the  pilgrim,  old  and  brown, 

With  reverent  lips  did  kiss  the  page, 
Then  on  the  stone  sat  down. 

And  aye  he  read  page  after  page  ; 

Page  after  page  he  turn'd ; 
And  as  he  read  their  blessed  words 

His  heart  within  him  burn'd. 

Still,  still  the  book  the  old  man  read. 
As  he  would  ne'er  have  done ; 

From  the  hour  of  noon  he  read  the  book, 
Unto  the  set  of  sim. 

The  little  child  she  brought  him  out 

A  cake  of  wheaten  bread  ; 
But  it  lay  unbroke  at  eventide; 


Nor  did  he  raise  his  head 

Until  he  every  written  page 

Within  the  book  had  read. 

Then  came  the  sturdy  forester 

Along  the  homeward  track. 
Whistling  aloud  a  hunting  tune. 

With  a  slain  deer  on  his  back. 

Loud  greeting  gave  the  forester 

Unto  the  pilgrim  poor; 
The  old  man  rose  with  thoughtful  l)row% 

And  enter'd  at  the  door. 

The  two  had  sate  them  down  to  meat, 

And  the  pilgrim  'gan  to  tell 
How  he  had  eaten  on  Olivet, 

And  drank  at  Jacob's  well. 

And  then  he  told  how  he  had  knelt 
Where'er  our  Lord  had  pray'd ; 

Hovk'  he  had  in  ihe  Garden  been. 
And  the  tomb  where  he  was  laid;  — 

And  then  he  turn'd  unto  tiie  book. 

And  read,  in  English  plain, 
How  Christ  had  died  on  Calvary ; 

How  he  had  risen  again ; 

And  all  his  comfortable  words. 

His  deeds  of  mercy  all. 
He  read,  and  of  the  widow's  mite. 

And  the  poor  prodigal. 

As  water  to  the  parched  soil. 

As  to  the  hungry,  bread, 
So  fell  upon  the  woodman's  soul 

Each  word  the  pilgrim  read. 

Thus  through  the  midnight  did  they  read, 

Until  the  dawn  of  day ; 
And  then  came  in  the  woodman's  son 

To  fetch  the  book  away. 

All  quick  and  troubled  was  his  speech. 
His  face  was  pale  with  dread, 

For  he  said,  "The  King  hath  made  a  law 
That  the  book  must  not  bo  read, — 

For  it  was  such  a  fearful  heresy. 
The  holy  Abbot  said." 

231 


THE 


OF 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 


20*  2E 


245 


(Bonttnt^. 


Pase 
MEMOIR  OF  THE    REV.  HENRY  HART 

MILMAN 239 

FAZIO,  a  Tragedy 241 

SAMOR,  an  Heroic  Poem 261 

ANNE  BOLE YN,  a  Dramatic  Poem 328 

Notes 354 

THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH,  a  Dramatic 

Poem 355 

BELSHAZZAR,  a  Dramatic  Poem 382 

Notes 407 

THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM,  a  Dramatic 

Poem ib. 

Notes 432 


Page 
MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  :— 

The  Beividere  Apollo 434 

Judicium  Regale ib. 

Alexander  Tumulum  Achillis  Invisens  ....  437 

Fortune  ;  from  the  Italian  of  Guidi 439 

The  Merry  Heart 440 

The  Taking  of  Troy;  from  Euripides 441 

The  Slave  Ship ib. 

The  Love  of  God ;  two  Sonnets 443 

Deborah's  Hymn  of  Triumph ib. 

Dov\'nfall  of  Jerusalem,  from  the  Book  of  Je- 
remiah    444 

Hymns  for  Church  Service 445-447 

(247) 


MEMOIR    OF 


THE  REV.  HENRY  HART  MILMAX. 


The  life  of  tlie  scholar  united  with  tliat  of  the 
clergyman,  is,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  barren  and 
inattractive  to  the  general  reader,  from  its  being 
deficient  in  those  stirring  incidents  which  fix  the 
attention  and  take  strong  iiold  upon  the  memory. 
There  may  be  every  virtue  under  heaven,  all  the 
graces  of  tlie  mind,  and  the  fullest  developement 
of  tliose  tranquil  and  better  qualifications  of  the 
heart  whicli  are,  in  truth  and  reason,  men's  no- 
blest attributes ;  but  there  must  be  stir  and  bus- 
tle, animation  and  variety,  to  enchain  the  indif- 
ferent reader  to  the  biographical  page.  Why  the 
purer  virtues  alone  are  so  inattractive,  is  perliaps 
owing  to  the  superior  charm  they  possess  in  the 
social  circle.  They  must  be  experienced  to  be 
valued,  and  interest  from  immediate  contact  and 
personal  observation,  becoming  mere  verbiage  on 
paper,  because  they  are  there  seen  divested  of  their 
simple  charms ;  the  chaste  beauty  of  their  hues 
being,  like  the  transitory  expression  on  the  fea- 
tures of  the  orator  or  the  actor,  untransferable, 
and  only  truly  engaging  in  actual  observation. 

To  this  tranquil  order  of  biographical  subjects 
belongs  the  memoir  of  the  Rev.  Henry  Hart 
MiLMAX,  a  clergyman  of  the  church  of  England, 
and  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  University  of  Ox- 
ford. He  was  born  in  London,  February  10th, 
1791 ;  and  was  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Francis 
Milman,  a  very  eminent  physician,  considered  to 
have  been  much  in  the  confidence  of  the  late  king 
and  queen  of  England.  The  name  of  Mr.  Mil- 
man's  mother  was  Hart. 

Our  poet  was  first  sent  to  school  at  Greenwich, 
where  he  had  for  a  master  the  well-known  Dr. 
Charles  Burney.  From  the  tutorage  of  Dr.  Bur- 
ney  he  was  removed  to  Eton.  In  that  celebrated 
seminary  he  remained  about  nine  years.  In  the 
year  1810  he  went  to  Oxford,  and  entered  at  Bra- 
zen-Nose College.  At  this  university  he  obtained 
the  greatest  number  of  prizes  that  ever  fell  to  the 
lot  of  one  individual.  One  of  these  was  for  English 
verse,  one  for  Latin  verse,  and  a  third  and  fourth 
for  English  and  Latin  essays,  while  he  was  distin- 
guished for  tlie  first  honours  in  the  examinations. 

In  the  year  1815,  Mr.  Milman  became  a  fellow 
of  Brazen-Nose  College,  and  in  1817  entered  into 
holy  orders.  It  was  in  the  year  1817  that  the 
vicarage  of  St.  Mary  in  the  town  of  Reading  was 


conferred  upon  him.  In  1821  he  was  elected 
professor  of  poetry  in  the  university, — an  office 
usually  held  for  five  years,  but  tlie  professor  is 
customarily  re-elected  for  the  same  term.  In  1824, 
Mr.  Milman  married  Mary  Anne,  the  youngest 
daughter  of  Lieutenant-General  Cockcll. 

In  the  foregoing  lines  arc  comprised  all  tlie 
events  of  the  peaceful  and  virtuous  life  of  a  dis- 
tinguished man,  up  to  the  period  when  his  name 
came  forth  to  the  world  in  his  writings.  In  the 
time  preceding  that  period,  to  arrive  at  such  ho- 
nours there  must  have  been  as  arduous,  nay  more 
arduous  mental  labour,  than  he  encounters  who 
overruns  kingdoms,  or  whose  adventures  and 
hair-breadth  escapes  by  sea  and  land  fill  a  folio 
over  which  the  reader  bends  with  admiration  and 
interest.  How  little  does  the  one  attract,  com- 
pared with  tlie  other  I  Yet  how  enciiaining  and 
useful,  —  how  much  matter  for  contemplation 
would  be  afforded  to  the  world,  were  it  practica- 
ble to  record  all  the  workings  of  tiic  student's 
mind,  which  have  passed  away  in  secret.  The 
strugglings  after  knowledge,  the  satisfaction  at 
successful  progress,  the  despair  of  conquering  a 
difficulty  at  one  time,  and  the  triumph  over  ob- 
stacles at  another;  the  aspirations  after  distinc- 
tion, the  perseverance  in  toil  and  the  glory  of 
success. 

The  first  appearance  of  I\Ir.  Milman  before  the 
public  was  in  the  tragedy  of  "Fazio,"  which  was 
written  before  he  went  into  orders,  and  was  af- 
terwards performed  with  distinguished  success. 
It  appeared  on  the  scene  at  Drury-Lane,  on  tiie 
5th  of  February,  1818;  but  it  had  been  previ- 
ously published  by  its  author,  and  had  passed 
through  three  editions.  The  plot  of  tliis  drama 
is  more  than  commonly  interesting,  and  has  the 
recommendation  of  being  simple,  and  conse- 
quently more  noble  in  character  in  proportion 
to  its  simplicity.  The  imagery  is  natural  and 
chaste,  the  diction  pure  and  elegant.  The  poetry 
is  of  the  highest  order,  and  abounds  in  pas- 
sages of  chastened  beauty  and  great  felicity  of 
expression. 

The  "  Fall  of  Jerusalem,"  the  next  dramatic 
work  of  this  poet,  appeared  in  1820.  Perhaps 
there  is  more  of  nature  and  pathos,  more  to  affect 
the  heart  and  feelings  in  this  poem  than  in  "  Fa- 

(249) 


240 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  REV.  HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 


zio,"  or,  ratlier,  more  that  strikes  the  mind  of 
the  reader,  and  produces  profounder  impressions. 
The  time  is  limited  to  thirty-six  hours ;  and  the 
subject  admitting  powerful  descriptions,  the  au- 
thor has  not  neglected  to  avail  himself  of  all 
which  was  within  his  grasp,  to  enhance  the  effect 
of  the  performance.  There  is  a  happy  substitu- 
tion of  prophecy  for  the  ancient  government  of 
destiny,  and  all  the  various  characters  are  forci- 
bly and  nobly  conceived.  This  poem  is  well  wor- 
thy the  pen  of  a  clergyman,  gifted,  as  its  author 
undeniably  is,  with  genius  and  learning  far  above 
the  common  lot  of  dramatic  writers. 

These  works  may  be  said  to  have  established 
their  author's  fame  upon  an  immovable  basis, 
and,  with  others  which  he  has  undertaken  since, 
lO  have  earned  him  a  celebrity  of  no  mean  grade. 
Mr.  Milman  assiduously  performs  the  duties  of  a 
clergyman,  and  is  greatly  respected  by  all  who 
know  him  in  that  character.  They  are  things  not 
a  little   to   be   envied,   in  journeying  through 


the  wild  of  life,  the  possessing  that  blamclessness 
of  character,  and  the  attracting  that  affection  J 
from  our  fellow-citizens  which  is  so  seldom  the 
lot  of  celebrity.  Thus  is  doubled  the  sum  of 
rational  enjoyment.  In  these  respects  Mr.  Mil- 
man  is  to  be  envied,  if  envy  it  be  lawful  to  indulge 
towards  any  of  our  fellow-creatures;  and,  if  report 
say  true,  no  one  more  merits  to  enjoy  the  delight- 
ful feeling  of  conscious  virtue  than  the  author  of  , 
"  Fazio."  j 

Several  articles  in  the  "  Quarterly  Review,"  in   1 
its  better  literary  days,  are  attributed  to  the  pen    | 
of  Mr.  Milman;  but  none  of  them  are  tainted  with    ' 
the  asperity  which  was  so  long  the  besetting  sin 
of  that   publication.     The  Oxford    professor  of 
poetry  would  be  as  far  above  the  meanness  of 
personal  abuse,  as  his  talents  are  above  those  of 
most  who  laboured  in  that  work  in  its  days  of 
rabid  criticism.     Mr.  Milman's  articles  were  lite- 
rary, temperate,  and  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  the  pen  of  the  Christian  and  the  poet. 

(250) 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

HENRY  HART  MILMAN 


A  TRAGEDY. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  following  attempt  at  reviving  our  old  national 
drama  with  greater  simplicity  of  plot,  was  written 
with  some  view  to  the  stage.  Circumstances  and  an 
opinion  of  considerable  weight  induced  me  to  prefer 
the  less  perilous  ordeal  of  the  press :  as  in  the  one 
case,  if  its  merits  are  small  or  moderate,  the  quiet 
sleep  of  oblivion  will  be  infinitely  less  grating  to  an 
author's  feelings,  than  a  noisy  and  tumultuous  execu- 
tion in  a  public  theatre ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  public 
opinion  be  in  its  favour,  its  subsequent  appearance  on 
the  stage  would  be  at  least  under  favourable  auspices. 
I  am  aware,  that  there  is  a  prejudice  at  the  theatre 
against  plays  v^-hich  have  first  appeared  in  print ;  but 
whence  it  originates  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive.  It 
being  impossible,  on  the  present  scale  of  our  theatres, 
for  more  than  a  certain  proportion  of  those  present  to 
see  or  hear  with  sufficient  distinctness  to  form  a  judg- 
ment on  a  drama,  which  is  independent  of  show  and 
hurry;  it  surely  would  be  an  advantage  that  a  pre- 
vious familiarity  with  the  language  and  incidents 
should  enable  the  audience  to  catch  those  lighter  and 
fainter  touches  of  character,  of  passion,  and  of  poetrj', 
on  which  dramatic  excellence  so  mainly  depends.  I 
put  entirely  out  of  the  question  those  who  go  to  a 
play  from  mere  desire  of  novelty,  whose  opinions 
either  way  would  be  of  very  slight  value. 

The  Play  is  fountled  on  a  story,  which  was  quoted 
in  the  Annual  Register  for  1795,  from  the  "  \arietiea 
of  Literature ;"  but  great  liberties  have  been  taken 
with  it. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN 

Duke  of  Florence. 

GONSALVO,     Jl 
A  URIC, 


/  Senators  of  Florence. 


GiRALDi  Fazio. 

Bartolo. 

Philario. 

Falsetto. 

Daxdolo. 

Theodore, 

Antonio, 

PlERO. 


J  Captains  of  the  Guard. 


WOMEN, 

Marchesa  Aldabella. 

Bianca. 

Clara, 


FAZIO. 

ACT  I.  — SCENE  I. 

A  Room  wit}i  Crucibles  and  Apparatus  of  Alchijmy. 
Enter  Fazio  a7id  Bianca. 

FAZIO. 

Why  what  a  peevish  envious  fabulist. 
Was  he,  that  vow'd  cold  wedlock's  atmosphere 
Wearies  the  thin  and  dainty  plumes  of  love; 
That  a  fond  husband's  holy  appetite. 
Like  the  gross  surfeit  of  intemperate  joy, 
Grows  sickly  and  fastidious  at  the  sweets 
Of  its  own  chosen  flower !  —  My  own  Bianca, 
With  what  delicious  scorn  we  laugh  away 
•Such  sorry  satire  I 

BIANCA. 

Which  of  thy  smooth  looks 
Teacheth  this  harmony  of  bland  deceit  ? 
Oh,  my  own  Fazio !  if  a  serpent  told  me 
That  it  was  stingless  in  a  tone  like  thine, 
I  should  believe  it.    Oh,  thou  sweetly  false! 
That  at  cold  midnigiit  quill'st  my  side  to  pore 
O'er  rnusty  tomes,  dark  sign'd  and  character'd, 
251 


242 


IMILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O'er  boiling  skellets,  crucibles  and  stills, 
Drugs  and  elixirs. 

FAZIO. 

Ay,  chide  on,  my  love  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaining  is  more  sweet, 
Than  half  the  dull  unvarying  birds  that  pipe 
Perpetual  amorous  joy.  —  Tell  me,  Bianca, 
How  long  is 't  since  we  wedded. 

BIANCA. 

Wouldst  thou  know 
Thy  right  and  title  to  thy  weariness  ?  — 
Beyond  two  years. 

FAZIO. 

Days,  days,  Bianca !  Love 
Hath  in  its  calendar  no  tedious  time. 
So  long  as  what  cold  lifeless  souls  call  years. 
Oh,  with  my  books,  my  sage  philosophy. 
My  infants,  and  their  mother,  time  slides  on 
So  smoothly,  as  'twere  fall'n  asleep,  forgetting 
Its  heaven-ordained  motion.     We  are  poor ; 
But  in  the  wealth  of  love,  in  that,  Bianca, 
In  that  we  are  eastern  sultans.    I  have  thought 
If  that  my  wondrous  alchyray  should  win 
That  precious  liquor,  whose  transmuting  dew 
Makes  the  black  iron  start  forth  brilliant  gold, 
Were  it  not  wise  to  cast  it  back  again 
Into  its  native  darkness? 

BIAN'CA. 

Out  upon  it! 

Oh,  leave  it  there,  my  Fazio !  —  Leave  it  there  !  — 

I  hate  it!  —  'Tis  my  rival,  'tis  thy  mistress. 

Ay,  this  it  is  that  makes  thee  strange  and  restless, 
A  truant  to  thine  own  Bianca's  arms, 
This  wondrous  secret. 

FAZIO. 

Dost  thou  know,  Bianca, 
Our  neighbour,  old  Bartolo  ? 

BIA.NCA. 

O  yes,  yes  — 
That  yellow  WTetch,  that  looks  as  he  were  stain'd 
With  watching  his  own  gold ;  every  one  knows  him. 
Enough  to  loathe  him.    Not  a  friend  hath  he, 
Nor  kindred  nor  familiar ;  not  a  slave. 
Not  a  lean  serving  wench :  nothing  e'er  enter'd 
But  his  spare  self  vvithui  his  jealous  doors. 
Except  a  wand'ring  rat ;  and  that,  they  say. 
Was  famine-struck,  and  died  there.  —  What  of  him? 

FAZIO. 

Yet  he,  Bianca,  he  is  of  our  rich  ones. 

There 's  not  a  galliot  on  the  sea,  but  bears 

A  venture  of  Bartolo's ;  not  an  acre. 

Nay,  not  a  villa  of  our  proudest  princes, 

But  he  hath  cramp'd  it  with  a  mortgage ;  he, 

He  only  stocks  our  prisons  with  his  debtors. 

I  saw  him  creeping  home  last  night;  he  shudder'd 

As  he  unlock'd  his  door,  and  look'd  around. 

As  if  he  thought  that  every  breath  of  wind 

Were  some  keen  thief;  and  \\  hen  he  lock'd  him  in, 

I  heard  the  grating  key  turn  twenty  times. 

To  try  if  all  were  safe.     I  look'd  again 

From  our  high  window  by  mere  chance,  and  saw 

The  motion  of  his  scanty  moping  lantern ; 

And,  where  his  wind-rent  lattice  was  ill  stufTd 


With  tatter'd  remnants  of  a  money-bag. 

Through  cobwebs  and  thick  dust  I  spied  his  face. 

Like  some  dry  wither-boned  anatomy. 

Through  a  huge  chest-lid,  jealously  and  scantily 

Uplifted,  peering  upon  coin  and  jewels, 

Ingots  and  wedges,  and  broad  bars  of  gold. 

Upon  whose  lustre  the  wan  light  shone  muddily. 

As  though  the  New  World  had  outrun  the  Spaniard, 

And  emptied  all  its  mines  in  that  coarse  hovel. 

His  ferret  eyes  gloated  as  wanton  o'er  them. 

As  a  gross  Satyr  on  a  sleeping  Nymph ; 

And  then,  as  he  heard  something  like  a  sound. 

He  clapp'd  the  lid  to,  and  blew  out  the  lantern. 

But  I,  Bianca,  hurried  to  thy  arms. 

And  thank'd  my  God  that  I  had  braver  riches. 

BIANCA. 

Oh  then,  let  that  black  furnace  burst :  dash  dowTi 
Those  ugly  and  misshapen  jars  and  vials. 
Nay,  nay,  most  sage  philosopher,  to-night. 
At  least  to-night,  be  only  thy  Bianca's. 

[She  clings  to  him. 
FAZIO  (looking  fondly  at  her.) 
Why,  e'en  the  Prince  of  Bards  was  false  and  slan- 
derous. 
Who  girt  Jove's  bride  in  that  voluptuous  zone. 
Ere  she  could  win  her  weary  lord  to  love ; 
While  my  earth-born  Bianca  bears  by  nature 
An  ever-blooming  cajstus  of  deUgbt ! 

BIANCA. 

So  courtly  and  so  fanciful,  my  Fazio ! 

Which  of  our  dukes  hath  lent  thee  his  cast  poesies? 

Why,  such  a  musical  and  learned  phrase 

Had  soften'd  the  marchesa,  Aldabella, 

That  high  signora,  that  once  pamper'd  thee 

Almost  to  madness  with  her  rosy  smiles  ; 

And  then  my  lady  queen  put  on  her  winter. 

And  froze  thee  till  thou  wert  a  very  icicle, 

Had  not  the  lowly  and  despised  Bianca 

Shone  on  it  with  the  summer  of  her  pity. 

FAZIO. 

Nay,  taunt  not  her,  Bianca,  taunt  not  her! 
Thy  Fazio  lovod  her  once.    Who,  who  would  blame 
Heaven's  moon,  because  a  maniac  hath  adored  it. 
And  died  in  his  dotage?    E'en  a  saint  might  wear 
Proud  Arabella's  scorn,  nor  look  less  heavenly. 
Oh,  it  dropt  balm  upon  the  wounds  it  gave  ; 
The  soul  was  pleased  to  be  so  sweetly  wrong'd. 
And  misery  grew  rapturous.    Aldabella! 
The  gracious!  the  melodious!  Oh,  the  words 
Laugh'd  on  her  lips ;  the  motion  of  her  smiles 
Shower'd  beauty,  as  the  air-caressed  spray 
The  dews  of  morning;  and  her  stately  steps 
Were  light  as  though  a  winged  angel  trod 
Over  earth's  flowers,  and  fear'd  to  brush  away 
Their  delicate  hues  ;  ay,  e'en  her  very  robes 
Were  animate  and  breathing,  as  they  felt 
The  presence  of  her  loveliness,  spread  around 
Their  thin  and  gauzy  clouds,  ministering  freely 
Officious  duly  on  the  shrine  where  Nature 
Hath  lavish'd  all  her  skill. 

BIANCA. 

A  proud  loose  wanton  ! 
252 


FAZIO. 


243 


FAZIO. 

She  wanton!  —  Alilabella  loose!  —  Then,  then 
Are  the  pure  hhes  black  as  soot  within, 
The  stainless  virgin  snow  is  hot  and  rancid, 

And  chastity a\',  il  may  be  in  heaven, 

But  all  beneath  the  moon  is  wild  and  haggard. 
Ifsiie  be  spotletl,  oh,  iinholiness 
Hath  never  been  so  delicately  lodged 
Sjiiice  that  bad  devil  walk'd  fair  Paradise. 

CIANCA. 

Already  silent  ?     Ilath  your  idol  quaff''d 
£nou<;h  of  your  soft  incense  ?    Fazio !  Fazio ! 
But  that  her  gaudy  bark  would  aye  disdain 
The  quiet  stream  whereon  we  glide  so  smooth, 
I  should  be  fearful  of  ye. 

FAZIO. 

><ay,  unjust! 
Ungenerous  Bianca !  who  foregoes, 
For  the  gay  revel  of  a  golden  harp, 
]ts  ecstasies  and  rich  enchanting  falls, 
His  own  domestic  lute's  lamiliar  i)leasing  ? 
But  thou,  thou  vain  and  wanton  in  thy  power. 
Thou  know"st  canst  make  e'en  jealousy  look  lovely, 
And  all  thy  punishment  for  that  bad  passion 
Be  this  —  [Kisses  her]  —  Good   night!  —  I  will   but 

snatch  a  look 
IIow  the  great  crucible  doth  its  slow  work. 
And  be  with  thee ;  unless  thou  lanciest,  sweet. 
That  Aldabella  lurks  behind  the  furnace; 
And  then,  heaven  knows  how  long  I  may  be  truant. 

[Exit  BiA.NCA. 

FAZIO    (solus.) 

Oh,  w  hat  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude 

Were  poor  young  Fazio,  if  his  skill  should  work 

The  wondrous  secret  your  deep-closeted  sages 

Grow  grey  in  dreaming  of!     Why  all  our  Florence 

Would  be  too  narrow  for  his  branching  glories; 

It  would  o'erleap  the  .\lps,  and  all  the  north 

Troop  here  to  see  the  great  philo.sopher. 

He  would  be  wealthy  too  —  wealthy  in  fame  ; 

And  that's  more  golden  than  the  richest  gold. 

[A  groan  without. 
Holy  St.  Francis !  what  a  groan  was  there  ! 

Voice  ivilhoiil. 
Within  there! — Oh!  within  there,  neighbour! — Death, 
Murder,  and  merciless  robbery  ! 

FAZIO  ojjens  the  Doer. 

What!  Bartolo! 

BARTOLO. 

Thank  ye,  my  friend  !  Ha!  ha!  ha  !  my  old  limbs! 
I  did  not  thiidv  them  half  so  tough  and  sinewj'. 
St. Dominic!  but  their  pins  prick'd  close  and  keen. 
Six  of  'em,  strong  and  sturdy,  with  their  daggers, 
Tickling  the  old  man  to  let  loose  his  ducats. 

FAZIO. 

Who,  neighbour,  w  ho  ? 

EARTOLO. 

Robbers,  black  crape-faced  robbers, 
Your  only  blood-suckers,  that  drain  your  veins, 
And  yet  their  meagre  bodies  aye  grow  sparer. 
They  knew  that  I  had  moneys  from  the  Duke. 
But  I  o'erreach'd  them,  neighbour:  not  a  ducat, 
Nay,  not  a  doit,  to  cross  themselves  withal, 
21  2F 


Got  tiiey  from  old  Bartolo. Oh,  I  bleed ! 

And  my  old  heart  beats  minutes  like  a  clock. 

FAZIO. 

A  surgeon,  friend 

BARTOLO. 

Ay,  one  of  your  kind  butchers. 
Who  cut  and  slash  your  flesh  for  their  own  pastime. 
And   then,   God  bless  the  mark!    they  must  have 

money ! 
Gold,  gold,  or  nothing!  Silver  is  grown  coarse. 
And  rings  unhandsomely.     Have  I  'scaped  robbing. 

Only  to  give  ? Oh  there !  there !  there !  Cold,  cold, 

Cold  as  December. 

FAZIO. 

IVay,  then,  a  confessor! 

BARTOLO. 

A  confessor !  one  of  your  black  smooth  talkers, 

That  drone  the  name  of  God  incessanliy. 

Like  the  drear  burthen  of  a  doleful  ballad! 

That  sing  to  one  of  bounteous  codicils 

To  the  Franciscans  or  some  hospital ! 

Oh  !  there  's  a  shooting !  —  Oozing  here !  —  Ah  me ! 

My  ducats  and  my  ingots  scarcely  cold 

From  the  hot  Indies!  —  Oh!  and  I  forgot' 

To  seal  those  jewels  from  the  Milan  Duke ! 

Oh!  misery,  misery!  —  Just  this  very  day. 

And  that  mad  spendthrift  Angelo  hath  not  sign'd 

The  mortgage  on  those  meadows  by  the  Arno. 

Oh!  misery,  misery!  — Yet  I  'scaped  them  bravely, 

And  brought  my  ducats  off! [Dies 

FAZIO. 

Why  e'en  lie  there,  as  foul  a  mass  of  earth 
As  ever  loaded  it.     'T  were  sin  to  charity 
To  wring  one  drop  of  brine  upon  thy  corpse. 
In  sooth.  Death  's  not  nice-stomach'd,  to  be  cramm'd 
With  such  unsavoury  ofTal.    What  a  god 
'Mong  men  might  this  dead  wither'd  thing  have  been, 
That  now  must  rot  beneath  the  earth,  as  once 
He  rotted  on  it!     Why  his  wealth  had  won 
In  better  hands  an  atmosphere  around  him. 
Musical  ever  with  the  voice  of  blessing. 
Nations  around  his  tomb,  like  marble  mourners. 
Vied  for  their  pedestals.  —  In  better  hands? 
Methinks  these  fingers  are  not  coarse  nor  clumsy. 
Philosop!iv,  Philosophy  !  thou  'rt  lame 
And  tortoise-paced  to  my  fleet  desires  ? 
I  scent  a  shorter  path  to  fame  and  riches. 
The  Hesperian  trees  nod  their  rich  clusters  at  me. 
Tickling  mv  timorous  and  withdrawing  grasp;  — 
I  would,  yet  dare  not: — that 's  a  coward's  reckoning 
Half  of  the  sin  lies  in  "  I  would."    To-morrow, 
If  that  it  find  me  poor,  will  write  me  fool, 
And  myself  be  a  mock  unto  myself 
Ay,  and  the  body  murder'd  in  my  house  ! 
Your  carrion  breeds  most  strange  and  loathsome  in- 
sects— 
Suspicion  's  of  the  quickest  and  the  keenest  — 
So,  neighbour,  by  your  leave,  your  keys!  In  sooth, 
Thou  hadst  no  desperate  love  for  holy  church  ; 
Long-knolled  bell  were  no  sweet  music  to  thee. 
A  "God  be  W'ith  thee"  shall  be  all  thy  mass; 
Thou  never  lovedst  those  drv  and  droning  priests, 
253 


244 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  'It  rot  most  cool  and  quiet  in  my  garden ; 
Your  gay  and  gilded  vault  would  be  too  costly. 

[£rit  with,  the  body  of  Bartolo. 


SCENE  II. 

A  Street. 

£nter  Fazio,  tvi(h  a  dark  Lantenu 

I,  wont  to  rove  like  a  tame  household  dog, 
Caress'd  by  every  hand,  and  fearing  none. 
Now  prowl  e'en  like  a  grey  and  treasonous  wolf. 
'T  is  a  bad  deed  to  rob,  and  I  'II  have  none  on  't  : 
'Tis  a  bad  deed  to  rob  —  and  whom  >.  the  dead  I 
Ay,  of  their  winding-sheets  and  coflin  nails. 
'Tis  but  a  quit-rent  for  the  land  I  sold  him. 
Almost  two  yards  to  house  him  and  his  worms: 
Somewhat  usurious  in  the  main,  but  that 
Is  honest  thrift  to  your  keen  usurer. 
Had  he  a  kinsman,  nay  a  friend,  't  were  devilish. 
But  now  whom  rob  I  ?  why  the  state  —  In  sooth 
Marvellous  litile  owe  I  this  same  state. 
That  I  should  be  so  dainty  of  its  welfare. 
Methinks  our  Duke  hath  pomp  enough,  our  Senate 
Sit  in  their  scarlet  robes  and  ermine  tippets, 
And  live  in  proud  and  pillar 'd  palaces. 
Where  their  Greek  wines  flow  plentiful  —  Besides, 
To  scatter  it  abroad  amid  so  many. 
It  were  to  cut  the  sun  out  into  spangles, 
And  mar  its  brilliance  by  dispersing  it. 
Away  !  away  I  his  burying  is  my  Rubicon ! 
Ca5sar  or  nothing !     Now,  ye  close-lock'd  treasures, 
Put  on  your  gaudiest  hues,  outshine  yourselves  .' 
With  a  deliverer's,  not  a  tyrant's  hand 
Invade  I  thus  your  dull  and  peaceful  slumbers 
And  give  ye  light  and  liberty.     Ye  shall  not 
Moulder  and  rust  in  pale  and  pitiful  darkness. 
But  front  the  sun  with  light  bright  a^s  his  own. 


SCENE  III. 

The  Street  near  Fazio's  Door. 

Re-enter  F.\zio  with  a  sack  :  he  rests  it. 

My  steps  were  ever  to  this  door,  as  though 

They  trod  on  beds  of  perfume  and  of  down. 

The  winged  birds  were  not  by  half  so  light. 

When  through  the  lazy  twilight  air  they  vsheel 

Home  to  their  brooding  mates.    But  now,  methinks, 

The  heavy  earth  dolh  cling  around  my  feet. 

I  mo\e  as  every  separate  limb  were  gyved 

With  its  particular  weight  of  manacle. 

The  moonlight  that  was  wont  to  seem  so  soft, 

So  balmy  to  the  slow  respired  breath. 

Icily,  shiveringly  cold  falls  on  me. 

The  marble  pillars,  that  soared  stately  up. 

As  though  to  prop  the  azure  vault  of  heaven. 

Hang  o'er  me  with  a  dull  and  dizzy  weight. 

The  stones  whereon  I  tread  do  grimly  speak, 

Forbidding  echoes,  ay  with  human  voices. 

Unbodied  arms  pluck  at  me  as  I  pass, 


.And  socketless  pale  eyes  look  glaring  on  me. 
But  I  have  past  them :  and  methinks  this  weight 
Might  strain  more  sturdy  sinews  than  mine  own. 
Howbeit,  thank  God,  'tis   safe!   Thank  God  I — for 

what? 
That  a  poor  honest  man 's  grown  a  rich  villain. 


SCENE  IV. 

Fazio's  House. 

Enter  Fazio  with  his  sack,  which  he  opens  and  surveys. 

I  thank  ye,  bounteous  thieves.'  most  liberal  thieves! 
Your  daggers  are  my  worship.     Have  ye  leap'd 
The  broad  and  sharp-staked  trenches  of  the  law, 
Mock'd  at  the  deep  damnation  that  attaints 
The  souls  of  murderers,  for  my  hands  unbloodied, 
As  delicately,  purely  white  as  ever. 
To  pluck  the  golden  fruitage  ?    Oh,  I  thank  ye. 
Will  chronicle  ye,  my  good  friends  and  true. 

Enter  Bianca.     (Fazio  conceals  the  treasure.) 

BIANCA. 

Nay,  Fazio,  nay :  this  is  too  much  :  nay,  Fazio, 
I  '11  not  be  humoured  like  a  frov^ard  child, 
Trick'd  into  sleep  with  pretty  tuneful  tales. 

F.AZIO. 

We  feast  the  Duke  to-morrow ;  shall  it  be 

In  the  Adorni  or  Vitelli  palace  ? 

They  're  both  on  sale,  and  each  is  fair  and  lofty. 

BIANCA. 

Why,  Fazio,  art  thou  frantic  ?  Nay,  look  not 
So  strangely,  so  unmeaningly.  I  had  rather 
That  thou  wouldst  w  eep,  than  look  so  haggard  joyful. 

FAZIO. 

Ay,  and  a  glorious  banquet  it  shall  be  : 

Gay  servants  in  as  proud  caparisons. 

As  though  they  served  immortal  gods  with  nectar. 

Ay,  ay,  Bianca!  there  shall  be  a  princess; 

She  shall  be  lady  of  the  feast.     Let 's  see 

Your  gold  and  crimson  for  your  fair-hair'd  beauties: — 

It  shall  be  gold  and  crimson.     Dost  thou  know 

The  princess  that  I  mean  ?  Dost  thou,  Bianca  ? 

EIANCA. 

Nay,  if  thou  still  wilt  flout  me,  I  'II  not  weep: 
Thou  shalt  not  have  the  pitiful  bad  pleasure 
Of  wringing  me  to  misery.    I  '11  be  cold 
And  patient  as  a  statue  of  my  wrongs. 

FAZIO. 

I  have  just  thought,  Bianca,  these  black  stills 

An  ugly  and  ill-lllling  furniture : 

We  '11  try  an  they  are  brittle.  {Dashes  them  in  pieces.) 
I  'II  have  gilding. 

Nothing  but  gilding,  nothing  but  what  looks  glittering: 

I  'm  sick  of  black  and  dingy  darkness.     Here  {Un- 
covering the  sack.) 

Look  here,  Bianca,  here 's  a  light !    Take  care : 

Thine  eyesight  is  too  weak  for  such  a  blaze. 

It  is  not  daylight ;  nay,  it  is  not  morn  — 

And  every  one  is  worth  a  ihousand  florins. 

Who  shall  be  princess  of  the  feast  to-morrow  ? 

[She  bursts  into  tears. 

Within,  within,  I'll  tell  thee  all  within.         [Exeunt. 
254 


FAZIO. 


245 


ACT  II.  — SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  tiie  Palace  of  Fazio. 

F.VLSETTO,  Daxdolo,  Piiil.\rio,  and  a  Gentlemnn. 

FALSETTO. 

Serve  ye  Lord  Fazio  ? 

GENTLEMAN. 

Aj%  sir,  he  honours  me 
With  his  commands. 

FALSETTO. 

'T  is  a  brave  gentleman ! 
Tell  him  Signior  Falsetto,  and  Philario, 
The  most  renowned  Improvisatore, 
And  Signior  Dandolo,  the  court  fashionist, 
Present  their  duty  to  him. 

GE.NTLEiMAN. 

Ay,  good  sirs. 
[Aside?i  My  master  hath  a  Midas  touch;  these  fellows 
Will  try  if  he  hath  ears  like  that  great  king.      [Exit. 

Enter  Fazio,  splendidhj  dressed. 

FALSETTO. 

Most  noble  lord,  most  wonderful  philosopher ! 
We  come  to  thank  thee,  sir,  that  thou  dost  honour 
Our  Florence  with  the  sunlight  of  your  fame. 
Thou  that  hast  ravish'd  nature  of  a  secret 
That  maketh  thee  her  very  paragon  : 
She  can  but  create  gold,  and  so  canst  thou : 
But  she  doth  bury  it  in  mire  and  mirk, 
Within  the  unsunn'd  bowels  of  the  earth  : 
But  thou  dost  set  it  on  the  face  of  the  world, 
Making  it  shame  its  old  and  sullen  darkness. 

FAZIO. 

Fair  sir,  this  cataract  of  courtesy 
O'erwhelms  my  weak  and  unhabituate  ears. 
If  I  may  venture  such  uncivil  ignorance. 
Your  quality  ? 

FALSETTO. 

I,  my  good  lord,  am  one 
Have  such  keen  eyesight  for  my  neighbours'  virtues, 
And  such  a  doting  love  for  excellence. 
That  when  I  see  a  wise  man,  or  a  noble, 
Or  wealthy,  as  I  ever  hold  it  pity 
Man  should  be  blind  to  his  own  merits,  words 
Slide  from  my  lips ;  and  I  do  mirror  him 
In  the  clear  glass  of  my  poor  eloquence. 

FAZIO. 

In  coarse  and  honest  phraseology, 
A  flatterer. 

FALSETTO. 

Flatterer  I  Nay,  the  word  's  grown  gross. 
An  apt  discourser  upon  things  of  honour. 
Professor  of  art  Panegyrical. 
'Twere  ill  were  I  a  hawk  to  see  such  bravery. 
And  not  a  thrush  to  sing  of  it.     Wealth,  sir, 
Wealth  is  the  robe  and  outward  garb  of  man  ; 
The  setting  to  the  rarer  jewelry. 
The  soul's  unseen  and  inner  qualities. 
And  then,  my  lord,  philosophy  I  't  is  that. 
The  stamp  and  impress  of  our  divine  nature. 
By  which  we  know  that  we  are  Gods,  and  are  so. 
But  wealth  and  wisdom  in  one  spacious  breast  I 


Who  would  not  hymn  so  rare  and  rich  a  wedding  ? 
Who  would  not  serve  v\'ithin  the  gorgeous  palace. 
Glorified  by  such  strange  and  admired  inmates? 

FAZIO  {aside.) 
Now  the  poor  honest  Fazio  had  disdain'd 
Such  scurvy  fellowship;  howbeit,  Lord  Fazio 
Must  lacquey  his  new  state  with  these  base  jackals. 

{To  him) 
Fair  sir,  you  '11  honour  me  w  itii  your  company. 

{To  Dandolo.) 
May  I  make  bold,  sir,  with  your  state  and  title  ? 

DANDOLO. 

Oh,  my  lord,  by  the  falling  of  your  robe. 

Your  cloth  of  gold  one  whole  hair's-breadth  too  low, 

'Tis  manifest  you  know  not  Signior  Dandolo. 

FAZIO. 

A  pitiable  lack  of  know  ledge,  sir ! 

DANDOLO. 

My  lord,  thou  hast  before  thee  in  thy  presence 
The  mirror  of  the  court,  the  very  calendar 
That  rules  the  swift  revolving  round  of  fashion  ; 
Doth  tell  v\hat  hues  do  suit  what  height  o'  the  sun  ; 
\Vhen  your  spring  pinks  should  i)anish  from  the  court 
Your  sober  winter  browns;  when  July  heat 
Doth  authorize  the  gay  and  flaunting  yellows;  — 
The  court  thermometer,  that  doth  command 
Your  three-piled  velvet  abdicate  its  stale 
For  the  airy  satins.    Oh,  my  lord,  you  are  too  late. 
At  least  three  days,  with  your  Venetian  tissue. 

FAZIO. 

I  sorrow,  sir,  to  merit  your  rebuke 
On  point  so  weighty. 

DANDOLO. 

Ay,  signior,  I'm  paramount 
In  all  affairs  of  boot,  and  spur,  an4  hose ; 
In  matters  of  the  robe  and  cap  supreme ; 
In  ruff  disputes,  my  lord,  there's  no  appeal 
From  my  irrefragibilily. 

FAZIO. 

Sweet  sir, 
I  fear  me,  such  despotic  rule  and  sway 
Over  the  persons  of  our  citizens 
Must  be  of  danger  to  our  state  of  Florence. 

DANDOLO. 

Good  sooth,  my  lord,  I  am  a  very  tyrant. 

Why,  if  a  senator  should  presume  to  wear 

A  cloak  of  fur  in  June,  I  should  indict  him 

Guilty  of  leze-majeste  against  my  kingship: 

They  call  me  Dandolo,  the  King  of  Fashions  — 

The  whole  empire  of  dress  is  my  dominion. 

Why,  if  our  Duke  should  wear  an  ill-grain'd  colour 

Against  my  positive  enactment,  though 

His  state  might  shield  him  from  the  palpable  shame 

Of  a  rebuke,  yet,  my  good  lord,  opinion. 

Public  opinion,  would  hold  Signior  Dandolo 

Merciful  in  his  silence. 

FAZIO. 

A  Lycurgu.s  I 

DANDOLO. 

Good,  my  lord  I  dignity  must  be  upheld 
On  the  strong  pillars  of  severity. 
Your  cap,  my  lord,  a  little  to  the  north-east, 
255 


246 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  your  sword  —  thus,  my  lord  —  pointed  out  this 
way,  [Adjusting  him. 

In  an  equilateral  triangle.    Nay, 
Nay,  on  my  rredit,  my  good  lord,  this  hose 
Is  a  fiiir  woof:    The  ladies,  sir,  the  ladies 
(For  I  foresee  you  '11  be  a  ruling  planet). 
Must  not  be  taught  any  heretical  fancies, 
Fantastical  infringements  of  my  codes  — 
Your  lordship  must  give  place  to  Signior  Dandolo 
About  their  persons. 

FAZIO. 

Gentle  sir,  the  ladies 
Must  be  too  deeply,  irresistibly  yours. 

D.INDOLO. 

No,  signior,  no ;  I  'm  not  one  of  the  gallants 
That  pine  (or  a  fair  lip,  or  eye,  or  cheek. 
Or  that  poetical  treasure,  a  true  heart. 
But,  my  lord,  a  lair-order'd  head-dress  makes  me 
As  love-sick  as  a  dove  at  maling-time : 
A  tasteful  slipper  is  my  soul's  delight. 
Oh,  I  adore  a  robe  that  drops  and  floats 
As  it  vvere  lighter  than  the  air  around  it; 
I  dote  upon  a  stomacher  to  distraction. 
When  the  gay  jewels,  gracefully  disposed. 
Make  it  a  zone  of  stars :  and  then  a  fan, 
The  elegant  motion  of  a  fiin,  is  murder. 
Positive  murder  to  my  poor  weak  senses. 
FAZIO  (turning  to  Piiilario.) 
'But  here  's  a  third  :  the  Improvisatore, 
Gentle  Philario,  lurks,  methinlis,  behind. 

ruiLAiuo. 
Most  noble  lord !  it  were  his  loftiest  boast 
To  wed  your  honours  lo  his  harp.     To  hymn 
The  finder  of  the  philosophic  stone. 
The  sovereign  prince  of  alchymists  ;  'twould  make 
The  cold  verse-mechanist,  the  nice  balancer 
Of  curious  words  and  fair  compacted  phrases. 
Burst  lo  a  liquid  and  melodious  flow. 
Rapturous  and  ravishing  but  in  praise  of  thee ! 
But  I,  my  lord,  that  have  the  fluent  vein. 
The  rapid  rush 

FAZIO.       ■ 

Fie,  sir  I  O  fie  I  'tis  fulsome. 
Sir,  there  's  a  soil  fit  lor  that  rank  weed  flattery 
To  trail  its  poisonous  and  obscure  clusters: 
A  poet's  soul  should  bear  a  richer  fruitage  — 
The  aconite  grew  not  in  Eden.    Thou, 
That  thou,  with  lips  tipt  with  the  fire  of  heaven, 
Th'  excursive  eye,  that  in  ils  earth-wide  range 
Drinks  in  tlie  grandeur  and  the  loveliness 
That  breathes  along  this  high-wrought  world  of  man ; 
Thou  hast  within  then  aiiprehensions  strong 
Of  all  that 's  pure  and  passionless  and  heavenly  — 
That  thou,  a  vapid  and  a  mawkish  parasite, 
Shouldst  pipe  to  that  witch  Fortune's  tiivouritesl 
'Tis  coarse — 't  is  sickly — 'tis  as  though  the  eagle 
Should  spread  his  sail-broad  wings  to  flap  a  dunghill; 
As  though  a  pale  and  withering  pestilence 
Shoulil  ride  the  golden  chariot  of  the  sun; 
As  one  should  use  the  language  oi'  the  gods 
To  chatter  loose  and  ribald  brothelry. 

IMlII.AniO. 

M3'  lord,  I  thank  thee  for  that  noble  chiding  — 


Oh,  my  lord,  'tis  the  curse  and  brand  of  poesy. 

That  it  must  trim  its  fetterless  free  plumes 

To  the  gross  fancies  of  the  humoursome  age  ; 

That  it  must  stoop  from  its  bold  heights  to  court 

Liquorish  opinion,  whose  aye-wavering  breath 

Is  to  it  as  the  precious  air  of  life. 

Oh,  in  a  capering,  chambering,  wanton  land. 

The  lozel's  song  alone  gains  audience, 

I'ine  loving  duties,  sweet  to  sickliness  ; 

The  languishing  and  luscious  touch  alone. 

Of  all  the  full  harp's  ecstasies,  can  detain 

The  pall'd  and  pamper'd  ear  of  Italy. 

But,  my  lord,  we  have  deeper  mysteries 

For  the  initiate Hark !  —  it  bursts !  —  it  flows ! 

Song  by  Philario. 

Rich  and  royal  Italy! 

Dominion's  lofty  bride ! 

Earth  deem'd  no  loss  of  pride 
To  be  enslaved  by  thee. 
From  broad  Euphrates'  bank. 

When  the  sun  look'd  through  the  gloom 

Thy  eagle's  golden  plume 
His  orient  splendour  drank ; 
And  when  at  eve  he  set 

Far  in  the  chamber'd  west, 
That  bird  of  brilliance  yet 

Bathed  in  his  gorgeous  rest. 

Sad  and  sunken  Italy ! 

The  plunderer's  common  prey  ! 

^Vhen  saw  the  eye  of  day 
So  very  a  slave  as  thee  ? 
Long,  long  a  bloody  stage 

For  petty  kinglings  tame, 

Their  miserable  game 
Of  puny  war  to  wage. 
Or  from  the  northern  star 

Come  haughty  despots  down. 
With  iron  hand  to  share 

Thy  bruised  and  broken  crown. 

Fair  and  fervid  Italy ! 

Lady  of  each  gentler  art, 

Yet  couldst  thou  lead  the  heart 
In  mild  captivity. 
Warm  Raphael's  ^'irgin  sprung 

To  worship  and  to  love. 

The  enamour'd  air  above 
Rich  clouds  of  music  hung, 
Thy  poets  bold  and  free 

Did  noble  wrong  to  time. 
In  their  high  rhymed  majesty 

Ravishing  thy  clime. 

Loose  and  languid  Italy ! 

Where  now  the  magic  pow'r 

That  in  thy  doleful  hour 
Made  a  queen  of  thee  ? 
The  pencil  cold  and  dead. 

Whose  lightest  touch  was  life ; 

The  old  immortal  strife 
Of  thy  high  poets  fled. 

256 


FAZIO. 


247 


From  her  inglorious  urn 

Will  Italy  arise? 
Will  golden  days  return 

'iNeath  the  azure  of  her  skieB  ? 

This  is  done,  oh,  this  is  done. 
When  the  broken  land  is  one; 
This  shall  be,  oh,  this  shall  be, 
When  the  slavish  land  is  free. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Public  Walks  of  Florence. 

Fazio,  Falsetto,  Dandolo,  Philario. 

falsetto. 
Yonder,  my  lord,  is  the  Lady  Aldabella, 
The  star  of  admiration  to  all  Florence. 

DANDOLO. 

There,  my  lord,  there  is  a  fair  drooping  robe  — 
■\Vould  that  I  were  a  breath  of  wind  to  float  it ! 

FAZIO. 

Gentlemen,  by  your  leave  I  would  salute  her : 
You'll  meet  me  anon  in  the  Piazza. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Fazio. 
Now,  lofty  woman,  we  are  equal  now. 
And  I  will  front  thee  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 

Enter  Aldabella.    She  speaks,  after  a  salutation  on 

each  side. 
Oh,  thou  and  I,  Sir,  when  we  met  of  old, 
Were  not  so  distant,  nor  so  chill.    My  lord  — 
I  had  forgot,  my  lord.     You  dawning  signiors 
Are  jealous  of  your  state;  you  great  philosophers 
Walk  not  on  earth  ;  and  we  poor  grovelling  beings, 
If  we  would  win  3'our  eminent  regards. 
Must  meet  ye  i'  the  air.    Oh,  it  sits  well 
This  scorn,  it  looks  so  grave  and  reverend. 

FAZIO. 

Is  scorn  in  Lady  Aldabella's  creed 
So  monstrous  and  heretical  ? 

aldabella. 

Again, 
Treason  again,  a  most  irreverent  laugh, 
A  traitorous  jest  before  so  learn'd  a  sage  :  — 
But  I  may  joy  in  thy  good  fortune,  Fazio. 

FAZIO. 

In  sooth,  good  fortune,  if  'tis  worth  thy  joy. 
The  haughty  Lady  Aldabella's  joy. 

aldabella. 
Nay,  an  thou  hadst  not  dash'd  so  careless  off 
My  bounteous  offering,  I  had  said  — 

FAZIO. 

What,  lady  ? 

ALDABELLA 

Oh  nought — mere  sound — mere  air — Thou'rt  married, 

Fazio  : 
And  is  thy  bride  a  jewel  of  the  first  water  ? 
I  know  thou  wilt  say,  ay ;  't  is  an  old  tale, 
Thy  fond  lip-revel  on  a  lady's  beauties: 
Methinks  I  've  heard  thee  descant  upon  loveliness. 
Till  the  liiU  ears  were  drunken  with  sweet  sounds. 
But  never  let  me  see  her,  Fazio;  never. 

21* 


FAZIO. 

And  why  not,  lady  ?  She  is  exquisite, 
Bashfully,  humbly  e.xquisite;  yet  Florence 
May  be  as  proud  of  her,  as  of  the  richest. 
That  fire  her  with  the  lustre  of  their  state. 
And  why  not,  lady  ? 

ALDABELLA. 

Why !  I  know  not  why  — 
Oh  your  philosophy,  'tis  ever  curious  ; 
Poor  lady  Nature  must  tell  all,  and  clearly. 
To  its  inquisilorship.  —  We  'II  not  think  on  't: 
It  fell  from  me  un'wares;  words  will  start  forth. 
When  the  mind  wanders.  —  Oh  no,  not  because 
She 's  merely  lovely :  —  but  we  '11  think  no  more 

on 't.  — 
Didst  hear  the  act? 

FAZIO. 

Lady,  what  act  ? 

ALDABELLA. 

The  act 
Of  the  great  Duke  of  Florence  and  his  Senate, 
Entitled  against  turtle  doves  in  poesy. 
Henceforth  that  useful  bird  is  interdict. 
As  the  mild  emblem  of  true  constancy. 
There 's  a  new  word  found  ;  't  is  pure  Tuscan  too ; 
Fazio's  to  fill  the  blank  up,  if  it  chime ; 
If  not.  Heaven  help  the  rhymester. 

FAZIO  (apart.) 
With  what  an  airy  and  a  sparkling  grace 
The  language  glances  from  her  silken  lips! 
Her  once  loved  voice  how  exquisite  it  sounds. 
E'en  like  a  gentle  music  heard  in  childhood  I 

ALDABELLA. 

Why  yes,  my  lord,  in  these  degenerate  days 
Constancy  is  so  rare  a  virtue,  angels 
Come  down  to  gaze  on  't :  it  makes  the  world  proud 
Who  would  be  one  o'  the  many  ?  Why,  our  Florence 
Will  blaze  with  the  miracle.     'Tis  true,  'lis  true. 
The  odour  of  the  rose  grows  faint  and  sickly. 
And  joys  are  finest  by  comparison.  — 
But  what  is  that  to  the  majestic  pride 
Of  being  the  sole  true  phosnix? 

FAZIO. 

Gentle  lady, 
Thou  speak'st  as  if  that  smooth  word  constancy 
Were  harsh  and  brassy  sounding  in  thy  ears. 

ALDABELLA. 

No,  no,  signior ;  your  good  old-fangled  virtues 
Have  gloss  enough  for  me,  had  it  been  my  lot 
To  be  a  miser's  treasure :  if  his  eyes 
Ne'er  open'd  but  on  me,  I  ne'er  had  wept 
At  such  a  pleasant  faithful  avarice. 

FAZIO. 

Lady,  there  was  a  time  when  I  did  dream 
Of  playing  the  miser  to  another  treasure. 
One  not  less  precious  than  thy  stately  self. 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh  yes,  my  lord,  oh  yes  ;  the  tale  did  run 
That  thou  and  I  did  love  :  so  ran  the  tale. 
That  thou  and  I  should  have  been  wed  —  the  taltf 
Ran  so,  my  lord.  —  Oh  memory,  memory,  memory  .' 
It  is  a  bitter  pleasure,  but  'tis  pleasure. 
257 


248 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


FAZIO. 

A  pleasure,  lady  I  —  why  then  cast  me  off 

Like  an  indifferent  weed  >.  —  with  icy  scorn 

AVii)-  cholie  the  blossom  that  but  woo'd  thy  sunshine? 

ALDABELLA. 

Ah,  what  an  easy  robe  is  scorn  to  w^ear! 
'Tis  but  to  wrinkle  up  (he  level  brow, 
To  arch  the  pliant  eyelash,  and  freeze  up 
The  passionless  and  placid  orb  within  — 
Castelli !  oh  Castelli ! 

FAZIO. 

Who  was  he,  lady  ? 

ALDABELLA. 

One,  my  good  lord,  I  loved  most  fondly,  fatally. 

FAZIO. 

Then  Ihou  didst  love?  love,  Aldabella,  truly, 
Fervently,  fondly  ?  —  But  whats  that  to  me? 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh  yes,  my  lord,  he  was  a  noble  gentleman; 

Thou  know'st  him  by  his  title,  Conde  d'Orsoa; 

My  nearest  kinsman,  my  good  uncle  :  —  I, 

Knowing  our  passionate  and  fanciful  nature, 

To  his  sage  counsels  fetter  d  my  wild  will. 

Proud  was  he  of  me,  deem'd  me  a  fit  mate 

For  highest  princes  ;  and  his  honest  flatteries 

So  paniper'd  me,  the  iiital  duteousness 

So  grew  upon  me  — Fazio,  dost  thou  think 

My  colour  wilher'd  since  we  parted?    Gleam 

Mine  eyes  as  they  were  wont  ?  —  Or  doth  the  outside 

Still  wear  a  lying  smooth  indifference. 

While  the  unseen  heart  is  haggard  wan  with  woe  ? 

FAZIO. 

Is  't  possible  ?     And  didst  thou  love  me,  lady  ? 
Though  it  be  joy  vain  and  unprofitable 
As  is  the  sunshine  to  a  dead  man's  eves, 
Pleasureless  from  his  impotence  of  pleasure  ; 
Tell  me  and  truly  — 

ALDABELLA. 

My  grave  sir  confessor, 
On  with  thy  hood  and  cowl. — So  thou  wouldst  hear 
Of  pining  days  and  discontented  nights; 
Ah  me  's  and  doleful  airs  to  my  sad  lute. 
Fazio,  they  suffer  most  who  utter  least.  — 
Heaven,  what  a  babbling  traitor  is  the  tongue ! 
Would  not  the  air  freeze  up  such  sinful  sound  ?  — 
Oh  no,  thou  heard'st  it  not.     All  me !  and  thou, 
1  know,  wilt  surfeit  the  coarse  common  ear 
With  the  proud  Aldabella's  fall. —  Betray  me  not; 
Be  charier  of  her  shame  than  Aldabella. 

[Fazio  falls  on  his  /r?iees  to  her. 
My  lord  !  my  lord  I  't  is  public  here  —  no  more  — 
I  'm  staid  for  at  my  palace  by  the  Arno. 
Farewell,  my  lord,  farewell  I  —  Betray  me  not:  — 
But  never  let  me  see  her,  Fazio,  never. 

FAZIO    (KoluS.) 

Love  me  I  —  to  suffering  love  me  I  —  why  her  love 
Might  draw  a  brazen  statue  from  its  pedestal. 
And  make  its  yellow  veins  leap  up  with  life. 
Fair  Chastity,  thou  hast  two  juggling  fiends 
Caballing  for  thy  jewel:  one  within. 
And  that's  a  mild  and  melting  devil,  Love ; 
Th'  other  viiihout,  and  that's  a  fair  rich  gentleman, 
Giraldi  Fazio:  they're  knit  in  a  league. 


And  Ihou,  thou  snowy  and  unsociable  virtue, 
May'st  lose  no  less  a  votaress  from  thy  nunnery 
Than  the  most  beautiful  proud  Aldabella. 
Had  I  been  honest,  'twere  indeed  to  fall ; 
But  now  'tis  but  a  step  down  the  declivity. 
Biancal  but  Bianca!  —  bear  me  up. 
Bear  me  up,  in  the  trammels  of  thy  fondness 
Bind  thou  my  slippery  soul.     Wrong  thee,  Bianca  ? 
Way,  nay,  that 's  deep  indeed;  fathomless  deep 
In  the  black  pit  of  infiimy  and  sin : 
It  am  not  so  weary  yet  of  the  upper  air. 
Wrong  thee,  Bianca  ?  No,  not  for  the  earth  ; 
JN'ot  lor  earth's  brightest,  not  for  Aldabella. 


SCENE  HI. 

Palace  of  Fazio. 

Fazio  anrf  Bianca. 

FAZIO. 

Dost  thou  love  me,  Bianca  ? 

BIAXCA. 

There  's  a  question 
For  a  philosopher !  — Why,  I  've  answer'd  it 
For  two  long  years  ;  and,  oh,  for  many  more, 
It  will  not  stick  upon  my  lips  to  answer  thee. 

FAZIO. 

Thou  'rt  in  the  fashion,  then.    The  court,  Bianca, 
The  ladies  of  the  court,  find  me  a  fair  gentleman  ; 
Ay,  and  a  dangerous  wit  too,  that  smites  smartly. 

BIANCA. 

And  thou  believest  it  all! 

FAZIO. 

Why,  if  the  gallants, 
The  lordly  and  frank  spirits  of  the  time, 
Troop  around  thee  with  gay  rhymes  on  thy  beauties. 
Tinkling  their  smooth  and  amorous  flatteries, 
Shalt  thou  be  then  a  solemn  infidel  ? 

BIANCA. 

I  shall  not  heed  them ;  my  poor  beauty  needs 
Only  one  flatterer. 

FAZIO. 

Ay,  but  they  'II  press  on  thee. 
And  force  their  music  into  thy  deaf  ears. 
Think  ye,  ye  should  be  coy,  and  calm,  and  cold  ? 

BIANCA. 

Oh,  no!  — I  fear  me  a  discourteous  laugh 
Might  be  their  guerdon  for  their  lavish  lying. 

FAZIO. 

But  if  one  trip  upon  your  lip,  or  wind 
Your  fingers  in  his  sjwrtive  hand,  think  ye 
Ye  could  endure  it? 

BIANCA. 

Fazio,  thou  wrong'st  me 
With  such  dishonest  questionings.     My  lord. 
There 's  such  an  awe  in  virtue,  it  can  make 
The  anger  of  a  sleek  smooth  brow  like  mine 
Strike  the  hot  libertine  to  dust  before  me. 
He  'd  dare  to  dally  with  a  fire  in  his  hand. 
Kiss  ragged  briars  with  his  unholy  lips. 
Ere  with  his  rash  assault  attaint  my  honour. 
2i>8 


FAZIO. 


249 


FAZIO. 

But  if  ye  see  me  by  a  noble  lady, 

Whispering  as  tliough  she  were  my  shrine,  wiiereon 

I  lay  my  odorous  incense,  and  her  beauty 

Grow  riper,  richer  at  my  cherishing  praise  ; 

If  she  lean  on  me  with  a  fond  round  arm. 

If  her  eye  drink  tlie  light  from  out  mine  eyes. 

And  if  iicr  lips  drop  sounds  lor  my  ear  only ; 

Thou  'It  arcli  thy  moody  brow,  look  at  me  gravely, 

With  a  pale  anger  on  thy  silent  cheek. 

'Tis  out  of  keeping,  't  is  not  the  court  fashion  — 

We  must  forego  this  clinging  and  the  clasping  ; 

Be  cold,  and  strange,  and  courteous  to  each  other; 

And  say,  "  How  doth  my  lord  I"  "  How  slept  my 

lady  ?" 
As  though  we  dwelt  at  opposite  ends  o'  the  city. 

BIANC.V. 

What  hath  distemper'd  thee  ?  —  This  is  unnatural; 
Thou  couldst  not  talk  thus  in  thy  steadfast  senses. 
Fazio,  thou  hast  seen  Aldabellal 

FAZIO. 

Well, 
She  is  no  basilisk  —  there  's  no  death  in  her  eyes. 

BIANCA. 

Ay,  Fazio,  but  there  is ;  and  more  than  death  — 
A  death  beyond  the  grave  —  a  death  of  sin  — 
A  howling,  hideous,  and  eternal  death  — 

Death  the  flesh  shrinks  from. Ko,  thou  must  not 

see  her ! 
Nay,  I  'm  imperative — thou  'rt  mine,  and  shall  not. 

'  FAZIO. 

Shalt  not .'  —  Dost  think  me  a  thick-blooded  slave, 
To  say  "  Amen"  unto  thy  positive  "shall  not  ?'' 
The  hand  upon  a  dial,  only  to  point 
Just  as  your  humorous  ladyship  choose  to  shine  ? 

BIA.NCA. 

Fazio,  thou  sett'st  a  fever  in  my  brain  ; 

My  very  lips  burn,  Fazio,  at  the  thought ; 

I  had  rather  thou  wert  in  thy  winding-sheet 

Than  that  bad  woman's  arms;  I  had  rather  grave- 

worms 
Were  on  thy  lips  than  that  bad  woman's  kisses. 

FAZIO. 

Howbeit,  there  is  no  blistering  in  their  taste  : 
There  is  no  suffocation  in  those  arms. 

'  BIANCA. 

Take  heed  ;  we  are  passionate  ;  our  milk  of  love 

Doth  turn  to  wormwood,  and  that 's  bitter  drinking. 

The  fondest  are  most  frenetic :  where  the  fire 

Burneth  intensest,  there  the  inmate  pale 

Doth  dread  the  broad  and  beaconing  conflagration. 

If  that  ye  cast  us  to  the  winds,  the  winds 

Will  give  us  their  unruly  restless  nature  ; 

We  whirl  and  whirl;  and  where  we  settle,  Fazio, 

But  he  iliat  ruleth  the  mad  winds  can  know. 

If  ye  do  drive  the  love  out  of  my  soul, 

That  is  it-s  motion,  being,  and  its  life. 

There  "II  be  a  conflict  strange  and  horrible. 

Among  all  fearful  and  ill-visaged  fiends, 

For  the  blank  void  ;  and  their  mad  revel  there 

Will  make  me — oh,  I  know  not  what — hate  thee ! — 

Oh,  no!  —  I  could  not  hate  thee,  Fazio : 

Nay,  nay,  my  Fazio,  't  is  not  come  to  that ; 


Mine  arms,  mine  arms,  shall  say  the  next  "  shall  not ;" 
I  '11  never  startle  more  thy  peevish  ears, 
But  I  '11  speak  to  thee  with  my  positive  lips. 

[Kissing  and  dinging  to  him. 

FAZIO. 

Oh,  what  a  wild  and  wayward  child  am  I .'  — 

Like  the  hungry  f()ol,  that  in  his  moody  fit 

Dash'd  from  his  lips  his  last  delicious  morsel. 

I  'II  see  her  once,  Bianca,  and  but  once  ; 

And  then  a  rich  and  brealhing  tale  I  '11  tell  her 

Of  our  Jiill  happiness.    If  she  be  angel, 

'Twill  be  a  gleam  of  Paradise  to  her, 

And  she  '11  smile  at  it  one  of  those  soft  smiles. 

That  makes  the  air  seefei  sunny,  blithe,  and  balmy. 

If  she  be  devil JVay,  but  that 's  too  ugly  ; 

The  fancy  doth  rebel  at  it,  and  shrink 
As  from  a  serpent  in  a  knot  of  flowers. 
Devil  and  Aldabella !  —  Fie !  —  They  sound 
Like  nightingales  and  screech-owls  heard  together. 
What!  must  I  still  have  tears  to  kiss  away?  — 
I  will  return  —  Good  night!  —  It  is  but  once. 
See,  thou  'st  the  taste  o'  my  lips  now  at  our  parting; 
And  when  we  meet  again,  if  they  be  tainted, 
Thou  shall — oh  no,  thou  shall  not,  canst  not  hate  me. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 
Palace  q/"  Aldabella. 

ALDABELLA. 

My  dainty  bird  doth  hover  round  the  lure. 
And  I  must  hood  him  with  a  skilful  hand : 
Rich  and  renown'd,  he  must  be  in  my  train. 
Or  Florence  will  turn  rebel  to  my  beauty. 

Enter  Clara,  Fazio  behind. 

ALDABELLA  goeS  On. 

Oh,  Clara,  have  ye  been  to  the  I'rsulines? 
What  says  my  cousin,  the  kind  Lady  Abbess? 

CLARA. 

She  says,  my  lady,  that  to-morrow  noon 
Noviciates  are  admitted  ;  but  she  wonders. 
My  Lady  Abbess  wonders,  and  I  tix) 
Wonder,  my  lady,  what  can  make  ye  fancy 
Those  damp  and  dingy  cloistens.    Oh,  my  lady ! 

They  '11  make  ye  cut  off'all  this  fine  dark  hair 

Why,  all  the  signiors  in  the  court  would  quarrel. 
And  cut  each  other's  throats  for  a  louse  hair  of  it. 

ALDACKLLA. 

Ah  me  !  what  heeds  it  where  I  linger  out 

The  remnant  of  my  dark  and  des])ised  life  ? 

Clara,  thou  weariest  me. 

CLARA. 

Oh,  but,  my  lady, 
I  saw  their  dress  :  it  was  so  coarse  and  hard-grain'd, 
I  'm  sure  't  would  fret  your  ladyship's  soft  skin 
Like  thorns  and   brambles ;  and   besides,  the  make 

on  't  I  — 
A  vine-dresser's  wife  at  market  looks  more  dainty. 

ALDABELLA. 

Then  my  tears  will  not  stain  it.  Oh,  't  is  rich  enough 
259 


250 


MIOIAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  lean  and  haggard  sorrow.   (Appearing  to  perceive 

Fazio,  exit  Clara.)    Oh,  my  lord ! 
You  're  timely  come  to  take  a  long  farewell. 
Our  convent  gates  are  rude,  and  black,  and  close  ; 
Our  Ursuline  veils  of  such  a  jealous  woof, 
There  must  be  piercing  in  those  curious  eyes. 
Would  know  if  the  skin  beneath  be  swarth  or  snowy. 

FAZIO. 

A  convent  for  the  brilliant  Aldabella! 

The  mirror  of  all  rival  lovelinesses. 

The  harp  to  which  all  gay  thoughts  lightly  dance, 

Mew'd  in  the  drowsy  silence  of  a  cloister ! 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh,  what  regards  it,  if  a  blind  man  lie 
On  a  green  lawn  or  on  a  steamy  moor ! 
What  heeds  it  to  the  dead  and  wither'd  heart, 
Whose  faculty  of  rapture  is  grov\n  sere. 
Hath  lost  distinction  between  foul  and  fair, 
Whether  it  house  in  gorgeous  palaces. 
Or  'mid  wan  graves  and  haggard  signs  of  care! 
Oh,  there 's  a  grief,  so  with  the  threads  of  being 
Ravell'd  and  twined,  it  sickens  eveiy  sense: 
Then  is  the  swinging  and  monotonous  bell 
Musical  as  the  rich  harp  heard  by  moonlight; 
Then  are  the  limbs  insensible  if  they  rest 
On  the  coarse  pallet  or  the  pulpy  down. 

FAZIO. 

What  mean  ye,  lady?  —  thou  bewilder'st  me. 
What  grief  so  wanton  and  luxurious 
Would  choose  the  Lady  Aldabella's  bosom 
To  pillow  on  ? 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh,  my  lord,  untold  love 

Nay,  Fazio,  gaze  not  on  me  so ;  my  tongue 

Can  scarcely  move  for  the  fire  within  my  cheeks  — 

It  cankereth,  it  consumeth,  untold  love. 

But  if  it  burst  its  secret  prison-house, 

And  venture  on  the  broad  and  public  air, 

It  leagueth  with  a  busy  fiend  call'd  Shame; 

And  they  both  dog  their  game,  till  misery 

Fastens  upon  it  with  a  viper's  fang, 

And  rings  its  being  with  its  venomous  coil. 

FAZIO. 

Misery  and  thee  !  —  oh,  't  is  unnatural  I  — 

Oh,  yoke  thee  to  that  thing  of  darkness,  misery  !  — 

That  Ethiop,  that  grim  Moor!  — it  were  to  couple 

The  dove  and  kite  within  one  loving  leash. 

It  must  not  be  ;  nay,  ye  must  be  divorced. 

ALDABELLA. 

Ah  no,  my  lord  !  we  are  too  deeply  pledged. 

Dost  thou  remember  our  old  pocl'.s*  legend 

Over  Hell  gates  —  "  Hope  comes  not  here  ?"    Where 

hope 
Comes  not,  is  hell;  and  what  have  I  to  hope  ? 

FAZIO. 

What  hast  to  hope  ? — Thou  'rt  strangely  beautiful — 

ALDABELLA. 

Wouldst  thou  leave  flattery  thy  last  ravishing  sound 
Upon  mine  ears  ? —  'T  is  kind,  't  is  fatally  kind. 

*  Dante. 


FAZIO. 

Oh,  no !  we  must  not  part,  we  must  not  part. 
I  came  to  tell  thee  something :  what,  I  know  not. 
I  only  know  one  word  that  should  have  been  ; 
And  that Oh!  if  thy  skin  were  seam'd  with  wrin- 
kles. 
If  on  thy  cheek  sate  sallow  hollowness. 
If  thy  warm  voice  spake  shrieking,  harsh,  and  shrill; 
But  to  that  breathing  form,  those  ripe  round  lips, 
Like  a  full  parted  cherry,  those  dark  eyes, 

Rich  in  such  dewy  languors I'll  not  say  it 

Nay,  nay,  't  is  on  me  now  !  —  Poison 's  at  work  I 
Now  listen  to  me,  lady We  must  love. 

ALDABELLA. 

Love  !  —  Ay,  my  lord,  as  far  as  honesty. 

FAZIO. 

Honesty  !  —  'T  is  a  stale  and  musty  phrase ; 

At  least  at  court:  and  why  should  we  be  traitors 

To  the  strong  tyrant  Custom  ? 

ALDABELLA. 

My  lord  Fazio  — 
Oh,  said  I  my  lord  Fazio  ?  —  thou  'It  betray  me : 

The  bride— the  wife — she  that  I  mean My  lord, 

I  am  nor  splenetic  nor  envious ; 

But  'tis  a  name  I  dare  not  trust  my  lips  with. 

FAZIO. 

Bianca,  oh  Bianca  is  her  name  ; 

The  mild  Bianca,  the  soft  fond  Bianca. 

Oh  to  that  name,  e'en  in  the  Church  of  God, 

I  pledged  a  solemn  faith. 

ALDABELLA. 

Within  that  Church 
Barren  and  solitary  my  sad  name 
Shall  sound,  when  the  pale  nun  profess'd  doth  wed 
That  her  cold  bridegroom  Solitude:  and  yet  — 
Her  right  —  ere  she  had  seen  you,  we  had  loved, 

'  FAZIO  (frantidy.) 
Why  should  we  dash  the  goblet  from  our  lips. 
Because  the  dregs  may  have  a  smack  of  bitter? 
Why  should  that  pale  and  clinging  consequence 
Thrust  itself  ever  'twixt  us  and  our  joys? 

ALDABELLA. 

My  lord,  'tis  well  our  convent  walls  are  high. 
And  our  gates  massy ;  else  ye  raging  tigers 
Might  rush  upon  us  simple  maids  unveil'd. 

FAZIO. 

A  veil  I  a  veil !  why  Florence  will  be  dark 
At  noonday  :  or  thy  beauty  will  fire  up, 
By  the  contagion  of  its  own  bright  lustre. 
The  dull  dead  flux  to  so  intense  a  brilliance, 
'T  will  look  like  one  of  those  rich  purple  clouds 
On  the  pavilion  of  the  setting  sun. 

ALDABELLA. 

My  lord,  I  've  a  poor  banquet  here  within; 
Will 't  please  ye  taste  it  1 

FAZIO. 

Ay,  wine,  wine !  ay,  wine ! 
I'll  drown  thee,  thou  officious  preacher,  here !  {Clasp- 
ing his  forehead.) 
Wine,  wine !  [ExemU 

260 


FAZIO. 


251 


ACT  III.  — SCENE  I. 
Palace  of  Fazio. 

BIANCA. 

Not  all  tlie  night,  not  all  the  long,  long  night. 

Not  come  to  me!  not  send  to  me  I  not  think  on  me! 

Like  an  unrighteous  and  unburied  ghost, 

I  wander  up  and  down  these  long  arcades. 

Oh,  in  our  old  poor  narrow  home,  if  haply 

He  linger'd  late  abroad,  domestic  things 

Close  and  familiar  crowded  all  around  me; 

The  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  flapping  motion 

Of  the  green  lattice,  the  grey  curtains'  folds, 

The  hangings  of  the  bed  myself  had  wrought, 

Yea,  e'en  his  black  and  iron  crucibles. 

Were  to  me  as  my  friends.     But  here,  oh  here, 

Where  all  is  coldly,  comfortlessly  cosily. 

All  strange,  all  new  in  uncouth  gorgeousness, 

Lofty  and  long,  a  wider  space  for  misery  — 

E'en  my  own  footsteps  on  these  marble  floors 

Are  unaccustom'd  unfamiliar  sounds.  — 

Oh,  I  am  here  so  wearily  miserable. 

That  I  should  welcome  my  apostate  Fazio, 

Though  he  were  fresh  from  Aldabella's  arms. 

Her  arms !  —  her  viper  coil ! 1  had  forsworn 

That  thought;  lest  he  should  come,  and  find  me  mad. 
And  so  go  back  again,  and  I  not  know  it. 
Oh  that  I  were  a  child  to  play  with  toys, 
Fix  ray  whole  soul  upon  a  cup  and  ball  — 
Oh  any  pitiful  poor  subterfuge, 
A  moment  to  distract  my  busy  spirit 
From  Its  dark  dalliance  with  that  cursed  image! 
I  have  tried  all ;  all  vainly  —  Now,  but  now 
I  went  in  to  my  children.    The  first  sounds 
They  murmur'd  in  their  evil-dreaming  sleep 
Was  a  faint  mimicry  of  the  name  of  father. 
I  could  not  kiss  them,  my  lips  were  so  hot. 
The  very  household  slaves  are  leagued  against  me. 
And  do  beset  me  with  their  wicked  floutings, 
"Comes  mv  lord  home  toz-night  ?"  —  and  when  I  say, 
"  I  know   not,"   their  coarse  pity  makes  my  heart- 
strings 
Throb  with  the  agony. — (Enter  Piero.) — Well,  what 

of  my  lord  I 
Nay,  tell  it  with  thv  lips,  not  with  thy  visage. 
Thou  raven,  croak  it  out  if  it  be  evil : 
If  it  be  good,  1  11  fall  and  worship  thee ; 
'Tis  the  ortice  and  the  ministry  of  gods 
To  speak  good  tidings  to  distracted  spirits. 

riERO. 

Last  night  my  lord  did  ieast  — 

BIANCA. 

Speak  it  at  once  — 
AVhere?   where'  —  I'll    wring  it   from   thy  lips. — 
Where  ?  where  ? 

PIKRO. 

Lady,  at  the  Marchesa  Aldabella's. 

BIANCA. 

Thou  liest,  false  slave  ;  't  was  at  the  Ducal  Palace, 

'T  was  at  the  arsenal  with  the  oflicers, 

'T  was  with  the  old  rich  spiialur — him — him — him — 


The  man  with  a  brief  name;  't  was  gaming,  dicing. 

Riotously  drinking.— Oh    it    was  not  there ; 

'Twas  any  where  but  there— or  il'it  was. 

Why  like  a  sly  and  creeping  adder  sling  me 

With  thy  black  tidings  ?— Nay,  nay  :  good  ray  friend  ; 

Here's  money  for  those  harsh  intemperate  words. — 

But  he's  not  there  ;  't  was  some  one  of  the  gallants, 

With  dress  and  stature  like  my  Fazio. 

Thou  wert  mistaken  :— no,  no ;  't  was  not  Fazio. 

PlKRO. 

It  grieves  me  much,  but,  lady,  'tis  my  fear 
Thou'lt  find  it  but  too  true. 

BIANCA, 

Hence !  hence !  Avaunt, 
With  thy   cold   courteous   face!     Thou  seest   I'm 

wretched : 
Doth  it  content  thee  ?  Gaze — gaze  !— perchance 
Ye  would  behold  the  bare  and  bleeding  heart. 
With  all  its  throbs,  its  agonies. — Oh  Fazio  ! 
Oh  Fazio!  is  her  smile  more  sweet  than  mine? 
Or  her  soul  fonder  ? — Fazio,  my  lord  Fazio  I 
Before  the  face  of  man  mine  own,  mine  only  ; 
Before  the  face  of  Heaven  Bianca's  Fazio, 
Not  Aldabella's. — Ah,  that  I  should  live 
To  question  it! — Now,  henceforth  all  our  joys. 
Our  delicate  indearments,  are  all  poison'd. 
Ay!  if  he  speak  my  name  with  his  fond  voice. 
It  will  be  with  the  same  tone  that  to  her 
He  murmur'd  hers  : — it  will  be,  or  't  will  seem  so. 
If  he  embrace  me,  'twill  be  with  those  arms 
In  which  he  folded  her:  and  if  he  kiss  me. 
He'll  pause,  and  think  which  of  the  two  is  sweeter 

PIERO. 

Nay,  good  my  lady,  give  not  entertainment 

To  such  sick  fancies  ;  think  on  lighter  matters. 

I  heard  strange  news  abroad  :  the  Duke's  in  council 

Debating  on  the  death  of  old  Bartolo, 

The  grey  lean  usurer.     He's  been  long  abroad, 

And  died,  they  think. 

BIANCA. 

Well,  sir,  and  what  of  that? 
.And  have  I  not  the  privilege  of  sorrow, 
AVithout  a  menial's  staring  eye  upon  m.e  ? 
Who  sent  thee  thus  to  charier  my  free  thoughts, 
.And  tell  them  where  to  shrink,  and  where  lo  pause  ? 
Oflicious  slave,  away  !  —  {Edit.)  —  Ha  I   what   saidst 

thou? 
Bartolo's  death!  and  the  Duke  in  his  coiinril  I — 
I'll  rend  him  from  her,  though  she  wind  around  him, 
Like  the  vine  round  ihe  elm.     I'll  pluck  him  oil" 
Though  the  life  crack  at  parting. — No,  no  pause  ; 
For  if  there  is,  F  shall  be  tame  and  timorous: 
That  milk-faced  mercy  will  come  whimpering  to  me. 
And  I  shall  sit  and  meekly,  miserably 
Weep  o'er  ray  wrongs.  — Ha!    that  her   soul  were 

fond 
And  fervent  as  mine  own  !  I  would  give  worlds 
To  see  her  as  he's  rent  and  rack'd  from  her. 
Oh,  but  she's  cold  ;  she  cannot,  will  not  feel 
It  is  but  half  revenge:  her  whole  of  sorrow 
Will  be  a  drop  to  my  consummate  agony. — 
Awav,  away  :  Oh  had  I  wings  to  wafi  me! 
201 


252 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SCENE  II. 
Duke  and  his  Council. 

DUKE. 

'Tis  passing  strange,  a  man  of  such  lean  habits, 
Wealth  flowing  to  him  in  a  steady  current, 
Winds  wafting  it  unto  him  from  all  quarters, 
Through  all  his  seventy  toilsome  years  of  life. 
And  yet  his  treasury  so  spare  and  meagre  ; 
Siguier  Gonsalvo,  were  the  voice  that  told  us 
Less  tried  and  trusty  than  thine  own,  our  faith 
Would  be  a  rebel  to  such  marvellous  fact. 

GONSALVO. 

Well  may  your  Highness  misdoubt  me,  myself 

Almost  misdoubting  mine  own  positive  senses. 

IVo  sign  wa.s  there  of  outward  violence, 

All  in  a  state  of  orderly  miser)', 

No  trace  of  secret  inroad  ;  yet,  my  liege. 

The  mountains  of  his  wealth  were  puny  mole-hills, 

A  few  stray  ducats;  piles  indeed  of  parchments. 

Mortgages,  deeds,  and  lawsuits  heaped  to  the  roof. 

Enough  to  serve  the  armies  of  all  Tuscany 

At  least  for  half  a  century  with  new  drum-heads. 

AURIC. 

Haply,  my  liege,  he  may  have  gone  abroad. 
And  borne  his  riches  with  him. 

DUKE. 

Signior  Aurio, 
That  surmise  flavours  not  of  your  known  wisdom. 
His  argosies  encumber  all  our  ports. 
His  unsold  bales  rot  in  the  crowded  wharfs  ; 
The  interest  of  a  hundred  usuries 
Lieth  unclaim'd. — Besicft^s,  he  hath  not  left 
Our  city  for  these  twenty  years  ; — a  flight 
So  unprepared  and  wanton  suits  not  well 
Your  slow  and  heavy-laden  usurer. 

Enter  A.ntonio. 

ANTONIO. 

My  liege,  a  lady  in  the  antechamber 
Boasts  knowledge  that  concerns  your  this  day's  coun- 
cil. 

DUKE. 

Admit  her. — {Enter  Bianc.v)  —  How!  what  know'st 

thou  of  the  death 
Of  old  Bartolo? — be  he  dead  in  sooth  ? 
Or  of  his  riches  ! 

BIAXCA. 

The  east  side  of  the  fountain, 
In  the  small  garden  of  a  lowly  house. 
By  the  Franciscan  convent,  the  green  herbs 
Grow  boon  and  freely,  the  manure  is  rich 
Around  their  roots :  dig  there,  and  you'll  be  wiser. 

DUKE. 

Who  tenanted  this  house  ? 

BIAXCA. 

Giraldi  Fazio. 

DUKE. 

What  of  his  wealth? 

BIANCA. 

There's  one  in  Florence  knows 
]\Iore  secrets  than  beseems  an  honest  man. 

DUKE. 

And  who  is  he  ? 


BIANCA. 

Giraldi  Fazio. 

GONSALVO. 

My  liege,  I  know  him;  'tis  the  new-sprung  signior, 
This  great  philosopher.     I  ever  doubted  ■• 
His  vaunted  manufactory  of  gold, 
Work'd  by  some  strange  machinery. 

DUKE. 

Theodore, 
Search  thou  the  garden  that  this  woman  speaks  of 
Captain  Antonio,  be  't  thy  charge  to  attach 
With  speed  the  person  of  this  Fazio. 

BIANCA  (rushing  foruxird  to  Antonio). 
You  '11  find  him  at  the  Marchesa  Aldabella's : 
Bring  him  away  —  no  mercy  —  no  delay  — 
Nay,  not  an  instant  —  not  time  for  a  kiss, 
A  parting  kiss,    ^-iside.)  Now  have  I  widow'd  her. 
As  she  has  widow'd  me !     Now  come  what  will. 
Their  curst  entwining  arms  are  riven  asunder. 

DUKE. 

And  thou,  thou  peremptory  summoner ! 

Most  thirsty  after  justice  I  speak Thy  name  ? 

BIANCA. 

Bianca. 

DUKE. 

Thy  estate  wedded  or  single  ? 

BIANCA. 

My  lord 

DUKE. 

Give  instant  answer  to  the  court. 

BIANCA. 

Oh !  wedded,  but  most  miserably  single. 

DUKE. 

Woman,  thou  palterest  with  our  dignity. 

Thy  husband's  name  and  quality  ? — Why  shakest  thou. 

And  draw'st  the  veil  along  thy  moody  brow. 

As  thou  too  wert  a  murderess  ? — Speak,  and  quickly. 

BIANCA  {faltering). 
Giraldi  Fazio. 

DUKE. 

'T  is  thy  husband  then  — 
Woman,  take  heed,  if,  petulant  and  rash. 
Thou  wouldst  abuse  the  righteous  sword  of  law. 
That  brightest  in  the  armoury  of  man. 
To  a  peevish  instrument  of  thy  light  passions. 
Or  furtherance  of  some  close  and  secret  guilt : 
Take  heed,  't  is  in  the  heaven  stamp'd  roll  of  sins, 

To  bear  false  witnes.s Oh,  but  'gainst  thy  husbandf 

Thy  bosom's  lord,  flesh  of  thy  flesh  I  —  To  set 

The  bloodhounds  of  the  law  upon  his  track  I 

If  thou  speak'st  true,  stern  justice  will  but  blush       , 

To  be  so  cheer'd  upon  her  guilty  prey  : 

If  it  be  false,  liioii  givest  to  flagrant  sin 

A  heinous  immortality.     This  deed 

Will  chronicle  thee,  woman,  to  all  ages. 

In  human  guilt  a  [wrtent  and  an  era  : 

"T  is  of  those  crimes,  whose  eminent  fame  Hell  joys  at. 

And  the  celestial  angels,  that  look  on  it, 

Wish  their  keen  airy  vision  dim  and  narrow. 

Enter  Theodore. 
My  liege,  e'en  where  she  said,  an  unstripp'd  corpse 
Lay  carelessly  inearth'd  :  old  weeds  hung  on  it, 
Like  those  that  old  Bartolo  wont  to  wear  ; 
262 


FAZIO. 


253 


And  under  the  led  rib  a  small  stiletto, 
Uusted  within  the  pale  and  creeping  flesh. 

Enler  Anto.mo  with  Fazio. 
My  liege,  the  prisoner. 

DUKE. 

Thou  'rt  Giraldi  Fazio. 
Giraldi  Fazio,  thou  stand's!  here  arraign'd. 
That,  with  presumption  impious  and  accurst. 
Thou  hast  usurp'd  God's  high  prerogative, 
Making  thy  fellow -mortal's  life  and  death 
Wait  on  thy  moody  and  diseased  passions  ; 
That  with  a  violent  and  untimely  steel 
Hast  set  abroach  the  blood,  that  should  have  ebb'd 
In  calm  and  natural  current :  to  sum  all 
In  one  wild  name  —  a  name  the  pale  air  freezes  at, 
And  every  cheek  of  man  sinks  in  with  horror  — 
Thou  art  a  cold  and  midnight  murderer. 

F.\Z10. 

My  liege,  I  do  beseech  thee,  argue  not. 

From  the  thick  clogging  of  my  clammy  breath, 

Aught  but  a  natural  and  instinctive  dread 

Of  such  a  bloody  and  ill-sounding  title. 

My  liege,  I  do  beseech  thee,  whate'er  reptile 

Hath  cast  this  filthy  slime  of  slander  on  me. 

Set  him  before  me  face  to  face  :  the  fire 

Of  ray  just  anger  shall  burn  up  his  heart, 

Make  his  lip  drop,  and  powerless  shuddering 

Creep  o'er  his  noisome  and  corrupted  limbs, 

Till  the  coarse  lie  choke  in  his  wretched  throat. 

DUKE. 

Thou  'rt  bold.  —  But  know  ye  aught  of  old  Bartolo  ? 
Methinks,  for  innocence,  thou  'rt  pale  and  tremulous — 
That  name  is  to  thee  as  a  thunderclap  ; 

But  thou  shall  have  thy  wish. Woman,  stand  forth  : 

Aay,  cast  away  thy  veil. Look  on  her,  Fazio. 

FAZIO. 

Bianca  ! No,  it  is  a  horrid  vision  I 

And,  if  I  struggle,  I  shall  wake,  and  find  it 

A  miscreated  mockery  of  the  brain. 

If  thou  'rt  a  fiend,  what  hellish  right  hast  thou 

To  shroud  thy  leprous  and  fire-seamed  visage 

In  lovely  lineaments,  like  my  Bianca's  ? 

If  thou  'rt  indeed  Bianca.  thou  wilt  wear 

A  ring  I  gave  thee  at  our  wedding  time. 

In  God's  name  do  I  bid  thee  hold  it  up ; 

And,  if  thou  dost,  I  '11  be  a  murderer, 

A  slaughterer  of  whole  hecatombs  of  men, 

So  ye  will  rid  me  of  the  hideous  sight. 

DUKE. 

Ciraldi  Fazio,  hear  the  court's  award : 
First,  on  thy  evil-gotten  wealth  the  State 
Setteth  her  solemn  seal  of  confiscation  ; 

And  for  thyself 

BIANCA  (rushing  forward). 

Oh,  we  '11  be  poor  again  ! 
Oh,  I  forgive  thee  !  —  W'e  '11  be  poor  and  happy  ! 
So  happy,  the  dull  day  shall  be  too  short  for  us. 
She  loved  thee,  that  proud  woman,  for  thy  riches; 
But  thou  canst  tell  why  I  love  Fazio. 

DUKE. 

And  for  thyself — 'Tis  in  the  code  of  Heaven, 
Blood  will  have  blood  —  the  slaver  for  the  slain. 


Death  is  thy  doom  —  the  public,  daylight  death. 
Thy  body  do  we  give  unto  the  wheel : 
The  Lord  have  mercy  on  thy  sinful  soul ! 

BIANCA. 

Death  ! — Death  I — I  meant  not  that  I Ye  mean  not 

that ! 
What's  all  this  waste  and  idle  talk  of  murder? 
He  slay  a  man  —  with  lender  hands  like  his?  — 

With  delicate  mild  soul  ? Why,  his  own  blood 

Had  startled  him  !  [  've  seen  him  pale  and  shuddering 

At  the  sad  writhings  of  a  trampled  worm  : 

I  've  seen  him  brush  off  with  a  dainty  hand 

A  bee  that  stung  him.    Oh,  why  wear  ye  thus 

The  garb  and  outward  sanctity  of  law  ? 

What  means  that  snow  upon  your  reverend  brows. 

If  that  ye  have  no  subtler  apprehension 

Of  some  inherent  harmony  in  the  nature 

Of  bloody  criminal  and  bloody  crime  ? 

'T  were  wise  t'  arraign  the  soil  and  silly  lamb 

Of  slaughtering  his  butcher :  ye  might  make  it 

As  proper  a  murderer  as  my  Fazio. 

DUKE. 

Woman,  th' irrevocable  breath  of  justice 
Wavers  not :  he  must  die. 

BIANCA. 

Die!  Fazio  die! 

Ye  grey  and  solemn  murderers  by  charter  I 

Ye  ermined  manslayers !  w  hen  the  tale  is  rife 

With  blood  and  guilt,  and  deep  and  damning.  Oh, 

Ye  suck  it  in  with  cold  insatiate  thirst : 

But  to  the  plea  of  mercy  ye  are  stones, 

As  deaf  and  hollow  as  the  unbowell'd  winds. 

Oh,  ye  smooth  Christians  in  your  tones  and  looks, 

But  in  your  hearts  as  savage  as  the  lawny 

And  misbelieving  African!  ye  profane. 

Who  say,  "God  bless  him  !  God  deliver  him  I" 

While  ye  are  beckoning  for  the  bloody  axe. 

To  smite  the  unoffending  head  !  — his  head  !  — 

My  Fazio's  head  !  —  the  head  this  bosom  cherish'd 

With  its  first  virgin  fondness. 

DUKE. 

Fazio,  hear. 
To-morrow's  morning  sun  shall  dawn  upon  thee 
But  when  he  setteth  in  his  western  couch. 
He  finds  thy  place  in  this  world  void  and  vacant. 

BIANCA. 

To-morrow  morning! —  Not  to-morrow  morning! 
The  damning  devils  give  a  forced  faint  pause. 
If  the  bad  soul  but  feebly  catch  at  heaven. 
But  ye,  but  ye,  unshriven,  unreconciled. 
With  all  its  ponderous  mass  of  sins  hurl  down 
The  bare  and  shivering  spirit.  —Oh,  not  lo-morrow  '. 

DUKE. 

Woman,  thou  dost  outstep  all  modesty  : 
But  fiir  strong  circumstance  that  leagues  with  thee, 
We  should  contemn  thee  for  a  wild  mad  woman. 
Raving  her  wayward  and  unsettled  fancies. 

niANCA. 

Mad  !  mad !  —  ay,  that  it  is !  —  ay,  that  it  is ! 
Is't  to  be  mad  to  speak,  to  move,  to  gaze. 
But  not  know  how,  or  why,  or  whence,  or  where  ? 
To  see  that  there  are  faces  all  around  me. 
Floating  within  a  dim  discolour'd  haze, 
2C3 


254 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  have  distinction,  vision,  but  for  one  ? 

To  speait  with  rapid  and  continuous  flow. 

Yet  know  not  how  the  unthought  words  start  from 

me?  — 
Oh,  I  am  mad,  wildly,  intensely  mad. 
'T  was  but  last  night  the  moon  was  at  the  full ; 
And  ye,  and  ye,  the  sovereign  and  the  sage. 
The  wisdom  and  the  reverence  of  all  Florence, 
E'en  from  a  maniac's  dim  disjointed  tale, 
Do  calmly  judge  away  the  innocent  life, 
The  holy  human  life,  the  life  God  gave  him. 

DUKE. 

Giraldi  Fazio,  hast  thou  aught  to  plead 
Against  the  law,  that  with  imperious  hand 
Grasps  at  thy  forfeit  life  ? 

FAZIO. 

My  liege,  this  soul 
Rebels  not,  nay,  repines  not  at  thy  sentence  ; 
Yet,  oh  !  by  all  on  earth,  by  all  hereafter, 
All  that  hath  cognizance  o'er  unseen  deeds, 
Blood  is  a  colour  stranger  to  these  hands. 
But  there  are  erimes  within  me,  deep  and  black. 
That  with  their  clamorous  and  tumultuous  voices 
Shout  at  me,  "  Thou  shouldst  die,  thy  sins  are  deadly :" 
IS'or  dare  my  oppressed  heart  return,  "  'T  is  false." 

BI.4NC.\. 

But  I,  I  say,  'tis  false  :  he  is  not  guilty: 
Not  guilty  unto  death :  I  sny  he  is  not. 
God  gave  ye  hearing,  but  ye  will  not  hear ; 
God  gave  ye  feeling,  but  ye  will  not  feel ; 
God  gave  ye  judgment,  but  ye  falsely  judge. 

DUIvE. 

Captain  Antonio,  guard  thy  prisoner. 
If  it  be  true,  blood  is  not  on  thy  soul. 
Yet  thou  object'st  not  to  the  charge  of  robbery  ? 

[Fazio  bows. 
Thou  dost  not.     Robbery,  by  the  laws  of  Florence, 
Is  sternly  coded  as  a  deadly  crime  : 
Therefore,  I  say  again,  Giraldi  Fazio, 
The  Lord  have  mercy  on  thy  sinful  soul ! 

[Thctj  follow  Ike  Duke. 

BIANCA  incizing  and  detaining  Auric). 
^ly  lord  !  my  lord!  we  have  two  babes  at  home  — 
They  cannot  speak  yet ;  but,  your  name,  my  lord. 
And  they  shall  lisp  it,  ere  they  lisp  mine  own  — 
Ere  that  poor  culprit's  yonder,  their  own  fiither's. 
Befriend  us,  oh,  befriend  us!  'Tis  a  title 
Heaven  joys  at,  and  the  hard  and  savage  earth 
Doth  break  its  sullen  nature  to  delight  in  — 

The  destitute's  .sole  friend And  thou  pass  too! 

Why,  what  a  common  liar  was  thy  face. 

That  said  the  milk  of  mercy  flow'd  within  thee ! 

Ye 're  all  alike.  —  Off!  off!  —  Ye 're  all  alike. 

[Exeu7it  all  hut  Fazio,  iAe  Officer,  and  Bianca. 

BIANCA  (creeping  to  Fazio). 
Thou  wilt  not  spurn  me,  wilt  not  trample  on  me, 
Wik  let  me  touch  thee — I,  whose  lips  have  slain  thee  ? 
Oh,  look  not  on  me  thus  with  that  fimd  look  — 
Pamper  me  not,  for  long  and  living  grief 
To  prey  upon  —  Oh,  curse  me,  Fazio  — 
Kill  me  with  cursing:  I  am  thin  and  feeble  — 
A  word  will  crush  me  —  any  thing  but  kindness. 


FAZIO. 

Mine  own  Bianca !  I  shall  need  too  much  mercy 

Or  ere  to-morrow,  to  be  merciless. 

It  was  not  well,  Bianca,  in  my  guiit 

To  cut  me  off —  thus  early  —  thus  unripe  : 

It  will  be  bitter,  when  the  axe  falls  on  me. 

To  think  whose  voice  did  summon  it  to  its  office. — 

No  more  —  no  more  of  that :  we  all  must  die. 

Bianca,  thou  wilt  love  me  when  I  'm  dead  : 

I  wrong'd  thee,  but  thou  'It  love  me  when  I  'm  dead. 

bianca. 
What,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  Fazio  I  — 't  is  too  much  : 
And  these  warm  lips  must  be  cold  clay  to-morrow. 

ANTONIO. 

Signior,  we  must  part  hence. 

BIANCA. 

What !  tear  me  from  him, 
When  he  has  but  a  few  short  hours  to  give  me  I 
Rob  me  of  them  !  —  He  hath  lain  delicately  : 
Thou  wilt  not  envy  me  the  wretched  office 
Of  strewing  the  last  pillow  he  shall  lie  on  — 
Thou  wilt  not — nay,  there  's  moisture  in  thine  eye  — 
Thou  wilt  not. 

ANTONIO. 

Lady,  fiir  as  is  the  warrant 
Of  my  stern  orders  — 

BIANCA. 

Excellent  youth  !  Heaven  thank  thee! 
There  's  not  another  heart  like  thine  in  Florence. 
We  shall  not  part,  we  shall  not  part,  my  Fazio ! 
Oh,  never,  never,  never  —  till  to-morrow. 

FAZIO  {as  he  leads  her  out). 
It  was  not  with  this  cold  and  shaking  hand 
I  led  thee  virgin  to  the  bridal  altar. 

[Ejeunt, 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  L 

A  Prison. 

FAZIO  and  Bianca. 

FAZIO. 

Let 's  talk  of  joy,  Bianca :  we  '11  deceive 
This  present  and  this  future,  whose  grim  faces 
Stare  at  us  with  such  deep  and  hideous  blackness : 
We  '11  fly  to  the  past.     Dost  thou  remember,  love. 
Those  gentle  moonlights,  when  my  fond  guitar 
Was  regular,  as  convent  vesper  hymn, 
Beneath  thy  lattice,  sometimes  the  light  dawn 
Came  stealing  on  our  voiceless  intercourse, 
Soft  in  its  grey  and  filmy  atmosphere  I 

BIANCA. 

Oh  yes,  oh  yes !  —  There  '11  be  a  dawn  to-morrow 
Will  steal  ujwn  us.  —  Then,  oh  then 

FAZIO. 

Oh,  think  noton't!- 
And  thou  remember'st  too  that  beauteous  evening 
V\x>n  the  Arno  ;  how  we  sail'd  along. 
And  laugh'd  to  see  the  stately  towers  of  Florence 
Waver  and  dance  in  the  blue  depth  beneath  us. 
How  carelessly  thy  unrctiring  hand 
Abandon'd  its  soft  whiteness  to  my  pressure  ! 
264 


FAZIO. 


255 


ItlANCA. 

Oh  yes ! To-morroiv  evening,  if  ihou  close 

Thy  clasping  iiand,  mine  will  not  meet  it  then  — 
Thou  'It  only  grasp  the  chill  and  senseless  earth. 

FAZIO. 

Thou  busy,  sad  remembrancer  of  evil ! 

How  exijuisitelv  happy  have  wc  two 
Sate  in  the  dusky  and  discolour'd  light, 
That  flicker'd  through  our  shaking  lattice  bars! 
Our  children  at  our  feet,  or  on  our  lajis, 
Warm  in  their  breathing  slumbers,  or  at  play 
With  rosy  laughter  on  their  cheeks  !  —  Oh  God  !  — 
BiancQ,  such  a  flash  of  thought  crost  o'er  me, 
I  dare  not  speak  it. 

niANCA. 

Quick,  my  Fazio ! 
Quick,  let  me  have 't  I — to-morrow  thou  'It  not  speak  it. 

FAZIO. 

Oh,  what  a  life  must  theirs  be,  those  poor  innocents! 
When  they  have  grown  up  to  a  sense  of  sorrow  — 
0!i,  what  a  feast  will  they  be  for  rude  misery  ! 
Honest  men's  boys  and  girls,  whene'er  they  mingle. 
Will  spurn  them  with  the  black  and  branded  title, 
"The  murderer's  children."     Infamy  will  pin 
That  pestilent  label  on  their  backs ;  the  plague-spot 
Will  bloat  and  blister  on  them  till  their  death-beds; 
And  if  they  beg  —  for  beggars  they  must  be  — 
They  '11  drive  them  from  their  doors  with  cruel  jeers 
Upon  ray  riches,  villanously  style  them 
"The  children  of  Lord  Fazio,  the  philosopher." 

BIAXCA. 

To-mnrrow  will  the  cry  begin,  to-morrow. 

It  must  not  be,  and  I  sit  idle  here. 

Fazio,  there  must  be  in  this  wide,  wide  city 

Piercing  and  penetrating  eyes  for  truth, 

Souls  iifit  loo  proud,  loo  cold,  too  stern  for  mercy. 

I  '11  hunt  them  out,  and  swear  them  to  our  service. 

I  '11  raise  up  something  —  Oh,  I  know  not  what  — 

Shall  boldly  startle  the  rank  air  of  Florence 

With  proclamaiion  of  thy  innocence. 

I  'II  raise  ihe  dead  !  I  '11  conjure  up  the  ghost 

Of  that  old  rotten  thing,  Bartolo  ;  make  it 

Cry  out  i'  the  market  place,  ''  Thou  didst  not  slay 

him!" 
Farewell,  farewell !  If  in  Ihe  walls  of  Florence 
Be  any  thing  like  hope  or  comfort,  Fazio, 
I  '11  clasp  it  with  such  strong  and  steadfast  arms, 
I  '11  drag  it  to  thy  dungeon,  and  make  laugh 
This  silence  with  strange  uncouth  sounds  of  joy. 


SCExNE  II. 

A  Street. 

Falsetto,  Daxdoi.o,  PiiiLAnio. 

FALSETTO. 

Good  Signior  Dandolo,  here's  a  prodigal  waste 
Of  my  fair  speeches  to  the  sage  philosopher. 
1  counted  on  at  least  a  two  months'  diet. 
Besides  stray  boons  of  horses,  rings,  and  jewels. 

DANDOLO. 

Oh  ray  Falsetto,  a  coat  of  my  fashion 
2:J 


Come  to  the  wheel !  —  it  wrings  my  very  heart. 
To  fancy  how  the  seams  will  crack,  or  haply 
The  hangman  will  be  seen  in 't!  —  That  I  should  live 
To  be  purveyor  of  the  modes  to  a  hangman  ! 

Enter  Bia.nca. 

BIANCA. 

They  pass  me  by  on  the  other  side  of  the  street ; 
They  spurn  me  from  their  doors ;  they  load  the  air 
With  curses  that  are  flung  on  me  :  the  Palace, 
The  Ducal  Palace,  that  should  aye  be  open 
To  voice  of  the  distress'd,  as  is  God's  heaven, 
Is  ring'd  around  with  grim  and  armed  savages. 
That  with  their  angry  weaixjns  smite  me  back, 
.As  though  I  came  with  fire  in  my  hand,  to  burn 
The  royal  walls  :  the  children  in  the  streets 
Break  off  their  noisy  games  to  hoot  at  me ; 

j  And  the  dogs  from  the  porches  howl  me  on. 

;  But  here  's  a  succour. — {To  FuJsetto.)  Oh,  good  sir,  thy 
friend, 

I  The  man  thou  feastedst  with  but  yesterday, 
He  to  whose  motion  thou  wast  a  true  shadow. 
Whose  hand  rain'd  gifts  upon  thee  —  he  I  mean. 
Fazio,  the  bounteous,  free,  and  liberal  Fazio  — 
He's  wrongfully  accused,  wrongfully  doum'd  : 
I  swear  to  thee  'tis  wrongfully. —Oh,  sir, 
An  eloquent  honey-dropping  tongue  like  thine. 
How  would  It  garnish  up  his  innocence. 
Till  Justice  would  grow  amorous,  and  embrace  it! 

FALSETTO. 

Sweet  lady,  thou  o'ervaluest  my  poor  powers :  — 
Any  thing  in  reason  to  win  so  much  loveliness 
To  smile  on  me  —  but  this  were  wild  and  futile. 

BIANCA. 

In  reason  ? —  'Tis  to  save  a  human  life  — 
Is  not  that  in  the  spacious  realm  of  reason  ?  — 
Kind  sir,  there's  not  a  prayer  will  mount  hereafter 
Heavenward  from  us  or  our  poor  children's  lips. 
But  in  it  thy  dear  name  will  rise  embalm'd  ; 
And  prayers  have  power  to  cancel  many  a  siii, 
That  clogs  and  flaws  our  coarse  and  corrupt  nature 

FALSETTO. 

Methinks,  good  Dandolo.  't  is  ihe  hour  we  owe 
Attendance  at  the  Lady  Portia's  toilette. — 
Any  commission  in  our  way,  fair  lady  ? 

DAXDOLO. 

Oh  yes  !  I  'm  ever  indispensable  there 
As  is  her  looking-glass. — 

EIAXrA. 

Riotous  madness ! 
To  waste  a  breath  (Delahnng  them)  upon  such  Ihin- 

blown  bubbles  ! 
Why,  thou  didst  cling  to  him  but  yesterday. 
As  'I  were  a  danger  of  thy  life  to  part  from  him  ; 
Didst  swear  it  was  a  sin  in  Providence 
He  was  not  born  a  prince.     (To  Dandolo.)  And  thou, 

sir,  thou  — 
Chains,  sir,  in  May —  it  is  a  heavy  wear  ; 
Hard  and  unseemly,  a  rude  weight  of  iron. — 
Faugh !  cast  ye  off  this  shape  and  skin  of  men  : 
Ye  stain  it,  ye  pollute  it :  be  the  reptiles 
Ye  are.    {To  Philario.)  And  thou,  sir  —  I  know  m 

whose  porch 

265 


256 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  hired  tliee  to  troll  out  thy  fulsome  ditties : 

I  know  whose  dainty  ears  were  last  night  banqueted 

With  the  false  harlotry  of  thy  rich  airs. 

PHILARIO. 

I  do  beseech  thee,  lady,  judge  me  not 

So  harshly.  In  the  state.  Heaven  knows,  I  'm  power- 
less: 

I  could  remove  yon  palace  walls,  as  soon 

As  alter  his  sad  doom.    But  if  to  visit  him, 

To  tend  him  with  a  soft  officious  zeal. 

Waft  the  mild  magic  of  mine  art  around  him, 

Making  the  chill  and  lazy  dungeon  air 

More  smooth,  more  gentle  to  the  trammell'd  breath- 
ing:— 

All  that  I  can  I  will,  to  make  his  misery 

Shde  from  him  light  and  airily. 

BI.'VNCA. 

Wilt  thou  ? 
Why  then  there's  hone  the  Devil  hath  not  all  Florence. 
Go  —  go !  —  I  cannot  point  thee  out  the  way : 
Mine  eyes  are  cloudy  ;  it  is  the  first  rain 
Hath  dew'd  them,  since  —  since  when  I  cannot  tell 

thee  — 
Go  —  go !  —  (Exit.)  —  One  effort  more,  and  if  I  fail  — 
But  by  the  inbred  and  instinctive  tenderness 
That  mingles  with  the  life  of  womanhood, 
I  cannot  fail :  and  then,  thou  grim  to-morrow, 
I  '11  meet  thee  with  a  bold  and  unblench'd  front. 


SCENE  nr. 

Palace  of  Aldabella. 

ALDABELLA. 

Fazio  in  prison !  Fazio  doom'd  to  die !  — 

I  was  too  hasty ;  should  have  fled,  and  bashfully 

Beckon'd  him  after;  lured  him,  not  seized  on  htm. 

Proud  Aldabella  a  poor  robber's  paramour! 

Oh  it  sounds  dismal !  Florence  must  not  hear  it  :  — 

And  sooth  his  time  is  brief  to  descant  on  it. — 

(To  BiANCA,  who  enters.) 
And  vCho  art  thou  thus  usherless  and  unbidden 
Scarest  my  privacy  ? 

BIANCA  (aside). 
I  must  not  speak  yet ; 
For  if  I  do,  a  curse  will  clog  my  utterance. 

ALDABELLA. 

Nay,  stand  not  with  thy  pale  lips  quivering  nothings- 
Speak  out,  and  freely. 

BIANCA. 

Lady,  there  is  one  — 
Fie,  fie  upon  this  choking  in  my  throat  — 
One  thou  didst  love,  Giraldi  Fazio: 
One  who  loved  thee,  Giraldi  Fazio  — 
He 's  doom'd  to  die,  to  die  to  morrow  morning ! 
And  lo 'lis  eve  already !  — 

ALDABELLA. 

He  is  doom'd  ? 
Why  then  the  man  must  die. — 

BIANCA. 

Nay,  gentle  lady. 
Thou  'rt  high-born,  rich,  and  beautiful :  the  princes, 


The  prime  of  Florence  wait  upon  thy  smiles, 
Like  sunflowers  on  the  golden  light  they  love. 
Thy  lips  have  such  sweet  melody,  't  is  hung  upon 
Till  silence  is  an  agony.     Did  it  plead 
For  one  condemn'd,  but  oh,  most  innocent,  j 

'T  would  be  a  music  th'  air  would  fall  in  love  with, 
And  never  let  it  die,  till  it  had  won 
Its  honest  purpose. 

ALDABELLA.  i 

What  a  wanton  waste  I 

Of  idle  praise  is  here  I 

BIANCA. 

Nay  think,  oh  think,  , 

What 't  is  to  give  again  a  fijrfeil  life  : 
Ay,  such  a  life  as  Fazio's  I  —  Frown  not  on  me  : 
Thou  think'st  that  he  's  a  murderer — 't  is  all  false  ; 
A  trick  of  Fortune,  fancifully  cruel. 
To  cheat  the  world  of  such  a  life  as  Fazio's. 

ALDABELLA. 

Frivolous  and  weak :  I  could  not  if  I  would. 

BIANCA. 

Nay,  but  I  '11  lure  thee  with  so  rich  a  boon  — 
Hear, —  hear,  and  thou  art  won.    If  thou  dost  save 

him. 
It  is  but  just  he  should  be  saved  for  thee. 
I  give  him  thee  —  Bianca  —  I  his  wife  :  — 
1  pardon  all  that  has  been,  all  that  may  be  — 
Oh  I  will  be  thy  handmaid  ;  be  so  patient  — 
Calmly,  contentedly,  and  sadly  patient  — 
And  if  ye  see  a  pale  or  envious  motion 
Upon  my  cheek,  a  quivering  on  my  lips. 
Like  to  complaint  —  then  strike  him  dead  before  me. 
Thou  shalt  enjoy  all  —  all  that  I  enjoy 'd  : 
His  love,  his  life,  his  sense,  his  soul  be  thine  ; 
And  I  will  bless  thee,  in  my  misery  bless  thee. 

ALDABELLA. 

What  mist  is  on  thy  wild  and  wandering  eyes  ? 
Know'st  thou  to  whom  and  where  thou  play'st  the 

raver  ? 
I,  Aldabella,  whom  the  amorous  homage 
Of  rival  lords  and  princes  stirs  no  more 
Than  the  light  passing  of  the  common  air  — 
I,  Aldabella,  when  my  voice  might  make 
Thrones  render  up  their  stateliest  lo  my  service  — 
Stoop  to  the  sordid  sweepings  of  a  prison  ? 
I  — 

BIANCA. 

Proud-lipp'd  woman,  earth's   most   gorgeous    sove- 
reigns 
Were  worthless  of  my  Fazio !  Foolish  woman. 
Thou  cast'st  a  jewel  off!  The  proudest  lord 
That  ever  revell'd  in  thy  unchaste  arms. 
Was  a  swarth  galley-slave  to  Fazio. 
Ah  me!  me!  me  !  e'en  I  his  lawful  wife 
Know 't  not  more  truly,  certainly  than  thou. — 
Hadst  thou  loved  him,  I  had  pardon'd,  pitied  thee : 
We  two  had  sate,  all  coldly,  palely  sad  ; 
Dropping,  like  statues  on  a  fountain-side, 
A  pure,  a  silent,  and  eternal  dew. 
Hadst  thou  oiitwept  me,  I  had  loved  thee  for't  — 
And  that  were  easy,  for  I  'm  stony  here.  (Putling  her 
havd  to  her  eyes.) 

26G 


FAZIO. 


257 


ALDABELLA. 

Ho  there  I  to  lli'  liospital  for  the  liiiiaiics 
Fetch  succour  for  this  poor  distrest  — 

lilANCA. 

What  said  I  ? 
Oh  pardon  me,  I  came  not  to  upbraid  thee. — 
Think,  think  —  I  'II  vvhisi)er  it,  I  '11  not  betray  thee; 
The  air  's  a  tell-tale,  and  the  walls  are  listeners  :  — 
Think  what  a  change.'    Last  night  within  thy  cham- 
ber; 
(I  '11  not  say  in  thy  arms  ;  for  that  displeases  thee, 
And  sickens  me  to  uller.)  and  to-night 
Upon  a  prison  pallet,  straw,  hard  straw  ; 
For  eastern  perfumes,  the  rank  noisome  air ; 
For  gentle  harpings,  shrilly  clanking  chains:  — 
Nay.  turn  not  off:  the  «orst  i.s  yet  to  come. 
To-morrow  at  his  waking,  for  thy  face 
Languidly,  lovingly  down  drooping  o'er  him, 
The  scarr'd  and  haggard  executioner. 

ALDABELLA  {turning  au'ay). 
There  is  a  dizzy  trembling  in  mine  eye ; 
But  I  must  dry  the  foolish  dew  for  shame. 
Well,  what  is  it  to  me  ?  I  slew  him  not ; 
Nay,  nor  denounced  him  to  the  judgment-seat. 
I  but  debase  myself  to  lend  free  hearing 
To  such  coarse  fancies  —  I  must  hence:  to-night 
I  feast  the  lords  of  Florence.  [Exit. 

BL\NCA. 

They  're  all  lies  : 
Things  done  within  some  far  and  distant  planet, 
Or  ofTbCum  of  some  dreamy  poet's  brain. 
All  tales  of  human  goodness.     Or  they  're  legends 
Left  us  of  some  good  old  forgotten  time, 
Ere  harlotry  became  a  queenly  sin, 
And  housed  in  palaces.    Oh,  earth  's  so  crowded 
With  \'ice,  that  if  strange  \'irtue  stray  abroad, 
They  hoot  it  from  them  like  a  thing  accurst. 
Fazio,  my  Fazio  I  —  but  we  '11  laugh  at  them  : 
We  will  not  stay  upon  their  wicked  soil. 
E'en  though  they  sue  us  not  to  die  and  leave  them. 


SCENE  IV. 
Fazio's  House. 

'  BIANCA. 

Ah,  what  a  fierce  and  frantic  coil  is  here. 

Because  the  sun  must  shine  on  one  man  less ! 

I  'ra  sick  and  weary  —  my  feet  drag  along. 

Why  must  I  trail,  like  a  scotch'd  serpent,  hither  ? 

Here,  to  this  house,  where  all  things  breathe  of  Fazio  ? 

The  air  tastes  of  him  —  the  walls  whisper  of  him. — 

Oh,  I  'II  to  bed  !  to  bed  ! What  find  I  there  ? 

Fazio,  my  fond,  my  gentle,  fervent  Fazio  ?  — 

No! Cold  stones  are  his  couch,  harsh  iron  bars 

Curtain  his  slumbers.  — Oh,  no,  no —  I  have  it  — 

He  is  in  Arabella's  arms. Out  on  't ! 

Fie,  fie  1 — that 's  rank,  that 's  noisome  I — I  remember — 
Our  children  —  ay,  my  children  —  Fazio's  children. 
'T  was  my  thoughts'  burthen  as  I  came  along, 
Were  it  not  wise  to  bear  them  off  with  us 
Away  from  this  cold  world  ? — Why  should  we  breed  up 


More  sinners  for  the  Devil  to  prey  upon  ? 
There's  one  a  boy  —  some  strumpet  will  enlace  hira, 
And  make  him  wear  her  loathsome  livery. 
The  other  a  girl :  if  she  be  ill,  she  "11  sink 
S|)Otted  to  death  —  she  'II  be  an  .Mdabella  : 
If  she  be  chaste,  she  'II  bo  a  wretch  like  me, 
A  jealous  wretch,  a  franlic  guilty  wretch.    — 
No,  no  :  they  must  not  live,  they  must  not  live ! 

[Exit  into  a  chamber. 
A  ftcr  a  pause,  iJie  returns. 
It  will  not  be,  it  will  not  be  —  they  woke 
As  though  e'en  in  their  sleep  they  felt  my  presence ; 
And  then  they  smiled  upon  me  fondly,  playfully, 
And  stretch'd  their  rosy  fingers  to  spurt  with  me  : 
The  boy  did  arch  his  eyebrows  so  like  Fazio, 
Though  my  soul  wish'd  that  God  would  take  them  to 

him. 
That  they  were  'scaped  this  miserable  world, 
I  could  but  kiss  them  ;  and,  when  I  had  kiss'd  them, 
I  could  as  soon  have  leap'd  up  to  the  moon 

As  speck'd  or  soii'd  their  alabaster  skins. 

Wild  that  I  am  !  —  Take  them  t'  another  world  I 

As  though  I,  I  my  husband's  murderess, 
In  the  dread  separation  of  the  dead. 

Should  meet  again  those  spotless  innocents ! 

Oh,  happy  they !  —  they  will  but  know  to-morrow 
By  the  renewal  of  the  soft  warm  daylight.         [Exit. 


ACT  v.  — SCENE  1. 
A  Street  —  Morrung  Twilight. 

BIANCA. 

Where  have  I  been  ?  —  I  have  not  been  at  rest  — 

There  's  yet  the  stir  of  motion  in  my  limbs. 

Oh,  I  remember — 'twas  a  hideous  strife 

Within  my  brain  :  I  felt  that  all  was  hopeless. 

Yet  would  not  credit  it ;  and  I  set  forth 

To  tell  my  Fazio  so,  and  dared  not  front  him 

With  such  cold  comfort.    Then  a  mist  came  o'er  me. 

And  something  drove  me  on,  and  on,  and  on, 

Street  after  street,  each  blacker  than  the  other. 

And  a  blue  axe  did  shimmer  through  the  gloom  — 

Its  fiery  edge  did  waver  to  and  fro  — 

And  there  were  infants'  voices,  faint  and  failing. 

That  panted  after  me.     I  knew  I  fled  them  ; 

Yet  could  not  choose  but  fly.     And  then,  oh  then, 

I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  the  starless  darkness, 

And  blest  it  in  my  soul,  for  it  was  deeply 

And  beautifully  black  —  no  speck  of  light; 

And  I  had  feverish  and  fantastic  hopes, 

That  it  would  last  for  ever,  nor  give  place 

To  th'  horrible  to-morrow. Ha,  't  is  there  !  — 

'Tis  the  grey  morningdight  aches  in  mine  eyes  — 

It  is  that  morrow  I Ho  !  —  Look  out,  look  out  I 

With  what  a  hateful  and  unwonted  swiftness 

It  scares  my  comfortable  darkness  from  me  I 

Fool  that  I  am  I  —  I've  lost  the  few-  brief  hours 
Yet  left  me  of  my  Fazio  I  —  Oh,  away, 
Away  to  him  I  —  away  I  [ExiU 

267 


258 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Prison — totally  dark,  except  a  lamp. 

Fazio  aitd  Philario. 

FAZIO. 

I  thank  thee :  't  was  a  melancholy  hymn ; 

But  soft  and  soothing  as  the  gale  of  eve, 

The  gale,  whose  (lower-sweet  breath  no  more  shall 

pass  o'er  me. 
Oh,  what  a  gentle  ministrant  i.s  music 
To  piety — to  mild,  to  penitent  piety! 
Oh,  it  gives  plumage  to  the  tardy  prayer, 
That  lingers  in  our  lazy  earthly  air, 

And  melts  with  it  to  heaven To  die,  't  is  dreary ; 

To  die  a  villain's  death,  that 's  yet  a  pang. 
But  it  must  down  :  I  have  so  steep'd  my  soul 
In  the  bitter  ashes  of  true  penitence. 
That  they  have  put  on  a  delicious  savour, 
And  all  is  halcyon  quiet,  all  within. 

Bianca! — Where  is  she  ? — why  comes  she  not? 

Yet  I  do  almost  wish  her  not  to  come. 
Lest  she  again  enamour  me  of  life. 

PHILARIO. 

Hast  thou  no  charge  to  her,  no  fond  bequest  I — 
It  shall  lose  little  by  my  bearing  it. 

FAZIO. 

Oh  yes,  oh  yes! — I  have  her  picture  here  : 
That  I  had  seen  it  in  one  hour  of  my  life, 
In  Aldabella's  arms  had  it  look'd  on  me, 
I  should  have  had  one  sin  less  to  repent  of. 
I'm  loth  the  coarse  and  vulgar  executioner 
Should  handle  it  with  his  foul  gripe,  or  pass 
His  ribald  jests  upon  it. — Give  it  her. 

[^^  ilh  the  picture  he  draws  out  some  gold,  07i  which 
he  looks  with  great  apparent  melancholi/. 

PHILAUIO. 

And  this  too,  sir  ? 

FAZIO. 

Oh,  touch  it  not,  Philario  .•■ 
Oh,  touch  it  not ! — 't  is  venomous,  't  is  viperous  ! 
If  there  be  bottomless  sea,  unfathom'd  pit 
In  earth's  black  womb — oh,  plunge  it,  plunge  it  deep, 
Deep,  dark!  or  if  a  devil  be  abroad, 
Give  it  to  him,  to  bear  it  whence  it  came. 
To  its  own  native  Hell. — Oh  no,  no,  no ! — 
He  must  not  have  it :  for  with  it  he  '11  betray 
More  men,  more  noble  spirits  than  Lucifer 
Drew  down  from  heaven.     This  yellow  pestilence 
Laid  v\iiste  my  Eden  ;  made  a  gaudy  bird  of  me, 
For  soft  Temptation's  silken  nets  to  snare. 
It  crept  in  to  us — Sin  came  with  it — Misery 
Dogg'd  its  foul  footsteps — ever-deepening  Sin, 

And  ever-darkening  Miseiy. Philario, 

Away  with  it ! — away ! — {Takes  the  picture.)    Here  's 

fairer  gazing. 
Thou  wouldst  not  think  these  smooth  and  smiling  lips 
Could  speak  away  a  life — a  husband's  life. 
Yet  ah!  I  led  the  way  to  sin — I  wrong'd  her: 
Yet,  Heaven  be  witness,  though  I  v^rong'd  her,  loved 

her. 
E'en  in  my  heart  of  heart. 


Enter  Biaxca. 

Who 's  that,  Bianca, 

That  "s  loved  so  deeply? Fazio,  Fazio,  Fazic, — 

It  is  that  morrow ! 

FAZIO. 

Nay,  look  cheeringly : 
It  may  be  God  doth  punish  in  this  world 
To  spare  hereafter. 

BIANCA. 

Fazio,  set  me  loose  I — 
Thou  clasp'st  thy  murderess. 

FAZIO. 

No,  it  is  my  love, 
My  wife,  my  children's  mother! — Pardon  me, 

Bianca ;  but  thy  children 1  '11  not  see  them  : 

For  on  the  wax  of  a  soft  infant's  memory 
Things  horrible  sink  deep  and  sternly  settle. 
I  would  not  have  them,  in  their  after-days, 
Cherish  the  image  of  their  wretched  father 
In  the  cold  darkness  of  a  prison-house. 
Oh,  if  they  ask  thee  of  their  father,  tell  them 
That  he  is  dead,  but  say  not  how. 

EIANC.i. 

No,  no — 
Not  tell  them,  that  their  mother  murder'd  him. 

FAZIO. 

But  are  they  well,  my  love  ? 

BIA.NCA. 

What,  had  I  freed  them 
From  this  drear  villains'  earth,  sent  them  before  us, 
Lest  we  should  miss  them  in  another  world. 
And  so  be  fetter'd  by  a  cold  regret 
Of  this  sad  sunshine  ? 

FAZIO. 

Oh,  thou  hast  not  been 
So  wild  a  rebel  to  the  will  of  God  ! 
If  that  thou  hast,  'twill  make  my  passionate  arms, 
That  ring  thee  round  so  fondly,  dropoff  from  thee, 
Like  sere  and  wither'd  ivy;  make  my  farewell 
Spoken  in  such  suffocate  and  distemper'd  tone, 
'Twill  sound  more  like 

EIA.N'CA. 

They  live!  thank  God,  they  live! 
I  should  not  rack  thee  with  such  fantasies  : 
But  there  have  been  such  hideous  things  around  me, 
Some  whispering  me,  some  dragging  me;  I've  fell 
Not  half  a  moment's  calm  since  last  we  parted, 
So  exquisite,  so  gentle,  as  this  now — 
I  could  sleep  on  thy  bosom,  Fazio. 

Enter  A.vtonio. 

A.VTO.MO. 

Prisoner, 
Thine  hour  is  come. 

BIANCA. 

It  is  not  morning  yet — 
Where  is  the  twilight  that  should  usher  it? 
Where  is  the  sun,  that  should  come  golden  on ! 
Ill-favour'd  liar,  to  come  prate  of  morning, 
With  torchlight  in  thy  hand  to  scare  the  darkness. 

2(;8 


FAZIO. 


259 


ANTONIO. 

Thou  dost  forget ;  day's  light  ne'er  pierceth  here : 
The  sun  hath  kindled  up  the  open  air. 

BIANCA. 

I  say  'tis  but  an  hour  since  it  was  evening, 
A  dreary,  measureless,  and  mournful  hour, 
Yet  but  an  hour. 

FAZIO. 

I  will  obey  thee,  officer ! 
Yet  but  a  word — Bianca,  't  is  a  strange  one — 
Canst  thou  endure  it,  dearest! — Aldubella 

BIANC.\. 

Curse  her  I 

FAZIO. 

Peace,  peace! — 'tis  dangerous:  sinner's  curses 
Pluck  them  down  tenfold  from  the  angry  heavens 
Upon  the  curser's  head — Beseech  thee,  peace ! — 
Forgive  her — for  thy  Fazio's  sake,  forgive  her. 

BIANCA. 

Any  thing  not  to  think  on  her Not  yet — 

They  shall  not  kill  thee— by  my  faith  they  shall  not ! 
I  '11  clasp  mine  arms  so  closely  round  thy  neck. 
That  the  red  axe  shall  hew  them  off,  ere  shred 
A  hair  of  thee:  I  will  so  mingle  with  thee. 
That  they  shall  strike  at  random,  and  perchance 

Set  me  free  first 

[The  bell  sounds,  her  grasp  relaxes,  and  she 
stands  torpid. 
FAZIO  {kissing  her,  which  she  does  not  seem  to  be 
conscious  of.) 
Farewell,  farewell,  farewell! — 
She  does  not  feel,  she  does  not  feel ! — Thank  heaven. 
She  does  not  feel  her  Fazio's  last,  last  kiss! — 
One  other! — Cold  as  stone — sweet,  sweet  as  roses. 

[Exit. 
BIANCA  {slowly  recovering.) 
Gone,  gone ! — he  is  not  air  yet,  not  thin  spirit ! — 

He  should  not  glide  away — he  is  not  guilty 

Ye  murder  and  not  execute — Not  guilty. 

[Exit,  followed  by  Philario. 


SCENE  J II. 

A  magnificent  Apartment  in  the  Palace  of  Aldabella 
— Every  appearance  of  a  ball  prolonged  till  morning. 
— Duke,  Lords,  Falsetto,  Dandolo,  and  Alda- 
bella. 

DUKE. 

Tis  late,  'tis  late;  the  yellow  morning  light 
Streams  in  upon  our  sick  and  waning  lamps. 
It  was  a  jocund  night :  but  good  my  friends. 
The  sun  reproves  our  hngermg  revelry  ; 
And,  angry  at  our  scorning  of  his  state. 
Will  shine  the  slumber  from  our  heavy  eyes. 

GON.SALVO. 

There  'a  one,  my  liege,  will  sleep  more  calm  than  we : 
But  now  I  heard  the  bell  with  iron  tongue 
Speak  out  unto  the  still  and  solemn  air 
The  death-stroke  of  the  murderer  Fazio. 
•22  *  2 II 


DUKE. 

So,  lady,  fare  thee  well :  our  gentlest  thanks 
For  thy  fair  entertaining. — Ha!  what's  here?. 

Enter  Bianca,  followed  by  Philario. 

BIANCA. 

Ha!  ye  've  been  dancing,  dancing — so  have  I: 
But  mine  was  heavy  music,  slow  and  solemn — 
A  bell,  a  bell :  my  thick  blood  roU'd  to  it. 
My  heart  swung  to  and  fro,  a  dull  deep  motion. 

{Seeing  Aldabella.) 
'Tis  thou,  'tis  thou! — I  came  to  tell  thee  something. 

ALDABELLA  {alarmed  and  shrinking.) 
Ah  me!  ah  me! 

BIANCA. 

Nay,  shrink  not — I'll  not  kill  thee: 
For  if  I  do,  I  know,  in  the  other  world. 
Thou  'It  shoot  between  me  and  my  richest  joys. — 
Thou  shalt  stay  here — I  '11  have  him  there — all — all 
of  him. 

DUKE. 

What  means  the  wild-hair'd  maniac  ? 

BIANCA  {moving  him  aside.) 

By  and  by 

To  Aldabella. 
I  tell  thee,  that  warm  cheek  thy  lips  did  stray  on 
But  yesternight,  'tis  cold  and  colourless  : 
The  breath,  that  stirr'd  among  thy  jetty  locks. 
That  was  such  incense  to  thee — it  is  fled  : 
The  voice,  that  call'd  thee  then,  his  soul  of  soul — 
I  know  it — 't  was  his  favourite  phrase  of  love — 
I've  heard  it  many  a  time  myself — 'twas  rapturous; 
That  mild,  that  musical  voice  is  dumb  and  frozen  ; 
The  neck  whereon  thine  arms  did  hang  so  tenderly, 
There's  blood  upon  it,  blood — I  tell  thee,  blood. 
Dost  thou  hear  that?  is  thy  brain  fire  to  bear  it  ? 
Mine  is,  mine  is,  mine  is. 

duke. 

'Tis  Fazio's  wife. 

BIANCA. 

It  is  not  Fazio's  wife. — Have  the  dead  wives? 

Ay,  ay,  my  liege,  and  I  know  thee,  and  well — 

Thou  art  the  rich-rohed  minister  of  the  laws. 

Fine  laws!  rare  laws!  most  eipiitable  laws! 

Who  robs  his  neigiibour  of  his  yellow  dust. 

Or  his  bright  sparkling  stones,  or  such  gay  trash — 

Oh,  he  must  die,  die  f()r  the  public  good. 

And  if  one  steal  a  husband  (roin  his  wife. 

Do  dive  into  her  heart  for  iis  best  treasure. 

Do  rend  asunder  whom  Heaven  link'd  in  one — 

Oh,  they  are  meek,  and  merciful,  and  milky — 

'Tis  a  trick  of  human  frailty Oh,  fine  laws! 

Rare  laws !  most  equitable  laws ! 
duke. 

Poor  wretch. 
Who  is  it  thus  hath  wrong'd  thee  ? 

BIANCA  {to  the  Duke.) 

Come  thou  here. 
The  others  crowd  around  her — she  says  to  Falsetto, 
Get  back,  get  back :  the  god  that  thou  adoredst, 
Thy  god  is  dead,  thou  pitiful  idolater. 

To  Dandolo  {shoiring  fur  Driss., 
I  know  they  're  coarse  and  tatter'd — Get  thee  back. 

2G9 


260 


MILxMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  the  Duke. 

I  tell  thee,  that  rich  woman  —  she My  liege, 

I  '11  speak  anon  —  my  lips  do  cling  together  — 
There's  dust  about  my  tongue  —  I  cannot  move  it 

DL'KE. 

Ho,  there  I  —  some  wine ! 

BIANCA. 

Thank  thee,  'i  is  moist  —  1  thank  thee  ; 
(As  she  raises  the  goblet  to  her  lips,  she  sees  Aldabella, 

■  and  dashes  it  away.) 

Her  lips  have  been  upon  it  —  I  '11  have  none  on 't. 

ALDABELLA. 

My  liege,  thou  wilt  not  hearken  to  the  tale 
Of  a  mad  woman,  venting  her  sick  fancies 
Upon  a  lady  of  my  state  and  honour ! 

DUKE. 

Lady,  there  is  one  state  alone,  that  holds 
Above  the  range  of  plumed  and  restless  Justice 

Her  throned  majesty  —  the  state  of  Virtue. 

Poor  sad  distraught,  speak  on. 

BIANCA. 

I  am  not  mad. 
Thou  smooth-lipp'd  slanderer!  —  I  have  been  mad. 
And  then  my  words  came  vague,  and  loose,  and 

broken ; 
But  now,  there 's  mode  and  measure  in  my  speech. 
I  '11  hold  my  brain ;  and  then  I  '11  tell  my  tale 

Simply  and  clearly. Fazio,  my  poor  Fazio  — 

He  murder'd  not —  he  found  Bartolo  dead. 

The  wealth  did  shine  in  his  eyes,  and  he  was  dazzled. 

And  when  that  he  was  gaily  gilded  up. 

She,  she,  I  say  (nay,  keep  away  from  her. 

For  she  hath  witchcraft  all  around  her),  she 

Did  take  him  to  her  chamber Fie,  my  liege! 

What  should  my  husband  in  her  chamber  ?  —  Then, 
Ay  then,  I  madden'd. Hark!  hark!  hark!  —  the 

bell, 
The  bell  that  I  set  knolling  —  hark  !  —  Here,  here. 
Massy  and  cold  it  strikes — Here,  here.  {Clasping  her 

forehead.) 

GONSALVO. 

Sad  woman ! 
Tear  not  so  piteously  thy  disorder'd  hair! 

BIANCA. 

I  do  not  tear  my  hair :  there  should  be  pain 


If  that  I  did ;  but  all  my  pain 's  within  {with  her  hand 

to  her  bosom). 
It  will  not  break,  it  will  not  break  — 't  Is  iron. 

BUKE. 

If  this  be  true 

PHILARIO. 

My  liege,  it  is  the  tale 
That  Fazio  told  me  ere  he  died. 

BIANCA. 

Ay,  sir. 
The  dying  lie  not —  he,  a  dying  man. 
Lied  not  —  and  J,  a  dying  woman,  lie  not : 
For  I  shall  die,  spite  of  this  iron  here. 
DUKE  {to  Aldabella). 
There  is  confession  in  thy  guilty  cheeks. 
Thou  high-born  baseness !  beautiful  deformity ! 
Dishonour'd  honour!  —  How  hast  thou  discredited 
All  that  doth  fetter  admiration's  eye. 
And  made  us  out  of  love  with  loveliness ! 
I  do  condemn  thee,  woman,  by  the  warrant 
Of  this  my  ducal  diadem,  to  put  on  thee 
The  rigid  convent  vows :  there  bleach  anew 
Thy  sullied  breast ;  there  temper  thy  rank  blood ; 
Lay  ashes  to  thy  soul ;  swathe  thy  hot  skin 
In  sackcloth  ;  and  God  give  thee  length  of  days, 
T'  atone,  by  this  world's  miserj',  this  world's  sin. 

[Exit  Aldabella 

BIANCA. 

Bless  thee.  Heaven  bless  thee !  —  Yet  it  must  not  be. 
My  Fazio  said  we  must  forgive  her  —  Fazio 
Said  so ;  and  all  he  said  is  best  and  wisest. 

DUKE. 

She  shall  have  her  desert :  aught  more  to  ask  of  us? 

BIANCA. 

My  children — thou 'It  protect  them Oh,  my  liege. 

Make  them  not  rich  :  let  them  be  poor  and  honest. 

DUKE. 

I  will,  I  will. 

BIANCA. 

Why  then  'tis  time,  'tis  time. 
And  thou  believes!  he  is  no  murderer  ?    {Duke  bows 

assent.) 
Thou  'It  lay  me  near  him,  and  keep  her  away  from  us. 
It  breaks,  it  breaks,  it  breaks  —  it  is  not  iron. 

[Dies. 

270 


SAMOR. 


2G1 


Sftmor,  aortr  oC  tfit  JJtrCfitvt  ettfi- 


AN   HEROIC    POEM, 


et  o  ;  modo  spiritus  adsit, 

Frangam  Saxonicas  Britonum  sub  Marte  phalanges. 
MILTON,  Mansus. 


the  better  fortitude 


Of  patience  and  heroic  martyrdom. 

MILTON'S  Par.  Lost,  Book  IX. 


PREFACE. 


The  Historians*  of  the  Empire,  near  the  period  of 
time  at  which  this  Poem  commences,  make  mention 
o{  a  Constantine,  who  assumed  the  purple  of  the 
western  empire,  gained  possession  of  Gaul  and  Spain, 
but  was  defeated  and  slain  at  the  battle  of  Aries.  He 
had  a  son  named  Constans,  who  became  a  monk,  and 
was  put  to  death  at  ^'ienne. 

.•\bout  the  same  time  a  Constantine  appears  in  the 
relations  of  the  old  British  Chionicles  and  Romances. 
He  was  brother  of  the  king  of  Armorica,  and  became 
himself  King,  or  rather  an  elected  sovereign  of  the 
petty  Kings  of  Britain,!  w  ho  continued  their  succession 
under  the  Roman  dominion.  He  was  called  Vendi- 
gard{  and  Waredur,  the  Defender  and  Deliverer.  He 
had  three  sons,  Constans,  who  became  a  hermit,  and 
was  murdered,  either  (for  the  traditions  vary)  by  the 
Picts,  by  \'ortigern,  or  by  the  Saxons  ;  Emrys,  called 
by  the  Latin  writers  Anrelius  Ambrosius  ;  and  Uther 
Pendragon,  the  father  of  Arthur.  These  two  Con- 
stantines  are  here  identified,  and  Vortigern  supposed 
to  have  been  named  King  of  Britain,  as  the  person 
of  greatest  authority  and  conduct  in  the  wreck  of  the 
British  army,  defeated  at  Aries.  Many,  however,  of 
the  chiefs  in  the  Island  advancing  the  hereditary 
right,  before  formally  settled  on  the  sons  of  Constan- 
tine, Vortigern,  mistrusting  the  Britons,  and  prest  by 
invasions  of  the  Caledonians,  introduced  the  Saxons 
to  check  the  barbarians  and  strengthen  his  own  sove- 
reignty. 

The  Hero  of  the  Poem  is  an  historical  character,  as 
far  as  such  legends  can  be  called  History.  He  appears 
in  most  of  the  Chronicles,  as  Edol,  or  Eldol,  but  the 
fullest  account  of  his  exploits  is  in  Dugdale's  Baron- 
age under  his  title  of  Earl  of  Gloucester.  William 
flarrison,  however,  in  the  description  of  Britain  pre- 
fixed to  Holinshed,  calls  him  Eldulph  de  Samor.  But 
all  concur  in  ascribing  to  him  the  acts  which  make 
the  chief  subject  of  the  fifth  and  last  Books  of  this 
Poem. 

Most  of  our  present  names  of  places  being  purely 
Saxon,  and  the  old  British  having  little  of  harmony  or 

•Gibbon,  Chap.  31.       t  Whitaker,  Hist,  of  Mancliester. 
t  Lewis,  Hist,  of  Britain. 


association  to  recommend  them,  I  have  frequently,  on 
the  authority  of  Camden  and  others,  translated  them. 
Thus  the  Saxon  Gloucester,  called  by  the  Britons  Caer 
Gloew,  is  the  Bright  City.  TheDobuni,  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  \'ales,  are  called  by  that  name.  Some 
few  sanctioned  by  old  usages  of  Poetry  and  Romance 
I  retain,  as  Kent,  Thanet,  Cornwall.  London  is  Troy- 
novant,  as  the  City  of  the  Trinobantes. 

Some  passages  in  the  Poem  will  be  easily  traced  to 
their  acknowledged  sources,  the  Poets  of  Greece  and 
Italy  ;  one,  however,  in  the  third  book,  relating  to  the 
PCorthem  mythology,  has  been  remarkably  anticipated 
in  a  modern  Poem.  The  honourable  Author  may  be 
assured  that  the  coincidence  is  unintentional,  as  that 
part  of  this  Poem  was  the  earliest  written,  and  pre- 
vious to  the  appearance  of  his  production. 

SAMOR. 


BOOK  I. 
Land  of  my  birth,  O  Britain  !  and  my  love  ; 
Whose  air  I  breathe,  whose  earth  I  tread,  whose 

tongue 
My  song  would  speak,  its  strong  and  solemn  tones 
Most  proud,  if  I  abase  not.     Beauteous  Isle, 
And  plenteous !  what  though  in  thy  atmosphere 
Float  not  the  taintless  luxury  of  light. 
The  dazzling  azure  of  the  Southern  skies  ; 
Around  thee  the  rich  orb  of  thy  renown 
Spreads  stainless  and  unsullied  by  a  cloud. 
Though  thy  hills  blush  not  with  the  purple  vine, 
And  softer  climes  excel  thee  in  the  hue 
And  fragrance  of  thy  summer  fruits  and  flowers, 
Nor  flow  thy  rivers  over  golden  beds; 
Thou  in  the  soul  of  man,  thy  better  wealth, 
Art  richest :  nature's  noblest  produce  thou, 
The  immortal  Mind  in  perfect  height  and  strength, 
Bear'st  with  a  prodigal  opulence;  this  thy  right. 
Thy  privilege  of  climate  and  of  soil. 
Would  I  assert :  nor,  save  thy  fame,  invoke. 
Or  Nymph,  or  Muse,  that  oft  't  was  dream'd  of  old 
By  falls  of  waters  under  haunted  shades. 
Her  ecstasy  of  inspiration  fwur'd 
O'er  Poet's  soul,  and  flooded  all  his  p<jwers 
271 


262 


OILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  liquid  glory:  so  may  thy  renown 

Bum  in  my  heart,  and  give  to  thought  and  word 

The  aspiring  and  the  radiant  hue  ol"  fire. 

Forth  from  the  gates  of  Troynovant  hath  pass'd 
Kmg  Vortigern ;  the  Princes  of  the  Isle 
Around  him ;  on  the  walls,  for  then  (though  now 
Scorn  bounds  her  mighty  wilderness  of  streets, 
And  in  magnificence  of  multitude 
Spread,  and  illimitable  grandeur),  wails 
With  jealous  circuit  and  embattled  range 
Girt  Britain's  narrow  Capital ;  where  swarm'd 
Eager  her  wondering  citizens  to  see 
The  Monarch.     Him  the  Saxon  Hengist  met, 
And  Horsa,  with  their  bands  in  triumph  led, 
As  from  a  recent  victory  ,■  their  blue  eyes 
Sparkled,  and  proud  they  shook  their  saffi-on  hair; 
And  in  the  bicker  of  their  spears,  the  toss 
Of  ponderous  mallets,  the  quick  flash  of  swords, 
Th'  emblazon'd  White  Horse  on  their  banners  waved, 
Was  triumph.    Thus  King  Vortigern  began: 

"  Welcome,  Deliverers  I  of  our  kingdom's  foes, 
Welcome,  thrice-honour"d  Conquerors!  never  more 
Shall  painted  Caledonian  o'er  our  realm 
The  chariots  of  his  rapine  wheel,  so  full 
The  desolation,  havoc  so  complete 
Hath  smote  and  blasted  in  Erie  Hengist's  path. 
The  mouldering  ruins  of  our  Roman  wall. 
Leagued  with  the  terror  of  the  Saxon  pame. 
Shall  be  defence  more  mighty,  than  when  soar'd 
Its  battlements  unbroken,  and  above 
The  imperial  Eagle  shook  its  wings  of  gold. 
Oh,  toil'd  with  victory,  burthen'd  with  renown, 
For  ye  our  baths  float  cool  and  clear,  our  air 
Is  redolent  with  garland  wreathes,  and  rich 
Within  our  royal  citadel  is  crown'd 
For  ye  the  banquet ;  welcome  once  again, 
Mighty  to  save,  and  potent  to  defend  ! " 
A  faint  acclaim,  a  feeble  sullen  din 
Ensued,  with  less  of  gladness  than  fierce  grief^ 
And  wrath  ill  stifled.    Seeming  all  unmoved, 
Elate  the  Monarch  onward  led  the  way  ; 
Slow  follow'd  Saxon  Hengist's  martial  train. 
Clashing  their  armour  loud,  as  they  would  daunt 
All  Britain  with  the  clamour:  march'd  behind 
The  island  .\oblcs,  save  some  restless  hands 
Were  busy  with  their  sheathed  swords,  they  moved 
Silent,  and  cold,  and  gloomy,  as  a  range 
Of  mountain  pines,  when  cloudy  lowers  the  storm. 

Upon  Vho  azure  bosom  of  the  Thame.s 
Reclining,  with  its  ponderous  mass  of  shade. 
Arose  the  royal  Citadel,  the  work 
Of  the  great  Cffisar.     Danger  he  and  dread 
Of  Rome  and  Pompey  ;  yet  'gainst  savage  foes 
Vantage  of  trench  and  tower  and  massy  wall 
Scorn 'd  not,  so  swift,  so  perilous,  so  fierce 
Cassivelan  his  painted  charioteers 
Whirl'd  to  the  frantic  onset,  standing  forth 
Portent  of  freedom  'mid  a  world  enslaved. 

They  pass'd  the  portal  arch  :  the  sumptuous  hall 
Flung  back  its  gates  ;  around  the  banquet  board 
Ranged  Prince  and  Chieftain,  where  luxurious  art 


Shower'd  prodigal  her  dainties,  poisons  sweet, 
And  baleful  splendour.     F'ierce  the  Saxon  gazed 
On  goblet,  and  huge  charger  carved  with  gold, 
Contemptuous  -wonder.     But  the  Monarch's  brow 
'Gan  lighten,  as  with  greedy  joy  he  quaffd 
Oblivious  bliss  ;  thus  ever  guilty  soul 
Woos  frenzy,  and,  voluptuous  from  despair, 
Forgets  itself  to  pleasure.     High  aloof. 
Each  in  his  azure  robe,  the  band  of  Bards 
Mingled  the  wanton  luxuries  of  sound  ; 
Gentle  melodious  languor,  melting  fall. 
With  faint  effeminate  flattery  the  soul 
Gulling  of  manhood.     Silent  veil'd  his  harp 
White-hair'd  Aneurin,  and  indignant  tears 
Stood  in  the  old  man's  eye,  for  wrathful  shame 
To  hear  his  god-like  and  heaven-breathing  art 
Pampering  loose  revels  with  officious  chime. 
Then  rose  the  glorious  madness;  forth  he  sprung 
With  one  rude  stroke  along  the  clashing  chords 
Won  silence  deep  as  of  a  summer  eve 
After  a  noontide  storm  ;  his  silver  locks 
Waved  proud,  the  kindling  frenzy  of  his  eye 
Flash'd  triumph,  as  the  song  of  Chariots  rose. 
The  song  that  o'er  the  van  of  battle  shower'd 
Pale  horror,  when  that  scourged  Icenian  Queen 
Through  the  scjuare  legions  drove  her  car;  were  heard 
Her  brazen  wheels  to  madden,  the  keen  scythes 
Gride  through  their  iron  harvest ;  then  rush'd  rout. 
Wail'd  havoc  ;  seem'd  Bonduca  fiercer  urged 
The  trampling  steeds ;  behind  her  silence  sank 
Along  the  dreary  path  of  her  revenge. 

Ceased  the  bold  strain,  then  deep  the  Saxon  drain'd 
The  ruddy  cup,  and  savage  joy  uncouth 
Lit  his  blue  gleaming  eyes :  nor  sate  unmoved 
The  Briton  Chiefs  ;  fierce  thoughts  began  to  rise 
Of  ancient  wars,  and  high  ancestral  fame. 
Sudden  came  floating  through  the  hall  an  air 
So  strangely  sweet,  the  o'erwrought  sense  scarce  felt 
Its  rich  excess  of  pleasure;  softer  sounds 
Melt  never  on  the  enchanted  midnight  cool. 
By  haunted  spring,  where  elfin  dancers  trace 
Green  circlets  on  the  moonlight  dews  ;  nor  lull 
Becalmed  mariner  from  rocks,  where  basks 
At  summer  noon  the  Sea-maid  ;  he  his  oar 
Breathless  suspends,  and  motionless  his  bark 
Sleeps  on  the  sleeping  waters.     Aow  the  notes 
So  gently  died  away,  the  silence  seem'd 
Melodious;  merry  now  and  light  and  blithe 
They  dune  ed  on  air  :  anon  came  tripping  forth 
In  frolic  grace  a  maiden  troop,  their  locks 
Hower-wreath'd,  their  snowy  robes  from  clasped  zone 
Fell  careless  dreoping,  quick  their  gluiering  feet 
Glanced  o'er  the  pavement.    Then  the  pomj)  of  sound 
Swell'd  up,  and  mounted  ;  as  the  stately  swan. 
Her  milk-white  neck  embower'd  in  arching  spray. 
Queens  it  along  the  waters,  entered  in 
The  lofty  hall  a  shape  so  fair,  it  lull'd 
The  music  into  silence,  yet  itself 
Poiir'd  out,  prolonging  the  soft  ecsta.sy. 
The  trembling  and  the  touching  of  sweet  sound. 
Her  grace  of  motion  and  of  look,  the  smooth 
And  swimming  majesty  of  step  and  tread. 


SAMOR. 


203 


The  symmetry  of  form  and  featute,  set 

The  soul  afloat,  even  like  delicious  airs 

Of  flule  or  harp :  as  though  she  trod  from  earth, 

And  round  her  wore  an  emanating  cloud 

Of  harmony,  the  Lady  moved.    Too  proud 

For  less  than  absolute  command,  too  soft 

For  aught  but  gentle  amorous  thought :  iier  hair 

Cluster'd,  as  from  an  orb  of  gold  cast  out 

A  dazzling  and  o'erpowering  radiance,  save 

Here  and  there  on  her  snowy  neck  reposed 

In  a  soothed  brilliance  some  thin  wandering  tress. 

The  azure  flashing  of  her  eye  was  fringed 

With  virgin  meekness,  and  her  tread,  that  seem'd 

Earth  to  disdain,  as  softly  fell  on  it 

As  the  light  dew-shower  on  a  tuft  of  flowers. 

The  soul  within  seem'd  feasting  on  high  thoughts. 

That  to  the  outward  form  and  feature  gave 

A  loveliness  of  scorn,  scorn  that  to  feel 

Was  bliss,  was  sweet  indulgence.     Fast  sank  back 

Those  her  fair  harbingers,  their  modest  eyes. 

Downcast,  and  drooping  low  their  slender  necks 

In  graceful  reverence  ;  she,  by  wond'ring  gaze 

Unmoved,  and  stifled  murmurs  of  applause, 

Nor  yet  unconscious,  slowly  won  her  way 

To  where  the  King,  amid  the  festal  pomp. 

Sate  loftiest ;  as  she  raised  a  fair-chased  cup, 

Something  of  sweet  confusion  overspread 

Her  features  ;  something  tremulous  broke  in 

On  her  half-failing  accents  as  she  said, 

"Health  to  the  King!"  —  the  sparkling  wine  laugh'd 

up. 
As  eager  't  were  to  touch  so  fair  a  lip. 

A  moment,  and  the  apparition  bright 
Had  parted  ;  as  before  the  sound  of  harps 
Was  wantoning  about  the  festive  hall. 

As  one  just  waking  from  a  blissful  dream 
Nor  moves,  nor  breathes,  lest  breath  or  motion  break 
The  beauteous  tissue  of  fine  form  woven  o'er 
His  fancy,  sate  King  Vortigem.     "  Whence  came. 
And  whither  went  she  ?  of  what  race  and  stem 
Sprang  this  bright  wonder  of  our  earth,  that  leaves 
The  rapture  of  her  presence  in  our  hall, 
Though  parted  thence  too  swiftly  ?" — "  King  (replied 
Erie  Hengist)  —  in  our  ancient  Saxon  faith, 
111  bodes  the  joyless  feast,  where  maiden's  lips 
Pledge  not  the  wassail  goblet."  —  "By  my  soul," 
Cried  \'ortigern,  "  a  gallant  faith  .'  and  I 
Omen  so  sweet  discredit  not ;  the  health 
Those  smooth  lips  wish'd  me,  well  those  lips  might 

g'lve, 
A  fragrance  and  a  sparkling  have  they  left 
Even  on  the  wine  they  louch'd."    He  said,  and  prest 
The  goblet  to  his  own.    "  A  father's  ear. 
King  Vortigem,  must  love  the  flattering  tongue 
That  descants  lavish  on  his  daughter's  praise." 
"Thy  daughter?    Saxon  I" — "Mine,   though  vaunt 

not  I 
Her  beauty,  many  a  German  r>le  and  King 
Hath  vow'd  at  his  life's  peril  to  proclaim 
Her  far-surpassing  comeliness."  —  None  heard 
The  secret  converse  that  ensued.    Lo,  rose 


King  \'ortigern,  and  from  his  brow  traneferr'd 
A  coronet  of  radiant  Eastern  gems 
To  the  white  hair  of  Hengist,  and  drank  off 
A  brimming  cup.  and  cried,  "To  Kent's  high  King, 
A  health,  a  health  to  Nortigern's  fair  bride. 
The  golden-hair'd  Rowcna."  —  Seized  at  once 
Each  Saxon  the  exulting  strain,  and  struck 
The  wine-drain'd  goblet  down,  "Ileallh,  King  of 
Kent!" 

As  'mid  the  fabled  Libyan  bridal  stood 
Perseus,  in  stern  tranquillity  of  wrath. 
Half  stood,  half  floated  on  his  ancle  plumes 
Out-swelling,  while  the  bright  face  on  his  shield 
Look'd  into  stone  the  raging  fray  ;  so  rose. 
But  with  no  magic  arms,  wearing  alone 
Th'  appalling  and  control  of  his  firm  look, 
The  solemn  indignation  of  his  brow. 
The  Briton  Samor ;  at  his  rising,  awe 
Went  abroad,  and  the  riotous  hall  was  mute  ; 
But  like  unruffled  summer  waters  flow'd 
His  speech,  and  courtly  reverence  smoothed  its  tone, 

"  Sovereign  of  Britain's  Sovereigns!  of  our  crowns 
The  highest!  in  our  realm  of  many  thrones 
Enthroned  the  loftiest  I  mighty  as  thou  art. 
Thou  dost  outstep  thy  amplitude  of  sway; 
Thine  is  our  isle  to  govern,  not  to  give  ; 
A  free  and  sacred  property  hast  thou 
In  our  allegiance ;  for  a  master's  right 
Over  our  lives,  our  princedoms,  and  our  souls. 
King  \"ortigern,  as  well  may'st  thou  presume 
To  a  dominion  o'er  our  winds,  to  set 
Thy  stamp  and  impress  on  our  light  from  heaven. 
This  Britain  cannot  rest  beneath  the  shade 
Of  Saxon  empire,  this  our  Christian  soil 
The  harvest  of  obedience  will  not  bear 
To  Heathen  sway  ;  and  hear  me,  Vortigem, 
The  golden  image  that  thou  settest  up. 
Like  the  pride-drunken  Babylonian  king. 
Though  dulcimer  and  psaltery  soothe  us  down 
To  the  soft  humour  of  submission  lame. 
We  will  not  worship."  —  From  the  hall  he  past, 
Thus  saying.     Him  the  Island's  bravo  and  proud 
Follow'd,  the  high  and  fame-enamour'd  souls, 
Never  to  Britain  wanting,  though  in  hours 
Loosest  of  revels  soft,  and  wanton  ease. 
But  \'ortigern,  more  largely  pouring  in 
The  vine's  delicious  poison,  sate,  and  cried, 
"  Whom  the  flax  binds  not,  must  the  iron  gyve. 
Whom  sceptres  daunt  not,  must  the  sword  control." 

Evening  fell  gentle,  and  the  brilliant  sun 
Was  going  down  into  the  waveless  Thames, 
As  bearing  light  and  warmth  to  her  cold  Nymphs 
Within  their  crystal  chambers,  when  the  King 
Left  the  hall  of  ban(|uet.     Lofiy  and  alone, 
Even  as  the  Pillar  great  Alcides  set. 
The  limit  of  the  world  and  his  renown. 
On  Caipe,  round  whose  shaft  the  daylight  wreathed 
Its  last  empurpling,  on  the  battlements 
Stood  Samor  in  the  amethystine  light. 
And  "  Go  to  darkness,  thou  majestic  orb  I 
£73 


264 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To-morrow  shall  the  nations  bask  again 

In  thy  full  glory." — Thus  he  said,  and  turn'd 

To  where  the  King  went  rapid  past. — "And  thou, 

Thou  to  thy  setting  hasiest,  never  more 

Thou  thy  benighted  splendour  to  renew  ; 

Late  at  thy  noon  of  pride,  now  sunk,  declined 

For  ever  from  thy  i'air  meridian,  go 

Into  thy  cloudy  rest!" — The  solemn  tone 

Of  his  deep  voice  seized  on  the  King,  as  frosts 

Arrest  the  rapid  flowing  stream — "  What  means 

The  Sovereign  of  the  \'ales,  even  in  my  halls, 

And  on  my  castle  battlements,  to  cast 

Bold  scorn  on  Britain's  King  ?    Ingrate  and  blind, 

When  I  the  valiant  Saxon  have  brought  in 

To  check  the  Caledonian,  through  your  isle 

Marching  by  wild  light  of  your  burning  towns; 

Ye,  wedded  to  your  sorrow  and  your  shame, 

Mock  at  the  safety  my  free  love  provides." 

"Ah,  provident!  ah,  sage!  ah,  generous  King! 

That  sets  the  emaciate  wolf  to  dog  the  flock ; 

The  hawk  to  guard  the  dovecote. "—"Wise-lipp'd  chief, 

I  thank  thee  for  thy  phrase  :  doves  are  ye,  doves 

That  fly  with  piteous  and  most  delicate  speed 

Before  the  Scottish  kites,  that  swoop  your  nests 

And  flesh  their  greedy  talons  in  your  j-oung." — 

"  Monarch !  the  eaglet,  were  it  smoothly  nurst 

In  the  dove's  downy  nest,  at  its  first  flight 

Would  shrink  down  dazzled  from  the  morning  sun  ; 

But  with  strong  plumes  refresh'd,  anon  'twould  claim 

Its  old  aspiring  birthright,  and  unblench'd 

Bathe  in  the  bickering  of  the  noontide  car. 

Oh,  w-e  have  slumber'd  on  soft  luxury's  lap 

To  her  loose  tabret ;  but,  misjudging  King  ! 

Britain  is  like  her  soil ;  above  the  turf 

Lies  velvet  smooth,  hard  iron  lurks  beneath. 

I  know  the  northern  Pagans  waste  our  land. 

And  the  tame  mission  to  the  Roman  sent 

I  know :   '  The  fierce  Barbarian  to  the  sea 

Drives  us,  the  sea  to  the  Barbarian  back 

Merciless:'  so  ran  the  plaintive  legend.   True! 

But  soldiers  would  it  cast  us  back  ;  despair 

Hath  its  ovv'n  valour ;  war  makes  warriors.  King ! 

Calamities  are  on  us,  evil  days 

O'er  our  isle  darken,  but  the  noble  wear 

Disaster,  as  an  Angel  wears  his  wings. 

To  elevate  and  glorify.   Nor  us 

Shroudeth  alone  the  enveloping  gloom,  the  frame 

And  fabric  of  our  world  is  breaking  up. 

Rome's  dome  of  empire,  that  o'ervaulted  earth 

With  its  capacious  shadow,  rent  and  split. 

Disorders  the  smooth  course  of  human  things, 

Leaving  confusion  lord  of  this  wide  ball. 

While  to  and  fro  the  Nations  sway  perplex'd. 

Like  a  tempestuous  sea.  Oh,  'mid  such  wreck. 

Our  Britain  in  lone  safety  to  uphold. 

On  every  side  'gainst  gathering  foes  present 

A  rampire  of  hard  steel,  or  firmer  far. 

The  bulwark  of  a  haughty  spirit  pour'd 

From  the  throned  Sovereign  through  her  sons,  were 

pride. 
Were  honour,  might  arrest  Heaven's  plumed  hosts, 
And  in  their  sphere-born  music  win  renown. 
So  He  whose  sceptre  glitters  in  thy  grasp, 


He  the  Deliverer,  the  Defender  named, 

So  Constantine  had  done,  had  the  high  Soul's  bane, 

Ambition,  never  madden'd  him  to  wear 

The  purple,  madly  worn,  yet  nobly  lost 

On  the  sad  plam  by  Aries." — "  I  knew,  I  knew 

'T  would  come  to  this,  that  Constantine  would  end 

The  high-wrought  orat'ry.    This  too  I  know,  ' 

And  this  I  tell  thee,  Samor !  nor  yet  add 

Rebel !  thy  secret  commerce  with  his  sons, 

To  undermine  my  stately  throne  ;  the  right. 

So  babble  ye  in  your  licentious  phrase, 

Conferr'd  by  our  assembled  British  Kings 

On  Constantine  for  ever  and  his  heirs." — 

"Alas  !  how  better  were  it  to  know  nought. 
Than,  like  kings,  darkly.    Constantine's  brave  sons 
And  Samor  oft  have  met,  have  met  to  wail 
The  hazard  of  their  native  land,  to  swear 
Before  the  altar  of  the  eternal  God, 
Never,  amid  these  rude  and  perilous  times, 
To  blow  the  trump  of  civil  strife,  to  prop 
With  their  allegiance  Britain's  throne,  though  fill'd 
By  one  they  deem  usurping.    Vortigern  ! 
I  am  upon  the  string  that  jars  thy  soul. 
And  it  must  vibrate  to  its  highest  pitch. 
Oh  what  a  royal  madness,  that  might  build 
Upon  the  strong  rock  of  a  people's  love. 
Yet  chooseth  the  loose  quicksand  of  distrust. 
And  overlays  the  palace  of  his  pride 
With  a  rude  Saxon  buttress,  whose  stern  weight 
Must  crush  it.    Thou  dost  fear  thy  subjects  arm'd. 
Fear,  lest  the  old  valiance  in  their  hearts  inure. 
And  therefore  fight'st  their  wars  with  foreign  steel ; 
And  is  this  he,  the  noble  and  the  wise, 
The  Vortigern,  that  Britain  on  the  plain 
Of  Aries,  that  fatal  plain,  hail'd  Captain,  King? 
Arise,  be  King,  be  Captain,  be  thyself! 
And  we  will  stand  around  thy  throne,  and  mock 
The  ruinous  fashion  of  the  times." — "Away  ! 
My  ro}'al  word  is  to  the  Saxon  given." 
"O,  Vortigern!  this  knee  hath  never bow'd. 
Save  to  the  King  of  kings,  thus  low  on  earth 
I  sue  thee,  cast  the  Saxon  off." — At  once 
The  swift  contagious  grandeur  set  on  fire 
The  Monarch — "  I  am  thine,  am  Britain's  all : 
Now  by  my  throne,  thus,  thus  1  have  not  felt. 
Since  first  this  circling  gold  eat  in  my  brow. 
So  free,  so  upright,  and  so  kingly,  chains 
Fall  from  me,  mists  are  curling  off  my  soul." 

Like  two  bold  venturers,  silently  they  stand. 
Launching  amid  the  sun-light  their  rich  bark 
O'er  glassy  waters  to  the  summer  airs  : 
Their  solemn  pondering  hath  the  lofty  look 
Of  vaunting,  over  each  high  brow  flames  out 
A  noble  rivalry  of  hope  and  pride. 

The  sound  of  wheels,  lo,  sliding  came  and  smooth 
A  car,  wherein,  like  some  fair  idol  led 
Through  the  mute  tumult  of  adoring  streets, 
Bright-hair'd  Rovvena  pass'd  the  jwrtul  arch. 

Have  ye  a  sense,  ye  gales,  a  conscious  joy 
In  beauty,  that  with  such  an  artful  touch 
And  light  ve  float  about  her  garment  folds, 
274 


SAMOR. 


265 


Displaying  what  is  exquisite  display'^. 
And  tliiidy  scattering  the  light  veil  wliere'er 
Its  shadowing  may  enhance  the  grace,  and  swell 
With  sweet  olliciciusness  the  clustering  hair 
Where  fairest  tufts  its  richness,  and  let  fall 
Where  drooping  most  becomes ;  that  thus  ye  love 
To  lose  yourselves  about  her,  and  expire 
Upon  her  shape,  or  snow-white  robes  ?     She  stood, 
Her  ivory  arm  in  a  soft  curve  stretch'd  out. 
As  only  in  the  obedience  of  her  steeds 
Rejoicing ;  they  their  necks  arch'd  proud  and  high, 
And  by  Iter  delicate  and  flower-soft  hands 
Swav'd,  as  enamour'd  of  her  mastery  moved, 
Lovingly  on  their  bright-chafed  bits  reposed. 
Or  in  gay  sport  upon  each  other  fawn'd. 
But  as  the  Monarch  she  beheld,  she  caught 
The  slack  rein  up,  and  with  unconscious  check 
Delay'd  the  vvillmg  coursers,  and  her  head, 
Upon  her  snowy  shoulder  half  declined 
In  languor  of  enjoyment,  rising  wore 
Rosy  confusion,  and  disorder  fair 
Transiently  on  her  pride  of  motion  broke. 
Or  chance,  or  meaning  wander'd  to  his  face 
Her  eye,  with  half  command,  entreating  half; 
Haughty  to  all  the  world,  but  mild  to  him, 
Th'  all  admired  admiring,  and  th'  all  awing  awed  — 
She  look'd  on  him,  and  trembled  as  she  look'd. 
Alone  she  came,  alone  she  went  not  on. 


BOOK  n. 


Xoox  13  ablaze  in  Heaven,  but  gloom,  the  gl(K)m 
Of  the  brown  forest's  massy  vault  of  shade, 
Is  o'er  the  Kings  of  Britain  ;  the  broad  oaks, 
As  in  protection  of  that  conclave  proud, 
Like  some  old  temple's  dome,  with  mingling  shade 
Meet  overhead,  around  their  rugged  trunks 
Show  like  fantastic  pillars  closely  set 
By  Druids  iii  mysterious  circle,  wont 
Here,  when  the  earth  abroad  was  bright  and  clear 
With  moonshine,  to  install  their  midnight  rites 
By  blue  nor  earthly  kindled  fires,  while  Bards 
Pour'd  more  than  music  from  their  charmed  harps. 
Each  on  his  mossy  seat,  in  arms  that  cast 
A  glimmer  which  is  hardly  light,  they  sit 
Colossal,  stern,  and  still ;  on  everj-  brow 
Indignant  sorrow  and  sad  vengeance  lowers. 
Them  had  the  Pagan  peasant  deem'd  his  gods, 
In  cloudy  wrath  down  stooping  from  the  heavens 
To  blast  the  mighty  of  mankind,  and  wreak 
On  8ome  old  empire  ruin  and  revenge. 

And  first  majestical,  yet  mild,  arce 
A  lofty  shape,  nor  less  than  monarch  seem'd. 
Whose  royal  look  from  souls  b<jld,  brave,  and  free. 
Not  stooping  slavery  claim'd,  but  upright  awe 
And  noble  homage;  yet  uncrown'd  he  wore 
Dominion,  him  with  stately  reverence  heard 
That  armed  Senate.    *'  Princes  of  the  land. 
Lords  of  the  old  hereditary  thrones 
Of  Britain,  we,  the  sons  of  CorLstantine, 


Emrys  and  Uther,  come  not  here  to  charge 

Inconstant  counsel  on  your  wisdom,  nought 

Arraigning,  that  the  sceptre  to  our  line 

Solemnly  given,  in  those  disastrous  days, 

When  for  the  Empire  of  the  Occident, 

For  Gaul  o'er-masler'd,  and  submitted  Spain, 

Warr'd  Constantine,  and  warring  nobly  fell, 

Ye  placed  in  elder  hand,  our  right  foregone 

For  the  more  precious  public  weal :  oh,  Chiefs; 

'T  was  well  and  wisely  done  ;  a  strijiling's  arm 

May  rear  the  kingly  standard  in  its  jwmp 

To  play  with  Zephyrs  under  cloudless  skies, 

But  when  the  rude  storm  shakes  ii.s  ponderous  folds 

'T  were  hard  for  less  than  the  consummate  man 

Aloft  to  bear  it,  yet  unstooping.     Well 

Stemm'd  your  new  standard-bearer  \'ortigern 

The  o'ershadowing  tempest,  nor  abased  his  front 

Your  crown's  old  glories;  till,  alas  !  dire  change! 

Dread  fall !  the  sceptre  that  ye  fiindly  hoped, 

Would  blossom,  like  the  Hebrew  Illerarch's  rod. 

With  the  almond  bloom  of  mercy  and  of  love, 

Liker  the  Egyptian  magic-worker's  wand 

Became  a  serpent,  withering  all  your  peace 

With  its  infection:  then  your  virtues  wrought 

Your  sorrows,  from  your  valour  grew  your  shame. 

Your  borders  were  o'erleap'd,  your  towns  on  fire. 

And  the  land  groan'd  beneath  fierce  Rapine's  wheels 

Ye  cried  unto  your  King  lor  arms,  he  sage 

In  cold  and  jealous  wisdom  fear'd  to  arm, 

Whose  arms  might  brave  himself,  and  cast  control 

On  the  fierce  wanderings  of  his  royal  will. 

Saxons  must  fight  our  wars,  our  hard-wrung  gold 

Buy  us  ignoble  safety,  till  the  slaves 

Swell'd  into  Lords,  and  realms  must  pamper 

Our  hirelings  into  Princes  :  Kent,  fair  Kent, 

The  frontlet  of  our  isle,  where  yet  are  seen 

The  graves  great  C.T?sar  peopled  with  his  dead. 

When  on  his  rear  the  Briton  conqueror  hung. 

Where  first  the  banner  of  the  Cross  was  waved, 

Sinks  to  a  Heathen  province.     Warriors  I  Kings! 

This  must  not  be  among  baptized  men, 

This  cannot  be  'mong  Britons.    Therefore  here. 

Here  in  your  presence  dare  we  call  again, 

Your  throne  our  throne,  and  challenge  in  your  love 

A  Sovereign's  title  :  by  our  youth  we  fell 

From  that  great  height,  but  Vortigern  hath  fall'n 

By  his  own  guilt;  we  therefore  rise  again 

In  majesty  renew'd  ;  he  falls,  no  more 

To  soar  into  the  sacred  royal  scat." 

Thereat  with  concord  loud,  and  stern  acclaim, 

Gave  answer  that  proud  Senate,  and  denounced 

Judgment  irrevocable.     But  with  mien 

Somewhat  appall'd,  as  one  in  high  debate. 

And  solemn  council  unassay'd,  arose 

Prince  Uther:  ere  he  spake  his  clanging  mail 

Smote  with  fierce  stroke,  as  audience  to  enchain. 

Himself  the  battle  sound  enkindling,  high 

His  haughty  brow  and  crested  helm  upflung. 

Thus  rude  his  fiery  eloquence  pour'd  forth. 

"  Warriors  of  Britain!  me  nor  pomp  of  vv'ords 
Beseems,  nor  strife  of  smooth  and  liquid  phrase, 
In  the  debate  of  swords,  the  fray  of  steeds 


266 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


No  combatant  unskill'd.    I  will  not  boast 

That  I  have  brook'd  with  Emrys'  patient  pride 

A  sceptre's  loss :  a  boy,  I  wept  to  hear 

My  father's  crown  was  on  a  stranger's  brow. 

But  when  my  arm  'gan  grasp  a  sword,  those  tears, 

Those  soft  unseemly  waters,  turn'd  to  hues 

Of  burning  indignation ;  every  crown 

Show'd,  every  kingly  title  to  my  ear 

Sounded  a  scorn  and  shame.    Even  at  his  height 

And  plenitude  of  power  I  yearn'd  to  rise 

Against  th'  enthroned  Usurper  —  now,  O  Kings! 

Thus  charter'd,  thus  commission'd,  thus  array'd, 

With  what  a  noble  frenzy  will  we  rush. 

Trampling  the  wreck  of  Saxon  and  of  King  ; 

Our  path  shall  be  as  rapid  and  as  bright 

As  summer  meteor,  more  pernicious,  that 

Waning  into  the  dull  unkindling  air. 

We  burning,  desolating  as  we  pass. 

On,  Britons,  on  I  a  tyrant  fdls  jour  throne, 

Nor  fitter  monument  may  tyrant  find 

Than  his  throne's  ruins ;  let  the  flat  earth  close 

O'er  both  at  once ;  the  stranger  Saxon  lords 

Within  our  isle,  the  seas  that  bore  him  here 

In  his  storm-braving  navy,  bear  him  back 

Weltering  and  tossing  in  their  drowning  surge.'' 

Low'ring  he  stood,  still  in  fierce  act  of  speech, 
Yet  speechless.     Sudden,  then,  in  dread  uproar 
Rose  shout  of  war,  witli  thundering  clash  of  arms 
Mingled,  then  hurrying  spears  and  nodding  helms 
With  glittering  tumult  in  the  pale  gloom  flash'd  ; 
War,  war  each  voice,  each  stricken  shield  denounced. 

Amid  the  multitudinous  din  arose 
Solemnly  the  Bright  City's  Lord  ;  down  sunk 
Instant  all  tumult,  broke  abruptly  off 
Fierce  voice  and  cla.sh  of  arms  :  so  mute  and  deep 
Settled  the  silence,  the  low  sound  was  heard 
Of  distant  waterfall ;  the  acorn  drop 
From  the  green  arch  above.     Still  and  abash'd 
Sate  the  fierce  conclave,  while  with  mild  reproof 
Winning  all  hearts,  the  gracious  Chieftain  spake. 

"  Brave  sight  for  earth,  and  heaven !  it  doth  not  fail. 
A  nation's  cry  for  freedom  and  for  faith. 
Nor  faint,  nor  deaden  in  the  mist  and  gloom 
Of  this  low  earth,  it  takes  the  morning's  wings, 
Passeth  the  crystal  skies,  and  beats  heaven's  gate  ; 
There  glideth  through  the  gladdening  Angel  choirs, 
That  fan  it  onward  wilh  their  favouring  plumes, 
To  the  eternal  sapphire  throne,  and  him 
That  sits  thereon.  Ineffable.     O  Kings  ! 
Our  council  thus  appealing  may  not  wear 
Seeming  of  earthly  passion,  lust  of  sway. 
Or  frenetic  vengeance  :  v\e  must  rise  in  wrath, 
But  wear  it  as  a  mourner's  robe  of  grief. 
Not  as  a  garb  of  joy:  must  boldly  strike. 
But  like  the  Roman,  with  reverted  face, 
In  sorrow  to  be  so  enforced.     Brave  Chiefs, 
It  would  misseem  a  son  of  this  proud  isle, 
To  trample  on  the  fallen,  though  a  King; 
It  would  misseem  a  Christian  to  rejoice 
Where  virtue  hath  piay'd  false,  and  fame's  pure  light 
Hath  sicken'd  to  dishonourable  gloom. 


Vortigem  is  our  foe,  no  more  our  King, 

Vet  king  he  hath  been,  king  he  had  been  still, 

Had  never  his  high  vaulting  pride  disdain'd 

The  smooth  dominion  of  old  use,  nor  striven 

To  fix  on  our  impatient  necks  the  yoke 

Of  foreign  usurpation  ;  our  free  land 

Will  not  endure  the  heathen  Saxon's  rule. 

Nor  him  that  rules  by  heathen  Saxon  power. 

So  march  we  forth  in  th'  armour  of  our  right. 

From  our  once  King  not  fiiUing  off  in  hate 

Or  fickleness,  but  by  severe  constraint 

Of  duty  to  ourselves  and  to  our  God. 

So  march  we  forth,  and  in  such  state  may  make 

Our  mother  land  to  vaunt  of  us  :  raise  up. 

Side  by  side,  the  fair  airs  to  captivate  i 

To  an  approval  of  our  upright  deed,  j 

Our  royal  banner  and  the  Cross  of  Christ ;  i 

And  move  within  their  cirque  of  splendour,  calm, 

And  yet  resistless  as  the  bright-maned  steeds 

That  bear  the  Morn  to  disenthrone  old  Night. 

"  And  now  our  kingly  sceptre,  forced  aside, 
By  stress  and  pressure  of  disorder'd  times, 
Devious  into  an  alien  hand,  reverts 
To  the  old  line ;  the  heir  of  Constantine, 
Constans,  the  elder  than  this  noble  pair. 
Stands  foremost  on  succession's  golden  rail. 
Nor  know  not  I  his  gentle  soul  more  apt. 
To  listen  the  soft  flowing  vesper  hymn, 
Than  danger's  spirit-stirring  trump,  yet  deem, 
Thus  once  forewarn'd  't  is  dangerous  to  divert 
The  stream  of  royal  blood,  that  broken,  pours 
Waters  of  bitterness  and  civil  strife 
O'er  th'  harass'd  land,  and  therefore  thus  hail  I 
Constans  the  King  of  Britain.    Speak  I  right  ? 
I  pause,  and  wait,  O  Chiefs !  your  high  award." 

He  ceased,  nor  time  for  voice  or  swift  acclaim,      ^ 
Scov^ling  a  sullen  laugh  of  scorn,  leap'd  forih 
The  mountain  King,  the  Sovereign  of  the  lakes 
And  dales  this  side  the  Caledonian  bound  ; 
lie  only,  when  the  Kings  sate  awe-struck,  stood 
Elate  with  mocking  pity  in  his  frown ; 
A  mighty  savage,  hejof  God  and  man 
Alike  contemptuous  :  nought  of  Christian  lore 
Knew  he,  yet  scoff 'd  unknown,  't  was  peaceful,  meek. 
Thence  worthless  knowledge.    Him  deligliled  more 
Ilelvellyn's  cloud-wrapt  brow  to  climb,  and  share 
The  eagle's  stormy  solitude  ;  'mid  wreck 
Of  whirlwinds  and  dire  lightnings  huge  he  stood, 
Where  his  own  Gods  he  deem'd  on  volleying  cloudB     i 
Abroad  were  riding  and  black  hurricane.  I 

Them  in  their  misty  pride  assail'd  he  oft 
With  impious  threat,  and  laugh'd  when  th'  echoing 

glens 
His  wild  defiance  cast  unanswer'd  back. 
Now  with  curl'd  lip  of  scorn,  and  brow  uplift,  . 

Lordly  command,  not  counsel  fierce  he  spake.  j 

— '  Shame,  coward  shame !  as  though  the  fowls  of  | 

heaven. 
When  in  dusk  majesty  and  pride  of  wing 
Sails  forth  the  monarch  eagle,  down  should  stoop 
In  homage  to  the  daw.    O  craven  souls  !  '  ^ 

When  Snowdon  or  high  Skiddaw's  brow  is  bare,  j 

276 


S  A  M  O  R . 


2r>: 


To  plant  the  stately  standard  of  revolt 

Upon  a  molehill.     Constans  !  that  to  lilni 

Caswallon  should  Iww  down  ;  aloft  our  crown 

Upon  the  giddy  banner  sialf,  that  nicks 

On  Troynovant's  tall  ciladel,  uphang, 

And  who  the  diz/y  glory  will  rend  down,  I 

Or  Constans  or  Caswallon  ?  The  bright  throne 

Environ  with  grim  ranks  of  steel-girt  men  : 

Huge  Saxons  black  with  grisly  scars  of  war, 

Who  first  will  hew  to  that  triumphal  scat  I 

His  ruinous  path  ?     Hear,  sceptred  [iritons,  hear, 

A  counsel  worthy  the  deep  thoughts  of  kings:  i 

Of  valorous  achievement  and  bold  deeds  ; 

Be  guerdon  to  the  mightiest  of  our  Isle,  ; 

The  Sov'reignty  of  Drilain  ;  spurn  my  voice, 

And  I  renounce  your  cotnisels,  cast  you  off| 

And  with  my  hardy  vassals  of  tiie  north 

I  join  the  Saxon." — Then  fierce  sounds  again 

Bnike  out,  wan  (lames  of  brandish 'd  armour  flash'd. 

In  nide  disord(  r  and  infuriate  haste 

S;>rang  every  warrior  from  his  seat,  as  clouds 

Amid  the  sultry  heaven,  thimderoiis  and  vast, 

Gatlier  their  blackening  disarray  to  burst 

Upon  some  mountain  turret,  so  the  Chiefs 

Banded  their  fierce  confusion  to  rush  on, 

And  whelm  in  his  insulting  pride  the  foe. 

He  stood  as  one  in  joy.  and  lower'd  a  smile. 

With  wolf-skin  robe  tlang  back,  broad  shield  out- 

stretcird, 
A  battle-axe  iip'ift:  vaunting  and  huge 
As  tabled  giant  on  embattled  Heaven, 
Glaring  not  less  than  utter  overthrow. 
And  total  wreck.     Forthwith  a  youth  rush'd  out, 
His  moonv  buckler  high  upheld  to  bar 
The  onset,  and  with  voice,  w  Inch  youthful  awe 
Temper'd  to  tone  less  resolute,  address"d 
The  haughty  Chieftain.     "  Father,  deem  not  thou, 
Malwvn  confederate  in  thy  lawless  thought  ; 
Mine  is  a  Brit(m's  soul,  a  Briton's  sword, 
But  mortal  man  that  seeks  thy  life,  must  pass 
O'er  Mai  wvn's  corpse."  Back  Chief  and  King  recoil'd. 
In  breathless  admiration.     Nobler  pride. 
And  human  joy  almost  to  -softness  smoothed 
Caswallon 's  rugged  brow.     "  Well  hast  thou  said, 
Son  of  Caswallon,  worthy  of  thy  sire  ! 
On  thine  own  track  mount  thou  to  fame,  nor  swerve 
For  man,  or  more  than  man." —  .•^  while  the  Kings 
Brief  parley  held,  then  stately  and  severe 
Rose  Emrjs,  and  pronounced  their  stern  arrest. 

•'  Caswallon  of  the  Mountains,  long  our  isle 
Hath  mark'd  thy  wavering  mood,  now  friend  now 

foe; 
Now  in  the  Caledonian  inroad  prompt 
To  bear  thy  stare  ni  rapine,  foremost  now 
In  our  high  councils.    This  we  further  say. 
We  scorn  thy  war,  Caswallon,  hate  thy  peace, 
And  deem  it  of  our  mercy  that,  unscathed, 
We  ban  thee  from  our  presence."     Xor  reply 
Caswallon  deign'd  ;  calm  strode  he  as  in  scorn 
Of  wrath  'gainst  foes  so  lowly.     Far  was  heard 
His  tread  along  the  rocky  path,  the  crash 
Of  branches  rent  bv  his  nnstooping  helm. 
•23  ■        -Z I 


They  in  blank  wonder  sate,  nor  wholly  quell'd 
Wrath  and  insulted  majesty,  with  look 
As  he  were  still  in  presence  fix'd,  and  stern. 
Then  spake  Prince  Kmrys,  "  IVot  of  trivial  toil 
To  shape  the  rude  trunk  of  our  enterprise 
To  smooth  perfection  ,-  deeply  must  we  found. 
And  strongly  build  the  fabric  of  our  hopes. 
And  each  must  hold  his  charge.     Be,  Samor,  thine 
To  bear  our  brother  Constans  Britain's  crown. 
In  name  of  our  assembled  Kings.     Be  mine 
From  the  Armoric  shore.  King  Iloel's  realm, 
(Our  father's  brother.  Iloel)  to  embark 
The  succours  of  his  high-famed  Chivalry. 
Thou,  Uther,  to  the  West ;  each  other  King 
Unto  his  own,  at  signal  of  revolt 
To  lead  his  armed  Vassalage  abroad." 

So  saying,  each  departed  ;  fell  again 
The  ancient  silence  on  the  solemn  place. 

Together  from  the  forest  pass'd  the  friends, 
Samor  and  Elidure  ;  below  their  way 
Went  wandering  on  through  llowery  meads,  or  sank 
Beneath  green  arches  dim  of  beechen  shade. 
Around  the  golden  hills  in  summer  wealth 
Bask'd  in  the  sunshine  ;  on  a  river  bank 
Long  gleaming  down  its  woodland  course,  reposed 
Many  a  white  hamlet :  even  fierce  shrines  of  war 
Wore  aspect  mild  of  peace  ;  towers  dark  of  yore 
And  rugged  in  the  Roman  war  array, 
With  wanton  ivy  and  grey  moss  o'ergrown. 
Their  green  crowns  melted  in  the  azure  heavens. 

"Oh  grief!  o'er  yon  fair  meads  and  smiling  lawns 
Must  steeds  of  carnage  batten,  men  of  blood 
Their  fell  magnificence  of  murderous  pomp 
Pavilion  in  yon  placid  groves  of  peace. 
The  blood-thirst  savages  of  wood  and  air. 
In  meet  abodes  of  wilderness  and  woe. 
Shroud  their  abhorred  revels ;  the  gaunt  wolf 
Prowls  gloomy  o'er  the  wintry  blasted  heath  ; 
Brood  desolate  on  some  bare  mountain  peak 
Raven  and  screaming  vulture.    Man,  fell  man. 
Envious  of  bliss  he  scorns,  'mid  haunts  of  peace. 
Spots  fair  and  blissful,  the  rare  stars  of  earth. 
Plays  ever  his  foul  game  of  spoil  and  death. 
Ruthless,  then  vaunts  himself  Creation's  pride, 
Supreme  o'er  all  alone  in  deeds  of  blood." 

Thus  Elidure  ;  him  Samor,  from  deep  trance 
Wakening,  address'd  :  "  Soft  man  of  peace,  my  prayer 
Would  ask  of  heaven  no  theatre  of  strife 
Save  yon  fair  plain  :  there  forth  the  weak  would  start 
In  the  tumultuous  valour  of  despair. 
The  timorous  proudly  tower  in  scorn  oi'  death  : 
There,  where  each  tree,  each  dell,  each  grassy  knoll. 
Lovely  from  memory  of  some  past  delight. 
Is  kindred  to  the  soul ;  his  house  of  prayer. 
The  altar  of  his  bridal  vow,  the  font 
Of  his  sweet  infant's  baptism,  kindred  all, 
Holiest  and  last,  his  fathers'  peaceful  graves  : 
Oh,  were  all  Britain,  like  yon  beauteous  plain. 
Blissful  and  free,  that  angels  there  might  walk 
Forsetful  of  their  heavenly  Iwwers  of  light. 


2G8 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Friend  of  my  boyhood,  these  all-conquering  foes, 
Who  fetter  the  free  winds,  and  ride  the  sea 
Kinglike,  their  menacing  prows  would  turn  aloof, 
And  bitterly,  in  baffled  lust  of  prey, 
Curse  the  proud  happiness  that  mock'd  their  might." 

Lo,  here  he  paused,  gay  files  of  dazzling  light 
Slow  o'er  the  plain  advancing,  indistinct 
From  their  full  brightness  ;  gradual  the  long  blaze 
Broke  into  form,  and  lance  and  bow  and  helm, 
Standard  and  streamer,  chariot  and  fiir  steed. 
Start  from  the  mingled  splendour.     On  their  height 
Unseen,  the  Chieftains  watch'd  the  winding  pomp. 
And  all  before  the  azure-vested  Bards 
From  glancing  in.slruments  shook  bridal  glee. 
Then  came  the  gorgeous  chariots,  rough  with  gold. 
And  steeds   their   proud   heads   nodding   with   rich 

weight 
Of   frontlet   wreathed  with  flowers    and    shadowy 

plumes ; 
Therein  sate  ladies  robed  in  costly  stale. 
Each  like  a  Queen  ;  the  noble  charioteers, 
Briton  in  garb,  with  purple  mantle  loose. 
O'er  steel,  in  network  bright,  or  scale  o'er  scale, 
Glittering,  and  aventayle  barr'd  close  and  firm, 
As  yet  the  gaudy  traitors  shamed  to  meet 
The  cold  keen  glance  of  countrymen  betray'd. 
Dark  in  their  iron  arms,  some  wildly  girt 
With  Caledonian  spoils,  their  yellow  hair 
Down  from  the  casque  in  broad  luxuriant  flow 
Spreading,  and  lofty  banner  wide  display'd, 
Whereon  a  milk-white  courser  reinless  shone, 
Paced  forth  the  Saxon  warriors.    High  o'er  all. 
Tempestuous  Horsa,  chafing  his  hot  steed, 
And  Hengist  with  his  wreath  of  amber  beads,"* 
His  hoary  strength,  in  spite  of  age  or  toil, 
A  tower  of  might ;  with  that  tall  grove  of  spears, 
Circled,  and  rampire  close  of  serried  shields. 
The  bridegroom  Monarch  rode,  his  bright  attire 
Peaceful,  as  fitting  nuptial  pomp,  his  robe 
Rich-floating  strew'd  the  earth  with  purple  shade, 
And  on  his  lofty  brow  a  regal  crown, 
Bright  as  a  wreath  of  sunbeams  ;  high  his  arm 
The  ivory  sceptre  bore  of  kingly  sway  : 
Yet  who  his  mien  and  bearing  watch'd  had  seen 
Dim  gleam  of  jealous  steel,  or  lurking  mail 
Beneath  those  glorious  trappings,  for  his  gaze, 
IVow  jocund,  changed  anon  to  wandermg  stare. 
Fearful  and  wild,  as  the  still  air  were  rife 
With  vengeful  javelins  showering  death  ;  his  pace 
Hurried,  yet  tardy,  as  of  one  who  rides 
O'er  land  still  tottering  with  an  earthcjuake  shock. 

And  him  beside,  on  snowy  palfrey,  deck'd 
With  silver  bells  its  pendent  mane  profuse, 
Of  silver  and  of  stainless  crmelin 
The  bright  caparisons,  and  all  her  robes 
White  as  of  woven  lily  cups,  the  I?ride 
Majestic  rode  as  on  a  waving  throne. 
Her  sunbright  hair  she  waved,  and  smiled  around, 
As  though,  of  less  than  kingly  Paramour 

*  He  ii  80  decoratod  by  the  Welsh  Poets.    See  Transl.  of  the 
I5rut.  of  Tysilio,  by  Peter  Roberts. 


Scornful,  she  said,  Lo,  Britain,  through  your  land 
I  lead  the  enthralled  sovereign  of  your  isle. 
Yet  so  surpassing  fair,  brief  instant  wish'd 
Those  wrathful  Briton  Chiefs  their  leafy  screen 
A  thin  transparent  cloud  :  of  his  high  charge 
Brief  while  forgetful,  Samor  stood  entranced, 
Fearing  her  form  should  fleet  too  swift  away. 

Came  it  from  earth  or  air,  yon  savage  shape, 
His  garb,  if  garb  it  be,  of  shaggy  hair 
Close  folding  o'er  his  dusky  limbs,  his  locks 
And  waving  matted  beard  like  cypress  boughs 
On  bleak  heath  swaying  to  the  midnight  storm  ? 
Came  he  from  yon  deep  wood  ?  On  the  light  spray 
No  leaf  is  stirring.     On  the  winged  winds 
Rode  he  ?     No  breeze  awakes  the  noontide  air. 
'Mid  that  arm'd  throng,  dismaying,  undisraay'd, 
With  a  strange  eye  dilated,  as  unused 
To  common  sights  of  earth,  and  voice  that  seem'd 
Rarely  to  hold  discourse  with  human  ears, 
"Joy,"  and  again,  and  thrice  he  uttered  "Joy." 
Cower'd  Horsa  on  his  palsied  steed  ;  aghast. 
As  toiling  to  despise  the  thing  he  fear'd. 
Sate  Hengist.    "  Joy  to  Bridegroom  and  to  Bride ! 
Why  should  not  man  rejoice,  and  earth  be  glad  ? 
Beyond  the  sphere  of  man,  the  round  of  earth, 
There  's  loud  rejoicing ;  'i  is  not  in  the  heavens ! 
And  many  ministrant  Angels  shake  their  wings 
In  gladness,  wings  that  are  not  plumed  with  light. 
The  dead  are  jocund,  not  the  dead  in  bliss. 
Your  couch  is  blest  —  by  all  whose  blessings  blast. 
All  things  unlovely  gratulateyonr  love. 
I  see  the  nuptial  pomp,  the  nuptial  song 
I  hear,  and  full  the  pomp,  for  Hale,  and  Fear, 
And  excellent  Dishonour,  and  bright  Shame, 
And  rose-cheek'd  Grief,  and  jovial  Discontent, 
And  that  majestic  herald,  Infamy, 
And  that  high  noble.  Servitude,  are  there, 
A  blithesome  troop,  a  gay  and  festive  crew. 
And  the  Land's  curses  are  the  bridal  hymn; 
Sweetly  and  shrilly  doth  th' accordant  Isle 
Imprecate  the  glad  Ilymenean  song. 
So  joy  again,  I  say,  lo  Britain's  King, 
That  taketh  to  his  bosom  Britain's  fate. 
Her  beautiful  destruction  to  his  bed. 
And  joy  to  Britain's  Queen,  who  hears  her  Lord 
So  bright  a  dowry  and  profuse,  long  years 
Of  war  and  havoc,  and  fair  streams  of  blood. 
And  plenteous  ruin,  loss  of  crown  and  fame. 
And  fiill  perdition  of  the  immortal  soul; 
So  thrice  again  I  utter  'joy,'  'joy,'  'joy!'  " 

Then  up  sprung  spear  to  strike,  and  bicker'd  bow 
Ere  spear  could  strike,  or  shaft  could  fly,  the  path 
Was  bare  and  vacant ;  shape  nor  sound  remain'd  ; 
Only  the  voice  of  Vortigern  moan'd  out, 
"  Merlin," —  and  on  the  long  procession  pass'd. 

Down  in  a  quiet  dale,  where  beechen  groves 
With  interchanging  gold  and  glossy  green 
O'ermanlled  the  smooth  slopes,  that  fell  around 
Like  a  fair  amphitheatre,  beneath 
A  brook  went  wand'ring  through  fresh  meadow  banks, 

278 


SAMOR. 


209 


t    With  a  cool  summer  dashing,  here  the  Chiefs 
'     The  royal  Hermit  met,  his  gentle  brow 
;     Smooth  as  a  sliimberin:;  Angel's  plumes  (effaced 
'     All  traces  of  this  rude  and  wearing  earth, 
.     All  brands  of  fiery  passions,  wild  desires) 
Wore  that  calm  holiness  the  sainted  dead 
Smile  on  the  visions  of  their  loved  on  earth  : 
His  life  was  like  a  sleep,  with  heavenly  sights, 
And  harmonies,  as  of  angelic  sounds 
Visited  ever,  nor  his  barren  heart 
Touch'd  not  tlie  light  affections,  trembled  not 
His  spirit  with  love's  fervent  swell,  but  all 
Most  wont  to  bear  man's  soul  to  earth,  round  him 
As  the  thin  m<irning  clouds  around  the  lark, 
Gather'd,  to  float  him  upward  to  the  heavens. 

They  at  his  feet  down  laid  the  kingly  crown, 
Fulfiird  their  lofty  mission.     He,  the  while, 
With  that  mild  sadness  he  had  watch'd  the  leaves 
Drip  from  the  sere  autumnal  bough,  survey'd 
Its  stately  glittering.     "  Man  of  earth,  why  mock, 
With  gaudy  pageantry,  and  titled  pomp, 
The  frail  and  transient  pilgrims  of  this  world. 
The  fading  flag-flower  on  yon  streamlet  brink, 
Were  garland  meeter  for  our  mortal  brows 
Than  yon  rich  blaze  of  gems."     "  Prince,"  Samor 

spake, 
"Sweet  is  it  down  the  silent  vale  of  life 
To  glide  away,  of  all  but  Heaven  forgot, 
Forgetting  all  but  Heaven.    Of  king-born  men. 
Lords  of  mankind,  high  delegates  of  Heaven, 
Loftier  the  doom,  their  rare  prerogative 
The  luxury  of  conferring  bliss.    Oh,  Prince  ! 
Not  by  the  stream  to  slumber,  nor  to  waste 
Idly  in  joyous  dreams  the  drowsy  hours. 
Hath  Heaven  thy  kingly  heritage  ordain'd ; 
Set  badge  of  tlmpiry  on  thy  brow  :  of  god 
The  noblest  service  is  to  serve  mankind. 
To  save  a  nation  all  a  mortal's  power, 
To  imitate  the  Saviour  of  the  world." 

Calm  answer'd  Constans :  "  Earth's  exalted  fame. 
Grandeurs  and  glories  gleam  upon  my  soul 
Like  wintery  sun-light  on  a  plain  of  snow. 
With  prayers,  a  Hermit's  arms,  I  aid  your  cause — 
Farewell.  Why  pause  ye,  as  to  question  more 
The  wisdom  of  my  choice — lo,  yon  fair  orb  ; 
How  spotle.=s  the  fine  azure  where  he  holds 
His  secret  palace,  knows  not  his  pure  light 
A  stain  of  dimness,  till  th'  abode  of  men 
Pours  o'er  it  its  infectious  mists."     "Oh,  Prince  I 
'Tis  not  the  glory  of  that  peerless  light, 
The  barren  glittering,  the  unfruitful  waste 
Of  splendofir  on  the  still  inanimate  skies; 
It  is  the  life,  the  motion,  and  the  joy 
It  breathes  along  this  world  of  man,  the  broad 
Munificence  of  blessing  that  awakes. 
And  in  its  rapturous  gratitude  springs  up, 
To  glorify  its  bounteous  source  of  pride." 

"  I  see  thy  brow  at  thine  own  words  on  fire ; 
Mine,  Samor,  yet  is  calm  and  cold."     "  Dost  thou, 
Constans,  all  title,  claim,  and  right  renounce 


To  Britain's  throne  ? "    "  Even  free  as  I  renounce 
The  everlasting  enemy  of  man." 
"  Will  thy  voice  mingle  with  the  general  cry, 
"Long  live  King  Emrj's  ? '  " — "  Long  may  Emrys  live, 
Even  the  eternal  life  beyond  the  grave." 

"  Yet  one  word  more  ;  'tis  perilous  in  the  storm   ' 
For  the  tall  pine,  nor  less,  in  evil  days. 
For  the  high-born  and  exalted  of  the  state. 
The  Saxon  blood-hounds  are  abroad  for  prey. 
Seek  thou  some  quiet  solitude  remote. 
Beyond  their  prowling  range." — His  arm  to  Heavet\ 
Slowly  uplifted,  "  Will  they  reach  me  there  >." 
Spake  the  meek  Hermit,  "  there  is  rest  secure." 

They  parted;  gentle  Elidure  alone. 
Lingering  with  somewhat  of  an  envious  gaze, 
View'd  the  deep  quiet  of  that  placid  dell. 

That  night  were  seen  along  the  dusky  wood. 
Of  more  than  human  stature  moving  forms. 
Pale  faces  circled  with  black  iron  helms, 
JVot  of  the  Briton  shape  their  garb  or  arms; 
Stealthy  their  pace  and  slow;  the  peasants  thought 
Demons  of  evil  that  sad  night  had  power. 
And  pray'd  Heaven's  grace  to  guard  the  saintly  man. 

At  morn  roved  forth  the  peasant,  down  the  dale 
His  dog  went  bounding  to  the  Hermit's  cell. 
For  all  mute  creatures  loved  the  man  of  (jod. 
A  quick  and  desolate  moaning  nearer  call'd 
The  peasant ;  in  ofTicious  grief  the  dog 
Stood  licking  the  cold  hand  that  drooping  hung 
Lifeless  ;  the  mild  composure  of  his  brow 
On  the  cross  rested ;  praying  he  had  died. 
And  his  cold  features  yet  were  smiling  prayer. 


BOOK  III. 


Orient  the  bright-hair'd  Charioteer  of  heaven 
Pour'd  daylight  from  his  opal  wheels,  and  struck 
From  the  blue  pavement  of  the  sky  clear  flakes 
Of  azure  light  upon  the  Eastern  sea. 
And  as  the  grey  mists  slow  ly  curl'd  away, 
Rose  the  white  clifl's  of  Kent,  like  palace  fair. 
Or  fane  of  snowy  marble,  lo  enshrine 
Blue  Amphitrite,  or  the  Sea-Gods  old 
Of  Pagan  mariner.     Rode  tall  below 
The  Saxon  navy,  as  from  midnight  sleep 
Wakening  ;  the  grey  sails  in  the  breeze  of  morn 
'Gan  tremble,  gleaming  oars  flash  in  the  spray. 
The  Sea-Kings  on  the  beach  in  parley  stern 
Were  met,  nor  less  than  nation's  doom  aiul  fate 
Of  kingdoms  in  their  voice.     Lo,  in  the  midst 
Stood  huge  Caswallon;  word  of  mild  salute 
Deign'd  not,  but  thus  addrest  the  Ocean  Lord. 

"Saxon  !  that  o'er  this  fair  and  princely  isle 
Thou  wouldst  win  empire  by  the  sword  of  war, 
I  marvel  not,  arraign  not — 'tis  a  dream. 
Noble  as  o'er  the  heavens  to  walk  abroad, 
270 


270 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Compaiuon  of  yon  bright  majestic  sun. 
IS'ow,  by  my  gloi^',  Saxon,  mortal  peer 
Never  (^aswallon  brook'd,  save  thee  alone, 
Thee,  rival  in  his  race  of  pride  anil  fwvver. 
Arm'd  with  myself  and  all  tti' embattled  North, 
IS'ot  Roman  Britons,  sons  of  sires  who  dash'd 
Tiie  purple  Conquerors'  haughty  wall  to  earth, 
Aiid   trampled    their  strewn   ramparts ;    who  ne'er 

deign'd 
Barter  for  gaudy  robe  and  marble  pile. 
Fierce  naked  freedom,  and  wild  mountain  cave, 
Will  I,  and  thou  wiih  Saxon  spears  begirt, 
Bow  this  fair  Britain  to  our  lordly  sway. 
Then  will  we  two,  from  pale  perplexed  earth 
Seen,  like  twin  meteoi-s  battling  in  high  heaven. 
On  some  lone  eminence  wage  glorious  strife. 
Sole  empire  meed  of  conquest,  of  defeat 
Utter  annihilation,  dark  and  full, 
Solace  and  lofty  comfoit."     Bold  he  paused, 
Nor  Hengi-st  with  pale  sign  of  awe  or  dread 
Shamed  the  proud  peerage,  but  with  hardy  speech 
Guileful,  won  faith  by  seeming  scorn  of  guile. 

"  Briton,  to  dare  high  deeds,  and  to  disown, 
Argues  a  wavering  valour;  the  firm  soul 
\'aunts  resolute  its  lofty  dangerous  scope. 
To  us  our  gods  o'er  ocean  and  its  shores 
Kingly  dominion  and  wide  sway  have  given  ; 
Were  insult  to  our  might  and  base  reproach. 
The  freedom  of  one  sea-girt  isle,  to  thee 
Honouring,  not  fearing,  'mid  our  prime  we  grant 
Transcendent  state,  and  eminence  of  power. 
Now  speed  we  of  th'  immortal  Powers  in  Heaven, 
Our  high  omniscient  Fathers,  to  demand 
If  on  the  eternal  shield  of  fiite  be  graven 
Ruin  or  Conquest,  ere  to  bold  emprize 
We  gird  our  brazen  arms." — "  Of  mighty  men 
The  gods  are  mighty,  whom  the  Saxon  fears. 
The  jiaramount  of  men,  't  were  rash  to  scorn. 
No  calm  and  sunshine  deities  of  peace." — 

So  spake  Caswallon,  the  mild  faith  of  Christ 
Scoffing  with  covert  mockery ;  thus  th'  All  Wise 
The  imaginations  of  the  proud  on  earth 
Silent  endures,  till  some  brief  point  of  time 
Crumbles  the  high-built  insolence  of  years. 

"  Wilt  thou  behold  our  gods?"  fierce  Ilorsa  cried. 
"  Then  mount  the  bark,  abroad  her  wings  are  spread. 
And  fleet  along  the  obedient  <ieep  she  speeds. 
Fear  not,  proud  Briton." — "Fear!"  Caswallon  cried  ; 
All  iron  as  he  stood,  o'er  surf,  surge,  wave 
He  bounded,  hollow  rang  his  heavy  arms. 
The  bark  her  tall  side  to  the  troubled  waves 
Stoop'd  groaning;  nor  delay "d  the  Ocean  King. 

•'  Brother,  fiirevvell !  not  singly  the  bold  wolf 
Scatters  the  mountain  herd  ;  in  grim  repose 
He  rests  exppclarit  of  his  kindred  troop. 
Numberless  from  their  shaasiv  dens  they  sweep, 
And  spacious  o'er  the  antler'd  monarch's  realm 
Spreads  the  wide  ravage  of  their  musler'd  might." 
Stern  Horsa  bow'd  assent,  yet  paused  to  watch 
The  proud  bark  tilting  o'er  the  azure  plain. 
Stately  she  rode  her  path  of  light,  her  sails 


In  dalliance  with  the  courteous  winds:  bold  Man! 
Well  may  thy  full  heart  bound :  in  earth  and  air 
The  thunder-maned  steed,  the  eagle  throned 
In  the  pavilion  of  his  plumes,  stand  forth 
Creation's  glories;  but  the  noblest  shape 
That  walks  the  deep  thy  workmanship  sublime 
Ovvneth,  and  starts  from  thee  to  life,     \aunt  thou, 
Yet  humbly  vaunt,  all  greatness  is  from  God. 

What  dolphin  glancing  in  his  silver  sport. 
More  graceful  with  translucent  pinion  parts 
The  liquid  azure?  what  Leviathan, 
Huge  heaving  on  the  thick  Norwegian  foam. 
More  lordly  than  the  white-wing'd  bark,  that  wafta 
The  Sea  King  o'er  his  empire  ?  the  fair  waves 
Rise  in  their  gamesome  turbulence,  and  pay 
Wild  homage  to  that  royal  Mariner. 

The  motion  and  the  murmur  of  the  deep. 
The  rushing  of  the  silent,  solemn  sky. 
Each  in  its  deep  abyss  and  pure  expanse, 
Seeming  its  secret  mysteries  of  might. 
Its  ruling  soul  of  everlastuig  change, 
To  veil  from  mortal  knowledge,  ever  pour, 
O'er  savage  ev'n  and  rude,  tumultuous  awe. 
And  exultation  of  a  pleasing  dread. 
From  dizzy  notions  of  infinity, 
Vague  sense  of  ever-duriug  sights  and  sounds, 
Inactive  though  the  body,  the  free  spirit, 
X'agrant  along  the  illimitable  void, 
Perils  uncouth  and  rich  uncertainties 
Ranges  in  restless  round,  plucks  treasures  rare, 
That  gem  the  caverns  of  the  hoary  deep. 
Or  bathes  witli  sea-maids  in  their  crj-stal  bowers. 
Or  with  gay  creatures  and  fantastical 
Peoples  some  dreamy  land  ;  such  joys  of  old 
Lured  the  fierce  Saxon  from  his  darksome  woods. 
To  launch  along  the  vast  and  barren  sea. 
Such  joys  through  this  long  voyage,  wean'd  brief 

while 
From  thoughts  of  war  and  war-won  empire  wide. 
Haughty  Caswallon,  or  from  him  assumed 
Fierce  aspect,  and  a  battailous  character. 

"T  was  midnight,  but  a  rich  unnatural  dawn 
Sheets  the  fired  Arctic  heaven ;  forth  springs  an  arch 
O'erspanning  with  a  crystal  pathway  pure 
The  starry  sky,  as  though  for  gods  to  march. 
With  show  of  heavenly  warfare  daunting  earth, 
To  that  wild  revel  of  the  northern  clouds. 
That  now  with  broad  and  bannery  light  distinct. 
Stream  in  iheir  restless  wavings  to  and  fro, 
While  the  sea-billows  gleam  them  mellower  back ; 
Anon  like  slender  lances  bright  upstart, 
And  clash  and  cross  with  hurtle  and  with  flash. 
Tilting  their  airy  tournament. — "  Brave  signs," 
Cried  Ilengist;  "lo,  our  gods  their  standards  rear. 
And  with  glad  omen  of  immortal  strife 
Salute  our  high-wing'd  pnrjxjse." — "Yea  (return 'd 
Caswallon)  from  mine  own  Helvellyn's  brow, 
Never  a  brighter  conOict  in  the  skies 
Tauffht  me  that  war  was  dear  in  Heaven  :  dream  ye. 
Of  tamer  faith  in  gentle  Southern  skies 
Your  smooth  and  basking  deities  ;  our  North 
2S0 


SAM  OR. 


271 


Woos  not  with  tender  hues  and  sunny  smiles 
Soft  worship,  but  omblazons  all  the  air 
With  semblance  of  celestial  strife,  unveils 
To  us  of  their  empyreal  halls  the  pomp, 
The  secret  majesty  of  godlike  war." 

Oh  Lord  of  Lords !  incessant  thus  assail'J 
That  pagan  with  his  frantic  railings  Thee, 
Th'  InetTIible,  yet  worshipp'd  of  thy  power 
A  faint  and  pale  effect,  rcllection  dim 
From  thy  scnil-blinding  glories.     On  they  sail'd, 
Till  o'er  the  dark  deep  now  the  wintry  winds 
Swept  on  their  murky  pinions,  huge  and  high 
The  liquid  legions  of  the  main  arose  ; 
Like  snow  upon  the  sable  pines,  the  foam 
Hung  hoary  on  their  tower'd  fronts ;  but  slow, 
Like  a  triumphant  warrior,  their  bold  bark 
Wore  onward,  now  upon  the  loftiest  height 
Shaking  its  streamers'  gay  defiance,  now 
With  brave  devotion  to  the  prone  abyss 
Down  rushing.    But  the  sternest  Saxon  cheek 
Put  not  to  siiame  tiiat  dauntless  Landsman  ;  he 
In  the  strong  passion  of  a  new  delight 
On  the  fierce  tumult  feasts,  and  almost  grieves, 
When  now  beneath  the  haven  rocks  embay'd, 
The  angry  waves  seem  wearying  to  repwse, 
And  the  slack  sails  slow  droop  their  flagging  folds. 

Their  port  was  southward  of  that  Strait,  where 
bursts 
The  Baltic,  with  her  massy  waves  of  ice 
Encumbering  far  and  wide  the  Northern  main. 

South,  North,  and  East,  the  rapid  heralds  speed. 
Summoning  from  fen  or  forest,  moor  or  wild, 
Britain  !  on  thee  to  banquet,  all  who  bathe 
In  Weser,  Elbe,  or  Rhine,  their  saffron  locks, 
Hertog  and  Erie  and  King ;  the  huntsman  bold 
Of  bear,  or  bison,  o'er  the  quaking  moss, 
Or  grim  ^'ikinger,  who  but  sues  his  gods 
For  tempests,  so  upon  some  wealthy  coast 
Bursts  unforeseen  his  midnight  frigate  fierce, 
And  freights  its  greedy  hold  with  amplest  spoil. 

And  now  have  Hengist  and  Caswallon  climb'd 
The  chariot  of  the  Oracle ;  no  wheels 
Bear  that  strange  car  ;  like  wind  along  the  sea, 
It  glides  along  the  rapid  rein-deer's  track. 
Beauteous  those  gentle  rein-deer  arch'd  their  necks, 
And  cast  their  palmy  antlers  back,  and  spread 
Their  broad  red  nostrils  to  the  wind  :  they  hear 
Old  Hengist's  voice,  like  arrows  down  the  gale. 
Like  shot-stars  through  the  welkin  start  they  forth. 
The  car  slides  light,  the  deer  bound  fleet :  they  pass 
Dark  leagues  of  pine  and  fir,  the  filmy  light. 
Shivering  with  every  motion  of  the  wind 
On  their  brown  path  lies  tremulous,  o'er  them  sails. 
Heard  through  the  dismal  foliage  hissing  shrill, 
And  hoarser  groaning  of  the  swaying  boughs, 
The  funeral  descant  of  the  ominous  birds. 
Around  them  the  prophetic  milk-white  steeds,* 


*  Prnpriiim  eentis,  eqiiorum  qnnque  prsesagia  ac  mnnitiiB 
experiri :  pnblice  nlunlur  iisdetn  nemoribua  ac  lucis.    Candidi, 
23* 


Their  necks  yet  virgin  of  the  taming  curb, 
With  all  their  hwse  long  glories,  arch,  and  pass 
In  solemn  silence,  and  regardless  paw 
The  unechoing  earth.    But  that  old  German,  set 
Inflexible  with  lx)lder  hand  to  draw 
The  veil  of  dusk  futurity,  disdains 
These  tamer  omens.     Still  the  car  slides  light. 
The  deer  bound  fleet,  they  pause  not,  save  to  quafT 
The  narrow  cruise,  to  share  their  scanty  store. 
Like  swallows  o'er  the  glassy  rivers  smooth, 
O'er  the  pellucid  lake,  with  glittering  breast 
Yet  wrinkled  with  its  rippling  waves,  Ihcy  skim; 
The  dead  unstirring  ocean  bears  them  on  ; 
Amid  the  immortal  ice-hills  wind  they  now. 

In  restless  change,  God's  softer  summer  works 
Glitter  and  fade,  are  born  and  die ;  but  these, 
Endiadem'd  by  undissolving  snows, 
High  Potentates  of  winter's  drear  domain. 
Accumulate  their  everlasting  bulk. 
Eternal  and  imperishable,  stand 
Amid  Creation's  swift  inconstant  round, 
In  majesty  of  silence  undisturb'd, 
Save  when  from  their  long  menacing  brows  they 

shake 
The  ruining  Avalanche ;  unvisited 
By  motion,  but  of  sailing  clouds,  when  sleets 
From  their  unvvasting  granary  barb  their  darts, 
And  the  grim  North-wind  loads  his  rimy  wings. 
Nor  trace  of  man,  save  many  a  fathom  deep. 
Haply  dark  signs  of  some  tall  people  strnnge. 
That  vvalk'd  the  infant  earth,  may  shroud  profound 
Their  legends  inaccessible.    They  soar 
In  headlong  precipice,  or  pyramid 
Linking  the  earth  and  heaven,  to  which  the  piles 
Where  those  Egyptian  despots  rot  sublime. 
Or  even  that  frantic  Babylonian  tower, 
Were  frivolous  domes  for  laughter  and  for  scorn. 

Nor  wants  soft  interchange  of  vale,  where  smiles 
White  mimicry  of  fiiliage  and  thin  flower. 
Feathery  and  fanlike  spreads  the  leafy  ice. 
With  dropping  cup,  and  roving  tendril  loose. 
As  though  the  glassy  dews  o'er  flower  and  herb 
Their  silken  moisture  had  congeal'd,  and  yet 
Within  that  slender  veil  their  knots  profuse 
Blossom'd  and  blush'd  with  tender  life,  the  couch 
Less  various  where  the  fabled  Zephyr  fans 
With  his  mild  wings  his  Flora's  bloomy  locks ; 
But  colourless  and  cold,  these  flowering  vales 
Seem  meeter  for  decrepit  Winter's  head 
To  lie  in  numb  repose.     The  car  slides  light. 
The  deer  bound  fleet,  the  long  grey  wilderness 
Hath  something  of  a  roseate  glimmering  dim, 
And  widens  still  its  pale  expanse  :  when  lo, 
A  light  of  azure,  wavering  to  display 
No  sights,  no  shapes  of  darkness  and  of  fear. 
Tremblingly  flash'd  the  inconstant  meteor  light, 
Showing  thin  forms,  like  virgins  of  this  earth. 
Save  that  all  signs  of  human  joy  or  grief, 

et  nullo  mortali  opere  contact!,  qiios  preasos  sacro  curru  sacer- 
dos  ac  re.\  vel  princeps  civitatis  comitanlur,  fiinnWusque  ac 
fremitus  observant. —  T.\CIT.  Germ. 

281 


272 


MIOIAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  flush  of  passion,  smile  or  tear  liad  seem'il 
On  the  fix'd  brightness  of  each  dazzling  cheek. 
Strange  and  unnatural :  statues  not  unlike 
By  nature,  in  fantastic  mood  congeal'd 
From  purest  snow,  the  fair  of  earth  to  shame. 
Surpassing  beauteous:  breath  of  mortal  life 
Heaved  not  their  bosoms,  and  no  rosy  blood 
Tinged  their  full  veins;  yet  moved  they,  and  their 

steps 
Were  harmony."   But  three  of  that  bright  troop, 
The  loveliest  and  the  wildest,  stood  aloof, 
Enwrapl  by  what  in  human  form  were  like 
Impulse  divine,  of  their  fine  nature  seem'd 
The  eternal  instinct.     Them  no  less  survey 'd 
Caswallon  with  the  knitted  brow  of  scorn: 
Bitter  he  spake — "  i\o  marvel  Saxon  souls 
Revel  in  war's  delights,  so  stern,  so  fierce 
Their  deities."     Severe  with  wrath  suppress'd. 
As  one  ill  brooking  that  irreverent  mirth 
Scoff'd  the  feign'd  lore,  himself  ne'er  dared  to  doubt, 
Answer'd  the  son  of  Woden.     "These,  proud  Chief, 
So  snowy,  soft,  and  air}',  gentle,  these 
Are  ministers  of  destiny  and  death. 
The  viewless  Riders  of  the  battle  field  : 
When  sounds  the  rushing  of  their  sable  steeds, 
Down  sink  the  summon'd  mighty,  and  expand 
Valhalla's  cloudy  portals  ;  to  their  thrones 
They  the  triumphant  strangers  lead,  and  pour 
Lavish  the  eternal  beverage  of  the  Gods. 
Mark  thou  yon  bright-hair'd  three  ?  and  would  thy 

soul 
Grasp  the  famed  deeds  of  ancient  time,  or  know 
The  master  spirits  of  our  present  world  ? 
Lo  Gudnr,  she  whose  deep  mysterious  soul 
Treasureth  the  past,  and  Rosta,  who  beholds 
All  acts  and  agents  of  this  living  earth ; 
She  too  is  there  before  whose  spacious  sight 
The  years  that  have  not  been  start  up  and  live, 
Who  reads  within  the  soul  of  man  unborn 
The  unimagined  purpose,  of  the  sage 
Skulda  the  sagest.    Ask  and  thou  shall  know." 
— "  I  am  not  King  of  Britain,  have  not  been  ; 
Hateful  the  present  and  the  past,  my  soul 
Thirsteih  lor  what  shall  be."— Then  Hengist  spake 
In  tone  of  mix'd  authority  and  prayer, 
"Queen  of  the  Future,  \'alkyr,  hear  and  speak, 
Speak  to  the  Son  of  Woden."— All  the  troop 
Instant  the  thin  bright  air  absorb'd  alone. 
Stood  Skulda  with  her  white  hair  waving  wide, 
As  trembling  on  the  verge  of  palpable  being, 
Ready  to  languish  too  in  light  away. 

"O'er  Britain's  isle  doth  Woden  to  his  sons 
Give  empire  ?"    She,  but  in  no  human  tone. 
E'er  from  the  soul's  emotion  harsh  or  soft. 
One  glittering  rich  unvarying  tone  replied, 
"To  thine,  but  not  to  thee?" — And,  "  I  am  thine," 
Caswallon  shouted  loud,  and  sternly  shook 
His  visionary  sceptre.     "  Whence  the  foe 
Fatal  to  Hengist,  and  to  Ilengisl's  sway  ?" 
"  Not  from  the  mountain,  Saxon,  from  the  Vale." 
Heard,  heeded  not  the  Mountain  Chief  that  strain 


Dire  and  ill-boding,  or  if  heard,  disdnin'd 

Adverse  what  prosperous  seem'd  a  voice  from  Heaven. 

"  By  what  rich  rite,"  he  cried,  "may  Briton  Chief 
Win  favour  i'rom  high  Woden  I" — "  IVot  the  blood 
Of  steed  or  stag;  a  flower  of  earth  must  fade. 
Blest  o'er  all  virgins  of  the  earth,  the  chaste. 
The  beautiful,  by  Heaven  ordain'd  to  lead 
The  souls  of  valiant  men  to  the  pale  hall 
Of  the  Immortal ;  air  her  path,  and  Heaven 
Her  dwelling,  with  the  liiir  and  brave  of  earth 
Her  sole  communion  ?" — "By  my  future  throne, 
Proud  office  ftir  the  daughter  of  a  King! 
A  royal  damsel,  mine  own  blood,  shall  join 
Your  cloudy  mysteries." — A  hue  like  joy 
O'erspread  her  face  and  form,  while  slow 
Into  the  air  she  brighten'd  indistinct 
Even  now,  and  now  invisible.     Sad  seem'd 
In  gloomy  converse  with  his  own  dark  mind 
Old  Hengist,  nor  despair'd  that  bold  of  soul, 
In  pride  of  human  wisdom  to  revoke 
The  irrevocable,  what  himself  deem'd  fate 
By  force  or  fraud  to  master  or  elude. 

O  glorious  eminence  of  virtuous  fame. 
Glorious  from  peril  I    Warrior  of  the  Vales, 
Fate-signal'd  Samor,  vaunt  not  thou  the  love 
Of  a  blind  people,  or  weak  prince  :  thy  boast 
The  sworn  unerring  hate  of  Britain's  foe. 

So  pass'd  they  forth,  one  in  wild  joy  elate, 
Already  in  his  high  disdainful  thought 
Wielding  supremacy;  each  of  fix'd  fate 
Nought  heeding,  but  what  fed  his  fierce  desires. 

The  car  slides  light,  the  deer  bound  fleet,  nor  sua 
Nor  star  in  all  the  hazy  heavens.     Snow,  snow. 
Above,  around,  beneath.     Unblinded  yet. 
Drive  on  the  kingly  charioteers,  and  shake 
The  showery  plumage  from  their  locks;  fast  fades 
The  long  pale  plain,  the  giant  ice-hills  sink. 
Lakes,  rivers,  seas  are  patient  of  their  speed. 
Huge,  dim,  and  dusk  the  fijrest  pines  rush  back. 
Now  pant  the  brown  deer  by  that  ocean  bay. 

How  desolate  are  now  thy  unplough'd  waves. 
Dark  Baltic!  wandering  Elbe,  thy  icy  breast 
How  silent  of  thy  hunters!    Sleep  thou  calm 
Amid  thy  wanton  vineyards,  Gaul!  no  more 
The  blue-eyed  Plunderers,  bridging  thy  bread  Rhine, 
Waste  thy  inebriate  harvests'  clustering  pride. 
Sing  songs  of  joy,  soft  Italy  !  o'er  thee 
But  Alaric  and  Attila  drive  on 
Their  chariot-wheels  of  conquest,  this  their  peer 
In  m.ajpsiy  of  havoc,  in  renown 
Of  devastation,  this,  the  fiercer  third 
Of  human  Furies,  scapest  thou:  therefore  sing. 
Soft  Italy;  for  lo,  at  Ilengist's  call. 
Vast  Germany  dispeoples  her  wide  realm, 
Deserts  to  silence  and  the  beasts  of  game 
Her  long  and  soundless  forests.     Seems  the  North 
The  forge  of  Nations,  in  one  fleet  t'  exhaust 
,  Her  iron  wealth  of  warriors ;  helmed  high 

2S3 


SAMOR. 


273 


The  Suevian  with  his  *  towery  knotted  locks, 
Frisian  and  Scandinavian,  Cimbrian  rich 
In  ancient  vauntage  of"  Ins  sires,  who  clomb 
The  Alpine  snows,  and  shook  free  Rome  with  dread. 
And  other  nameless,  numberless,  sweep  forth 
Their  bands;  but  three  almost  in  nations  came: 
The  Jute,  the  Anglian,  and  the  Saxon,  each 
Leaving  earth  bare  (or  many  a  lonesome  leagut^ 
His  wives,  his  children,  and  his  Gods  embarks, 
On  the  fierce  quest  of  peril  and  of  power. 

Then  forth  arose  each  Chieftain  to  salute 
The  pole-star  of  their  baleful  galaxy. 
Prime  .Architect  of  ruin  :  him  who  sway'd 
Their  hot  marauding,  desultory  strife 
To  cool  and  steady  warfare,  of  their  limbs 
The  domineering  soul.    As  each  pass'd  on 
Shook  up  the  Scald  his  harsh-strung  shell,  and  cast 
The  war-tones  of  each  nation  to  the  winds  ; 
And  Ilengist  with  imperious  flattery  met 
Each  tall  and  titled  Leader :  "  Art  thou  here, 
Bold  Frisian  Hermangard  I  a  broader  isle 
And  fairer  than  thy  azure  Rhine  laves  round. 
Spreads  for  thee  her  green  valleys.    How  brook'st 

thou, 
Strong  Scandinavian  Lodbrog,  thou  the  Chief 
Of  the»renown'd  V'ikinger,  while  the  waves 
So  nobly  riot  with  the  wintry  storms. 
The  tame  and  steadfast  land  ?     Now  freely  leap, 
Arngrim.  along  thy  Suevian  forests  brown 
The  bear  and  foara-tusk'd  wild  boar ;  let  them  leap, 
A  braver  game  is  up  on  Britain's  shore. 
0  Cerdic,  grey  in  glory,  young  in  power. 
The  Drave  ran  purple  with  thy  boyish  deeds, 
A  darker,  redder  dye,  o'er  silver  Thames 
Shall  spread  before  thy  ancient  battle-axe. 
Ho,  OfTa,  the  rich-flowing  mead  hath  worn 
Your  Jutland  cups,  beneath  the  British  helms 
Capacious  goblets  smooth  and  fair  await 
Oflia's  carousals.     Heir  of  Cimbric  fame.t 
Frolho,  how  these,  of  late  the  Roman's  slaves. 
Will  the  race-daunt,  who  set  our  Thor  afront 
The  Roman's  Capitolian  Jove.     And  thou, 
My  gold-hair'd  brother,  are  the  British  maids. 
Or  British  warriors,  Abisa,  the  first 
In  the  fierce  yearnings  of  thy  Ixjyish  soul  ? 
And  lo  the  mighty  Anglian;  oh,  unfold 
Ocean  more  wide,  more  wealthy  realms,  too  brief. 
Too  narrow  for  Argantvr's  fame,  the  round 
Of  this  the  choice,  the  Sovereign  of  thine  isles." 

Thereat  a  sound  of  clattering  shields  arose, 
As  all  the  rocks  around  with  one  harsh  rift 
Had  rent  a.sunder :  "  Fair  must  be  the  land. 
And  brave  the  conquest,  plenteous  the  renown. 
Where  Hengist  leads  strong  Woden's  sceptred  sons!" 

But  inly  laugh'd  Caswallon.  as  he  long'd 
With  each  or  all  to  match  his  Briton  strength ; 


On  the  prophetic  Valkyr  thought,  and  glanced 
Proud  pity  on  the  legends  of  their  praise. 

Advanced  Argantyr,  his  bold  grasp  apart, 
As  peer  his  peer,  led  Ilengist.    "  Thou  and  J, 
Saxon,  must  have  our  compact ;  dark  1  know 
Thy  paths  of  strife,  while  my  frank  valour  loves 
The  broad  bright  sunshine ;  thou  by  sleight  and  art 
Minest  thy  slow  conquest;  I  with  naked  sword 
Affront  my  peril,  till  its  menacing  height 
Bow  to  the  dust  before  me;  fijr  bold  war, 
For  noonday  battling,  tender  I  mine  arm. 
But  no  allegiance  own  to  subtle  craft; 
To  peace  Argantyr  doth  revolt  when  thou 
Array's!  stern  war  in  the  smooth  garb  of  guile." 
"The  weak,  .\rgantyr,  and  the  friendless,  need 
Such  politic  skill;  I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 
Who  skulks  a  fox  when  he  dare  prowl  a  wolf? 
Power  charters  force;  where  strong  .Argantyr  stands 
Is  power. — .\nd  now  aboard,  brave  Chiefs,  aboard, 
Or  the  soft  spring  o'ertakes  our  tardy  keels, 
And  with  her  slothful  breezes  smooths  the  skies." 

Wonderous  that  ocean  armament ;  in  shoals 
Ride  boat  and  bark,  iiinumerous  as  the  waves 
That  show  white  slender  streaks  of  foam  between 
Their  tawny  sides,  save  here  and  there  towers  up 
Some  statelier  admiral  in  lordly  height 
O'er  the  frail  comm'nalfj',  whose  limber  ribs 
Are  the  light  wicker,  cased  with  sturdy  hides 
Their  level  bottoms  smooth. t    Oh,  that  frail  Man, 
Loose-woven  frame  of  dissoluble  stufi; 
Uncharter'd  from  the  boisterous  license  rnde 
Of  pitiless  winds  and  fierce  unfetter'd  waves. 
To  that  unshackled  libertine,  wild  Chance, 
Amenable,  unguarantied  from  burst 
.And  inroad  of  invading  surge,  that  he, 
With  such  thin  barrier  between  life  and  death, 
Should  sit  and  skim  along  the  ocean  waste. 
Careless  as  maiden  in  a  flowery  field  ; 
A'alour  or  frenzy  is  it  ?   They  their  toil 
Ply  nimbly,  and  with  gallant  oar  chastise 
The  insurgent  bilious,  their  despotic  sails 
Lords  o'er  the  wild  democracy  of  air. 

Less  vast,  and  mann'd  wiih  tamer,  feebler  spirits. 
In  later  days,  against  our  \'irgin  Queen, 
The  Spaniard's  mad  Armada;  but  the  flag 
Of  Howard,  and  the  Almighty".-  stormy  hand, 
Belied  their  braggart  baptism,  so  they  won 
Brave  conquest!  graves  in  ocean's  barren  caves. 
Or  on  the  whirlpool-girded  Orcades. 

But  onward  rides  that  Pagan  fleet :  young  Spring 
Hath  scarcely  tipt  the  leafless  woods  with  green; 
Tyne's  jetty  tide  is  blanch'd  wiih  German  oars. 

Now  whither  with  that  dark-brow 'd  priest  set  forth 
Old  Hengist  and  the  Briton  .Mountain  Lord  ? 
Is  it,  fell  Hengist,  that  Caswallon 's  name 


*  Insigne  gentis  obliquare  crinem,  nodoque  substringere— In 
altiludinem  quandam  el  terrorem,  adituri  bplla,  compte,  ut 
ho3lium  oculis.  ornanlur.-T.AClT.   Gcrm.ig.  I 

TCimbri  parva  nunc  civiiaa  Bed  gloria  ingens.— TACIT.  ' 
Oerm.  j 


t  rrimum  CHna  ealix,  madefacio  vimine  parvain 
Texitur  in  puppjm,  ca?sonue  induta,  juvenco, 
Vcctoris  pBticns  tiimiilum  .snpt  r  eriiicai  amnem  ; 
Sic  Venetus  slagnanle  Padu,  fusoque  Biiianmis 
Navijal  oceano.  LL'C.AN. 

283 


274 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Paragon  thine  in  British  hate,  close  link'd 
By  fellowship  in  nameless  rites  accurst, 
Be  hence  more  deeply,  execrably  thine  ? 
Or,  from  weak  credence  in  such  impious  Gods, 
Urgest  thou  that  fell  sacrifice  ?  Oh,  where 
The  spotless  Virgin  doom'd  (so  wild  the  creed) 
The  Valkyr's  airy  troop  to  join,  and  glide 
Immortal  through  Valhalla's  cloudy  halls  ? 


BOOK  IV. 


Sunk  was  the  sun,  and  up  the  eastern  heaven, 
Like  maiden  on  a  lonely  pilgrimage. 
Moved  the  meek  Star  of  Eve  ;  the  wandering  air 
Breathed  odours ;  wood,  and  waveless  lake,  like  man, 
Slept,  weary  of  the  garnish  babbling  day. 

Dove  of  the  wilderness,  thy  snowy  wing 
In  slumber  droops  not ;  Lilian,  thou  alone, 
'Mid  the  deep  quiet,  wakest.     Dost  thou  rove. 
Idolatrous  of  yon  majestic  moon, 
That  like  a  crystal-throned  queen  in  Heaven, 
Seems  with  her  present  deity  to  hush 
To  beauteous  adoration  all  the  earth  ? 
Might  seem  the  solemn  silent  mountain  tops 
Stand  up  and  worship,  the  translucent  streams 
Down  the  hill  sides  glittering  cherish  the  pure  light 
Beneath  the  shadowy  foliage  o'er  them  flung 
At  intervals  ;  the  lake,  so  silver  white, 
Glistens,  all  indistinct  the  snowy  swans 
Bask  in  the  radiance  cool;  doth  Lilian  muse 
To  that  apparent  Queen  her  vesper  hymn  ? 

Nursling  of  solitude,  her  infant  couch 
Never  did  mother  watch,  within  the  grave 
She  slept  unwaking  ;  scornful  turn'd  aloof 
Caswallon,  of  those  pure  instinctive  joys 
By  fathers  felt,  when  playful  infant  grace. 
Touch 'd  with  a  feminine  softness,  round  the  heart 
Winds  its  light  maze  of  undefined  delight, 
Contemptuous  ;  he  with  haughty  joy  beheld 
His  boy,  fair  Malvvyn,  him  in  bossy  shield 
Rock'd  proudly,  him  upborne  to  mountain  steep 
Fierce  and  undaunted,  fiir  their  dangerous  nest 
To  battle  with  the  eagle's  clamorous  brood. 

But  she  the  while  from  human  tenderness 
Estranged,  and  gentler  feelings  that  light  up 
The  cheek  of  youth  with  rosy  joyous  smile. 
Like  a  forgotten  lute,  piay'd  on  alone 
By  chance-caressing  airs,  amid  the  wild 
Beauleously  pale,  and  sadly  playful  grew, 
A  lonely  child,  by  not  one  human  heart 
Beloved,  and  loving  none  ;  nor  strange,  if  learnt 
Her  native  fond  affections  to  embrace 
Things  senseless  and  inanimate  ;  she  loved 
All  flovv'rels  that  with  rich  embroidery  fair 
Enamel  the  green  earth,  the  odorous  thyme, 
Wild  rose,  and  roving  eglantine,  nor  spared 
To  mourn  their  fading  forms  with  childish  tears. 
Grey  birch  and  aspen  light  she  loved,  that  droop 


Fringing  the  crystal  stream ;  the  sportive  breeze 
That  wanton'd  with  her  brown  and  glossy  locks. 
The  sunbeam  chequering  the  fresh  bank.    Ere  dawn 
Wandering,  and  wandering  still  at  dewy  eve, 
By  Glenderamakin's  flower-empurpled  marge, 
Derwent's  blue  lake,  or  Greta's  wildering  glen. 

R^re  sound  to  her  was  human  voice,  scarce  heard, 
Save  of  her  aged  nurse,  or  shepherd  maid 
Soothing  the  child  with  simple  tale  or  song. 
Hence,  all  she  knew  of  earthly  hopes  and  fears, 
Life's  sins  and  sorrows ;  better  known  the  voice 
Beloved  of  lark  from  misty  morning  cloud 
Blithe  carolling,  and  wild  melodious  notes 
Heard  mingling  in  the  summer  wood,  or  plaint, 
By  moonlight,  of  the  lone  night-warbling  bird. 
Nor  they  of  love  unconscious,  all  around 
Fearless,  familiar  they  their  descants  sweet 
Tuned  emulous.     Her  knew  all  living  shapes 
That  tenant  wood  or  rock,  dun  roe  or  deer. 
Sunning  his  dappled  side  at  noontide  crouch'd. 
Courting  her  fond  caress,  nor  fled  her  gaze 
The  brooding  dove,  but  murmur'd  sounds  of  joy. 

One  summer  noon,  the  silvery  birchen  shade 
Pendent  above  from  dripping  crag  her  brow 
Veil'd  from  the  fiery  sunbeam,  gems  of  spray 
Gleam'd  cool  around  with  watery  rainbow-light. 
From  a  pure  streamlet  down  its  rocky  bed 
Dashing  sweet  music  ;  she  on  mossy  couch 
Sate  listening  the  blithe  thrush,  whose  airy  notes 
In  amorous  contention  Echo  caught 
Responsive.     Sudden  droop'd  its  flagging  wing 
The  timorous  bird  of  song,  and  fluttering  sought 
Soft  refuge  in  the  maiden's  snowy  breast. 
She  o'er  the  nestling  prisoner  folding  light 
Her  careless  vest,  stood  gazing,  where,  awhfle 
Dark  in  the  sun-cloud's  white,  came  fiercely  down 
A  swooping  falcon  :  at  her  sight  it  check'd  ; 
Its  keen  eye  bright  with  joy,  th'  admiring  bird 
Fearfully  beauteous  floated  in  the  air. 
Its  silver  wings,  and  glossy  plumage  grey, 
Glanced  in  the  sun-light.     Fp  the  maiden  gazed, 
Smiling  a  pnle  and  terrified  delight. 
And  seem'd  for  that  loved  warbler  in  her  breast 
Beseeching  mercy.     'Mid  the  green-wood  sank 
Th'  obedient  bird  ;  she,  jo)'ous  at  his  flight. 
Her  bosom  half  reveal'd,  with  gentle  hand 
Caressing  smoothed  her  captive's  ruffled  plumes, 
Anon  around  a  frighted  thankful  look 
Glancing,  what  seem'd  a  human  shape  she  saw. 
Or  more  than  human;  stately  on  his  arm 
The  ffilcon  sate,  and  proudly  flapp'd  his  wings. 
She  turn'd  to  fly,  yet  fled  not,  turn'd  to  gaze, 
Yet  dared  not  raise  her  downcast  eye ;  she  felt 
Her  warm  cheek,  why  she  knew  not,  blush,  her  hand 
Unconscious  closer  drew  her  bosom's  fold. 
With  accent  mild  the  Stranger  brief  delay 
Entreated  ;  she,  albeit  his  gentle  words 
Fell  indistinct  on  her  alarmed  ear. 
Listening  delay'd,  and  still  at  fall  of  eve 
Delay'd,  e'en  then  with  dim  reverted  eye, 
Slow  lingering  on  her  winding  homeward  path. 

284 


SAM  OR. 


275 


No  more  in  pomp  of  war,  or  vaulting  steed, 
Joyeth  the  Son  of  Vorli^ern,  nor  feasts 
With  jocund  harpings,  and  rich-jewell'd  dames, 
Outshining  in  their  pride  the  slurry  heavens. 

As  fair  the  spring-flower's  bloom,  as  graceful  droops 
The  \\\\d  ash-spray,  as  sweet  the  mountain  bee 
Murmurs,  melodious  breathes  the  twiligiil  grove. 
Unheard  of  her,  unheeded,  who  erewhile 
Visited,  constant  as  the  morning  dew. 
Those  playmates  and  sweet  sisters  of  lier  soul. 
In  one  sole  image  sees  the  enamour'd  maid 
Concentrated  all  qualities  of  love, 
All  beauty,  grace,  and  majesty.    The  step 
Of  tall  stag  prancing  stately  down  the  glen. 
The  keen  bright  fierceness  of  the  eagle's  glance, 
And  airy  gentleness  of  timorous  roe. 
And,  more  than  ail,  a  voice  more  soothing  soft 
Than  wild  bird's  carol,  or  the  murmuring  brook, 
With  eloquence  endued  and  melting  words 
So  wondrous  ;  though  unheard  since  eve,  the  sounds 
Come  mingling  with  her  midnight  sleep,  and  make 
The  damask  of  her  slumbering  cheek  grow  warm. 

And  she  is  now  beneath  the  mooidight  rock, 
Chiding  the  rippling  waters  that  eflace 
That  image  on  its  azure  breast  distinct, 
Garb,  li)rm,  and  feature,  \ortimer;  though  mute, 
As  prodigal  of  fondness,  his  bright  face 
Looks  up  to  her  with  glance  of  tenderer  love. 
Than  wild-dove  to  its  mate  at  earliest  spring. 

Oft  hath  that  moonliglit  wax'd  and  waned,  since  last 
He  parted,  all  of  him  that  could  depart; 
Save  that  no  distance  could  remove  the  words, 
The  look,  the  touch,  that  lives  within  her  still, 
The  promise  of  return  sworn  on  her  lips. 

And  hark  it  comes,  his  steed  along  the  glen ; 
She  o'er  the  lucid  mirror  stooping,  braids 
Hasty  her  durkbrown  tres.ses,  bashful  smiles 
Of  virgin  vanity  flit  o'er  her  cheek. 
Tinging  its  settled  paleness.    A'ovv  't  is  near, 
But  ne'er  did  \'ortimer  with  iron  hoof 
Bruise  the  green  flowery  sward  that  Lilian  loves. 
A  gentle  frown  of  winning  fond  reproach 
Arch'd  her  dark  eyelash,  as  her  head  she  tum'd, 
Ah  I  not  on  \ortimer.     Her  father  stood 
Before  her,  stern  and  dark,  his  trembling  child 
Cheer'd  nor  fond  word,  nor  greeting  kiss ;  his  arm 
Clasp'd  round  her,  on  his  steed  again  he  sprung. 

And  on  through  moon-light  and  through  shade  he 
spurr'd, 
Gleam'd  like  a  meteor's  track  his  flinty  road. 
Like  some  rude  hunter  with  a  snow-white  fawn. 
His  midnight  prey.     Anon,  the  mountain  path 
'Can  upward  wind,  the  fiery  courser  paused 
Breatliless,  and  lipntly  raising  her  thin  form ; 
"Oh,  whither  bear  ye  me  ? "  with  panting  voice, 
Murmur'd.    Caswallon  spake  unmoved,  "  to  death." 

■  Death,  father,  death  is  comfortless  and  cold ! 
Ay  me  I  when  maiden  dies,  the  smiling  morn, 

■Hi 


The  wild  birds  singing  on  the  twinkling  spray, 
Wake  her  no  more;  the  summer  wind  breathes  soft. 
Waving  the  fresh  grass  o'er  her  narrow  bed, 
Ciladdening  to  all  but  her.     Senseless  and  cold 
She  lies;  while  all  she  loved,  unheard,  unseen, 
Mourn  round  her."  There  broke  off  her  faltering  voice. 
Dimly,  with  farewell  glance,  she  roved  around, 
Never  before  so  beautiful  the  lake. 
Like  a  new  sky,  distinct  with  stars,  the  groves. 
Green  banks  and  shadowy  dells,  her  haunts  of  bliss. 
Smiled,  ne'er  before  so  lovely,  tluir  last  smile; 
The  fountains  seem'd  to  wail,  the  twilight  mists, 
On  the  wet  leaves  were  weeping  all  for  her. 
Had  not  her  own  tears  blinded  her,  there  too 
She  surely  had  beheld  a  youthful  form, 
Wandering  the  solitary  glen.     But  loud 
The  courser  neigh'd,  down  burstiuir,  wood  and  rock 
Fly  backward,  the  wide  plain  its  weary  length 
\ainly  outspreads;  and  now  'tis  midnight  deep. 
Ends  at  a  narrow  glen  their  fieet  career. 
That  narrow  glen  was  paled  with  rude  black  rocks, 
There  slowly  roU'd  a  brook  its  glassy  dei)lh  ; 
Now  in  the  moon-beams  white,  now  dark  in  gloom. 

She  lived,  she  breathed,  she  felt  to  her  denied 
That  sole  sad  happiness  the  wretched  know, 
Even  from  excess  of  feeling,  not  to  feel. 
Behold  her  gentle,  delicate,  and  frail. 
Where  all  around,  through  rifled  ruck  and  W'ood, 
Grim  features  glare,  huge  helmed  forms  obscure 
People  the  living  gloom,  with  dreary  light 
Glimmering,  as  of  the  moon  from  iron  arms 
Coldly  reflected,  lovely  stands  she  there. 
Like  a  blest  Angel  'mid  th  accurst  of  Hell. 
A  voice  is  heard. — "  Lo,  mighty  Monarch,  here 
The  stream  of  sacrifice  ;  to  man  alone 
Fits  the  proud  privilege  of  bloody  death 
By  shaft  or  mortal  steel ;  to  llela's  realm. 
Unblooded,  woundless.  must  the  maid  descend  ; 
So  in  the  bright  N'alhalla  shall  she  crown 
For  Woden  and  his  Peers  the  cup  of  bliss." 
Her  white  arms  round  her  father's  rugged  neck 
\Vinding  with  desperate  fijiidness,  she  "gan  pour, 
As  to  some  dear,  fiuinliar,  long-loved  heart. 
Most  eloquent  her  inarticulate  prayers. 
Is  the  dew  gleaming  on  his  cheek  ?  or  weeps 
The  savage  and  the  stern,  yet  still  her  sire  >. 
But  some  rude  arm  of  one,  whose  dreadful  face 
She  dared  not  gaze  on,  seized  her.     Gloomy  stood. 
Folding  his  wolf-skin  mantle  to  conceal 
The  shuddering  of  his  huge  and  mailed  form, 
Caswallon.    'J'hen  again  the  voice  came  f()rth, 
"  Fast  wanes  the  night,  the  Gfwis  brook  no  delay, 
Monarch  of  Britain,  s|)ied."     lie,  at  that  name 
Shaking  all  human  from  his  soul,  flung  back 
'I'he  foldings  of  liis  robe,  and  stowi  elate, 
As  haughty  of  some  glorious  deed,  nor  knew 
Barbarian  blind  as  proud,  who  iee\s  no  more 
The  mercies  and  affections  of  his  kind. 
Casts  off  the  image  of  God,  a  man  of  ill. 
With  all  his  nature's  earth,  without  its  heaven. 

A  sound  is  in  the  silent  night  abroad, 
A  sound  of  broken  waters ;  rings  of  light 

285 


276 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Float  o'er  the  dark  stream,  widening  to  the  shore.* 

And  lo,  her  re-appearing  form,  as  soft 

As  fountain  Nymph  by  weary  hunter  seen, 

In  the  lone  twilight  glen  ;  the  moonlight  gleam 

Falls  tenderly  on  her  beseeching  face, 

Like  the  halo  of  expiring  Saint,  she  seems 

Lingering  to  lie  upon  the  water  lop. 

As  to  enjoy  once  more  that  light  beloved  ; 

And  tremulously  moved  her  soundless  lips 

As  syllabling  the  name  of  Vortimer; 

Then  deep  she  sank,  and  quiet  the  cold  stream, 

Unconscious  of  its  guilt,  went  eddying  on, 

And  look'd  up  lovely  to  the  gazing  moon. 

What  deepest  thoughts,  young  Vortimer,  have  place 
Within  thy  secret  breast  ?  thou  slowly  ridest 
B}'  Eamont's  alder  brink,  thy  silver  arms 
Through  the  brown  copse  with  moonshine  glittering 

dim. 
Is 't  that  late  fight  by  Thanet,  when  the  fire 
From  thine  and  Horsa's  steel,  frequent  and  red, 
Burnt  the  pale  sea-spray  ?  or  thy  stately  charge, 
With  show  of  British  war,  to  curb  and  check 
The  threatening  Caledonian  ?  or  what  bathes 
Youth's  cheek  in  bitterest  and  most  gall-like  tears; 
Thy  father's  shame,  the  curse  that,  unredeem'd 
By  thy  young  valour,  his  once  kingly  name 
Brands  with  the  deep-sear'd  characters  of  hate  ? 

Or  is  't  that  gentle  Maid  by  Derwent  lake, 
Her  flower-wrealh'd  tresses  and  her  pale  sweet  smile  ? 
How  pleasant,  after  war  and  journeying  fleet 
To  Britain's  Northern  realm,  from  Kent's  white  cliffs, 
Once  more  to  see  her  early  gliding  foot 
Skimming  the  morning  dews,  to  hear  her  voice, 
As  artless,  as  melodious,  melt  on  air. 
Among  the  wood-birds'  matins  to  surprise 
Thine  own  dear  name  upon  her  bashful  lips! 

What  fioateth  down  the  stream  a  deep  dead  white 
Amid  the  glittering  moonshine,  where  the  stream 
Runs  black  beneath  the  thicket  boughs,  still  white, 
Still  slowly  drilling,  like  a  dying  swan, 
In  snowy  beauty,  on  its  watery  bier? 
Oh,  were  but  f.ilian  here  !  perchance  it.i  neck 
May  struggle  up,  to  the  still  waves  to  chaunt 
Ils  own  soft  requiem,  the  most  gentle  breath, 
Most  fancifully,  delicately  sweet. 
That  ever  soothes  the  midnight's  dewy  calm. 

Near,  and  more  near,  it  takes  a  human  shape  : 
Some  luckless  maiden  ;  haply  her  loved  youth 
Awaits  her  at  the  well-known  place,  upbraids 

*  Homo  autem  quern  sors  inimolnndum  oblulerat,  in  fontera 
qui  ad  locum  sacrificiorum  scntiiriibiit  vivus  immergebatur : 
qui  si  facile  efflnret  animam,  fuuslnm  renunciabant  sarerilotes 
votuin:  mnxiiue  indeereplum  in  vicinum  neinusi,  quod  sacrum 
credebant,  suspcndentes,  inter  Deos  translatum  affirmabant. 
Quo  factum  rrat.  ul  bentum  so  crcdercl,  iiui  eo  immolationue 
vivis  excederet.  Accidit  nonnunquam  rcfes  ipsos  simili  sorle 
delectos  vicliinari.  Unod  quia  fausli  simum  reeno  libamen 
iBstimabatur,  toiius  populi  multiiudo  cum  summa  conpralu- 
lalione  tam  inpianes  viclimas  prosequebantur.  Enimvero  sic 
defunctos  non  omnino  mori,  sed  lam  illos  quam  se  ipsos  im- 
mortales  esse.  — OLAUS  MAGNUS,  Book  3,  cap.  6. 


Her  broken  faith,  as  fond  as  Vortimer, 
As  full  of  love.    'T  is  closer  now ;  he  leaps 
From  his  high  steed,  he  draws  it  to  the  shore. 
Scarce  time  for  fancy  or  for  fear,  the  moon 
Quench'd  her  broad  light  behind  a  rushing  cloud, 
And  utter  darkness  settled  round.     He  sate 
In  solitude,  with  that  cold  lifeless  thing; 
He  dared  not  leave  ii,  for  a  hideous  thought 
Was  in  his  brain. — "  Why  is  it  like  to  thee. 
My  Lilian!  be  it  any  one  but  thou — 
Hopelessly  cold,  irrevocably  cold  : 
It  cannot  be,  and  yet 't  was  like  :  her  height, 
Her  slender  waist  like  Lilian's,  and  her  hair 
As  dainty  soft,  and  trick'd  with  flowers;  'tis  she, 
And  I  will  kiss  her,  pardon  if  I  err. 
If  stranger  lips  round,  smooth  like  thine ;  but  oh ! 
So  coldly  passive;  when  we  parted,  thine 
Thwarted  me  with  a  struggling  bashfulness, 
And,  won  at  length,  with  meek  surrender  swell'd. 
Wild  and  delirious  fancy !  many  a  maid 
Hath  full  round  lips,  to  trick  the  hair  with  flowers 
'Tis  common  vanity.     If  dead,  even  dead. 
So  chilly  senseless  Lilian  could  not  be 
To  Vortimer's  embrace.    Oh,  but  for  light. 
Though  dim  and  scanty  as  a  glow-worm's  fire, 
To  make  me  surely,  hopelessly  undone  I 
Aught  but  this  racking  ignorance.     Dawn  forth, 
Thou  tortoise-footed  sluggard.  Morn  I  one  beam, 
Thou  pitiless  cold  Moon !" — Morn  dawn'd  not  yet, 
And  pale  and  thick  remain'd  the  moonless  sky. 
Darkness  around,  the  dead  within  his  arms. 
He  sate,  even  like  a  poison'd  man,  that  waits, 
Yet  haunted  by  a  miserable  hope. 
The  palpable  cold  sickness  in  his  veins, 
And  yearns  to  live  or  die,  scarce  cares  he  which, 
So  one  were  certain.     But. when  slow  the  dawn 
Unveil'd  its  filmy  light,  he  turn'd  away 
From  that  which  might  be  Lilian's  face,  and  pray'd 
Even  for  the  hateful,  dun,  uncertain  gloom. 
As  now  by  habit  the  slow-creeping  grief. 
Winding  like  ivy  round  and  round  his  heart. 
Were  rapture,  and  not  lightly  to  be  lost. 
It  seem'd  unconsciously  his  hand  held  up. 
Unconsciously  declined  his  heavy  eye. 
Where  slowly  brighten'd  on  that  lifeless  face 
The  intrusive  beauty  ;  one  tress  lay  across, 
O'erspreading  yet  a  thin  and  shadowy  doubt; 
Move  it  he  dare  not,  but  the  officious  wind 
At  length  dispersed  it.     As  the  thought,  the  fear 
Were  new,  were  sudden,  like  the  lightning  flash 
That  sears  the  infant  in  its  mother's  arms, 
Smote  on  him  the  dire  certainty.     He  clasp'd 
Her  damp  dead  cheek  lo  his. — "Thus,  meet  we  thus 
Lilian,  my  Lilian,  silent,  strange,  and  cold? 
I  do  not  bid  thee  fondly  gaze,  nor  ask 
Long  garrulous  welcoming, — but  speak,  but  move! 
Lilian ;  ne'er  thought  I,  I  should  live  to  loathe 
Thy  gentle  presence. — Most  ungra^ul  girl, 
And  I  for  thee  forsook  my  warrior  trust. 
Was  truant  to  my  country's  cause  for  thee. 
By  the  green  Tees  my  murmuring  camp  upbraids 
My  soft  unwarlike  absence — ay,  upbraid  ! 
Henceforth  finds  Fortune  no  where  in  this  soul 

286 


SAMOR. 


277 


To  fasten  misery  on  ;  I  laugh  at  Fate, 

For  I  am  past  its  wavering  malice  now. 

Thinks  she  with  hollow  gauds  of  fame,  and  clang 

Of  cymbal  praise,  to  lure  me  forth,  a  bland 

And  courteous  parasite  in  her  fond  train  ? 

Kg  ;  hang  thou  there,  my  helm,  my  broad-barr'd  shield 

Rust  on  yon  bank;  my  sword,  one  duty  more, 

To  shape  the  smooth  turf  for  my  Lilian's  grave; 

Thy  bridal  bed,  sweet  Maid,  it  should  have  been. 

Where  thou  and  \'ortinier  had  met.    Thy  grave 

Shall  be  my  field  of  fame,  my  wreath  of  pride 

The  flowers  the  courteous  spring  shall  lavish  there  ; 

And  I  Ml  have  glory  in  my  depth  of  woe — 

A  wild  and  strange  delight  in  my  despair  : 

Not  j-et,  the  cold  earth  must  not  part  us  yet, 

One  glimmer  more  from  thine  eye's  dark-fringed  blue, 

One  throb,  one  tremor,  though  it  be  the  last 

In  thy  soft  limbs — dead,  sightless,  icy  dead  I" — 

O'er  his  lost  Love,  thus  that  sad  Prince,  undreara'd 
The  hell-born  secret  of  her  fate,  arraign'd 
Blind  Chance  for  keen-eyed  Man's  earth-sullying  sins. 

But  southward  far  the  savage  fleet  bore  on. 
On  Flamborongh-head  the  morning  sun  look'd  dusk 
Through  their  dim  sails  ;  where  Scarborough's  naked 

foot 
Spurns  back,  and  sailh,  "  no  further,"  to  the  waves, 
From  cleft  and  cave  the  sullen  sea-birds  sprang, 
Wheeling  in  air  with  dizzy  flight,  and  shnek'd 
Their  drear\'  fears  abroad.     The  Shepherd,  wont 
O'er  level  Lindesay  view  the  watery  plain, 
Blue  trembling  to  the  soft  horizon's  line. 
Sees,  like  a  baleful  portent  from  the  heavens, 
That  sable  train  of  gloom  warp  slo«  ly  past. 
Th'  Icenian  coast  (that  sceptred  woman's  realm, 
Bonduca,  who  from  her  fair  body  slaked 
The  stain  of  Roman  lust  in  Roman  blood,) 
Looks  haggard,  with  distracted  faces  wan. 
Hoar  age,  fair  youth,  the  woman  and  the  child. 
From  beech  or  steep  cliff  gazing  now  to  Heaven, 
Now  on  that  ocean  army's  watery  march. 

Oh  Nelson !  if  the  unborn  soul  distinct 
.\raid  the  loose  infinity  of  space, 
Be  visited  by  apparitions  dim 
Of  this  earth's  fleeting  Present,  and  inhale 
Faint  foretaste  of  its  mortal  passions,  thou, 
When,  with  usurping  prow,  that  foreign  fleet 
Daunted  thy  Britain,  thou  didst  surely  yearn 
To  unordain'd  maturity  to  force 
Thy  unrifie  being,  to  foreseize  from  Fate 
Thy  slow  existence.     Oh,  the  days  must  dawn, 
When  Saxon  and  when  Briton,  melted  off 
All  feud,  all  hate,  all  di.scord,  of  their  strength 
And  valour  blent  th'  abstract  and  essence  rich, 
One  sword,  one  name,  one  glory,  and  one  God, 
From  their  bright  armoury  of  Captains,  thee 
Their  chosen  thunderbolt  shall  usher  forth, 
From  the  leagued  Nations'  frantic  grasp  to  wrest 
Britain's  allotted  sceptre  of  the  sea. 

A  brighter  and  more  British  battlement, 
'  Than  tender  forms  of  woman,  the  pale  dread 


Of  infants  and  decrepit  eld,  from  Thames 
To  Thanet  crown  the  pale-brow 'd  cliflTs  of  Kent 
As  when  from  Aulis  that  immortal  fleet 
Swept  the  yEgean,  all  the  hollow  beach, 
And  every  Phrygian  prc)montory  glow'd 
With  brazen  battle,  here  the  Morning's  Son, 
Swarth  Memnon,  liere  the  invulnerable  strength 
Of  Cycnus,  here  the  beardless  Troilus, 
I'nwounded  by  soft  Cresseide's  arrowy  eyes; 
Here  Hector,  seeking  through  the  watery  route 
The  tall  Thessalian  prow,  with  filial  thirst 
Furious  even  then,  the  sil  ver-fo(jted  Queen 
To  orphan  of  her  heaven-soul'd  boy.     So  broad, 
So  brave  in  splendour  tower'd  the  rampart  bold 
Of  British  Warriors  on  that  pallid  shore. 

On  Thanet  are  the  Sea  King  Brethren  met. 
Their  greeting  in  that  fiercely  sportive  strain 
That,  elevate  with  imminent  success. 
Scoffs  at  past  ill. — "  On  Thanel's  marge  well  met, 
Erie  Horsa  ;  now  meseems  our  spacious  realm 
Is  somewhat  waste  and  shrunken,  since  we  last 
View'd  its  fair  confines:  for  such  noble  guests 
And  numerous  as  attend  our  royal  march. 
Our  kingdom's  harbours  show  too  close,  our  land 
Narrow  and  brief  for  such  free  spirits'  range. 
Ill  husbandry!  our  fertile  province  wide 
To  barter  for  this  spare  and  meagre  isle. 
Horsa,  for  anchorage  and  breathing  space 
Our  weary  mariners  must  e'en  go  sue 
Their  gentle  Briton  neighbours;  haply  thej, 
Knowing  our  native  courte.sy,  may  cede 
From  their  abundance  some  fiiir  leagues  of  earth." 

"  Ingrate  and  blind  (cried  Horsa,)  they  forswear 
Our  mild  dominion;  to  their  King's  behest 
Rebellious,  they  proclaim  the  British  earth 
The  undivided,  indivisible  right 
Of  their  old  British  sires,  nor  may  't  descend 
Sever'd  and  miitilale  to  Iheir  British  sons. 
They  shook  not  off  the  Roman's  gentle  sway. 
To  slave  it  to  Barbarians.     Specious  terms, 
And  with  such  cogent  arguments  enforced, 
We  were  fiiin  shroud  us  in  this  narrow  isle 
From  such  hot  disputants;  a  desperate  spirit 
Was  that  old  Caesar,  v\ho  first  planted  here 
The  tree  of  conquest." — "  Holds  the  King  his  faith?" 
"Oh,  thy  f-iir  daughter  hath  a  soft-link'd  chain 
For  the  old  royal  Lion  ;  he  obeys. 
Like  a  slim  greyhound  in  a  silken  leash. 
Her  eye-won  empire.     But  there  walks  abroad 
A  youngling  of  the  brood  ;  no  blood  but  mine 
Might  flesh  the  ravin  of  his  dainty  jaws. 
This  \'ortimer,  this  bright-eyed,  beardless  boy. 
Ay,  front  to  front  I  met  him,  but  their  bands 
Rent  us  asunder,  and  my  cresl-lopp'd  helm, 
My  scatter'd  blood,  pass'd  unavenged.     Now  earth 
Swallow  me  in  my  wnith,  heaven's  bolt  sear  up 
My  constant  heart,  if  I  forget  thee.  Boy, 
Nor  shear  the  gay  sprouts  bf  thy  budding  fame  I" 
"A  child  their  mightiest !" — "  Scornful  Hengist,  no; 
A  manlier  spirit  ridclh  the  fierce  storm, 
One  in  whom  bravery  and  counsel  vie 
287 


278 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  excellence :  wild  battle  wears  the  shape 
His  will  onlains;  and  if  the  rebel  swerve, 
He  forceth  it  with  liis  strong  sword  to  obey 
His  high  behest,  and  take  the  fate  he  gives." 
"His  name — his  name!" — "The  Chieftain  of  the  Vales, 
So  sounds  his  title." — Then  a  bitter  groan, 
'Twere  hard  to  tell  from  what  bad  passion,  hate 
Or  dread,  or  hideous  hope,  from  Hengist's  breast 
Burst  forth  ;  with  his  mail'd  hand  he  clasp'd  his  head. 
As  though  to  mould  the  discord  of  his  thoughts 
To  one  strong  mass :  then,  as  the  birth  were  ripe, 
A  light  and  laughing  carelessness  relax'd 
Those  knitted  furrows,  seem'd  his  eager  soul 
Clasp'd  the  dim  future  with  a  wanton  joy. 

But  on  the  mainland,  in  sad  council,  meet 
The  Baronage  of  Britain,  timorous  hearts 
In  hollow  unsubstantial  valour  trick'd. 
While  those  who  dare  show  fear,  fear  undisguised. 
Their  first  fierce  rush  of  courage  pass'd,  like  flame 
The  mountain  heath  devouring,  with  fleet  blaze, 
But  transitory ;  they  of  generous  thoughts. 
Of  appetites  whose  sole  rich  draught  is  fame. 
Wanting  the  steadfast  fuel,  the  strong  wind 
Wanting  of  love  devotional,  heart-deep 
To  their  own  native  land,  that  passion  proud 
That  is  all  passions,  that  hath  breath  to  fan 
To  a  broad  light  beyond  the  noon-day  Sun 
The  waning  embers  of  faint  zeal ;  they  hence 
Powerful,  but  now  with  gallant  charge  to  sweep 
From  Kent's  fair  Valleys  Horsa's  Saxon  train, 
Downcast  in  mien  and  mind,  with  prospect  sad 
Now  count  that  countless  navy's  gathering  sails. 

Not  now  the  rapture  and  the  restlessness. 
The  riding  and  the  racing,  burst  and  shock. 
And  sudden  triumph,  or  as  sudden  death  ; 
Now  long,  long  wasting  of  the  limbs  and  life. 
The  circumspect  cold  strife,  drear  march,  damp  watch, 
Forepining  day,  and  vigilant  sleepless  night. 
Eternal  and  interminable  war. 
Before  them  spreads  its  comfortless  wide  tract. 
Gone  all  soft  joys,  all  courtly  luxuries  gone: 
The  languor  of  the  bath,  the  harp,  the  song 
By  twilight  in  the  lady's  sleepless  jwrch. 
The  loitering  in  the  sunny  colonnade, 
The  circus,  and  the  theatre,  the  feast 
Usurping  the  mild  midnight's  solemn  hours; 
From  holier  hearts,  the  chapel  and  the  prayer. 
The  matins,  and  melodious  vesper  hymn. 
The  bridal  with  its  gay  and  jocund  rout, 
The  baptism  with  its  revel,  gone — all  gone. 
The  burial  on  cold  battle  lielil,  unhymn'd, 
Unmourn'd,  untomb'd  ;  nor  taper,  tear,  nor  rite  : 
Gentle  commercing  between  God  and  man 
Broke  off,  save  hasty  prayer  ere  battle  morn, 
Cold  orison  uixjn  the  midnight  watch. 

Sole  pillar  of  the  quaking  temple,  firm, 
Inflexible,  on  the  foundation  deep 
Of  his  broad  spirit,  Samor  bears  the  weight 
Of  imminent  danger,  and  his  magic  voice 
With  shame,  with  praise,  with  soothing,  and  with  scom, 


Scatters  the  languid  mist,  that  wreathes  their  souls, 
And  from  their  blanch'd  cheeks  drives  the  white 
dismay. 

What  ho !  a  trumpet  from  the  Thanet  shore, 
Truce  for  the  Saxon's  embassage;  his  hand 
Outholding  the  white  wand  of  peace,  comes  on 
Old  Cerdic,  and  before  the  assemblage  proud 
Speaks  frank  and  bold  that  grey  Plenipotent. 

"  Britons,  most  strange  't  will  sound,  while  our  vast 
fleet 
Affronts  your  pale  cliffs  with  fierce  show  of  war, 
Yet  would  we  peace  with  Britain.     Deem  not  this. 
In  the  blown  arrogance  of  brief  success. 
The  hard-wrung  cow^ering  of  faint  fear ;  look  round 
Your  own  brief  camp,  then  gaze  abroad,  our  sails 
Outnumber  your  thin  helms,  and  that  pale  fear 
Is  not  familiar  with  our  German  souls. 
This  know  ye  further,  what  we  Saxons  dare. 
That  dare  we  nobly,  openly.    Far  south 
A  rich  and  wanton  land  its  champaign  green 
Spreads  to  the  sun,  there  all  the  basking  hills 
Glow  with  the  red  wine,  there  the  fresh  air  floats 
So  fragrant,  that  'tis  pleasure  but  to  breathe. 
Aye  one  blue  summer  in  the  cloudless  skies  ; 
And  our  old  Bards  have  legends,  how  of  yore 
From  that  soft  land  bright  eagles,  fledged  with  gold 
Danube  or  Rhine  o'erflew,  their  Cxsars  fired 
Our  holy  groves  with  insolent  flames,  and  girt 
Our  fierce  free  foresters  with  slavish  chains. 
That  scarce  bold  Herman  rent  their  massive  links. 
Not  to  despoil  a  mild  and  gentle  isle. 
For  full  fierce  vengeance  on  Imperial  Rome 
Pours  forth  embattled  Germany.    Then  hear 
Brave  islanders !  our  Saxon  terms  of  peace : 
For  this  fair  province,  ours  by  royal  boon 
Of  your  King  Vortigern  give  plenteous  gold  ; 
And  with  it  iake  the  gift,  that  deepest  wrings 
Our  German  souls  to  part  with,  our  revenge. 
With  most  unwonted  patience  will  we  bear 
Erie  Horsa's  camp  with  fierce  assault  o'erborne. 
And  British  wolves  full-gorged  with  Saxon  gore. 
Then  not  as  foes,  but  friends,  we  disembark 
Our  sea-worn  crews,  ourselves,  the  Chiefs  of  war 
In  solemn  festival  to  your  high  Lords, 
Pledge  on  the  compact  our  unwavering  faith. 
But  if  ye  still  with  lavish  thirst  pursue 
War's  crimson  goblets,  freely  let  them  flow. 
If  the  fierce  pastime  of  the  fire  and  sword 
Be  jocund  to  ye,  ho,  let  slip  the  game. 
Your  city  walls  are  not  so  airy  high. 
But  our  fleet  flames  may  climb  their  dizzy  towers 
And  revel  on  their  pinnacles  of  pride ; 
Your  breastplates  not  so  adamantine  proof, 
But  our  keen  falchions  to  your  hearts  may  find 
A  direful  passage.    And  not  we  alone, 
Caswallon,  at  our  call,  o'er  the  wide  North 
Wakes  the  hoarse  music  of  his  rushing  cars. 
Then  choose  your  bride,  oh  Britons,  lo,  each  courto 
Your  arms  with  rival  beauties.  Peace  and  War." 

Thus  half  in  courtesy,  defiant  half. 
To  wait  their  answer  he  withdrew.    Ere  died 

288 


SAMOR. 


279 


Ilis  voice,  ere  from  a  single  lip  assent 
Had  parled,  Samor  rose,  and  cried  aloud — 

"  Britons !  ph  Fkitons  I  hinds  fear  fawning  wolves, 
The  ()easant  Hies  the  snake  thai  sni(M)llily  coils 
Round  his  numb  fool  its  gay  enaniell'd  rings; 
1  dread  a  peaceiiil  Suxon.    "J' is  too  rare, 
Prinligious,  and  unnatural,  like  a  star 
Seen  in  the  noon-day.   Was  't  for  tliis,  for  this 
Round  \orligern's  tame  soul  that  proud-ey'd  Queen 
Wound  her  voUiptuous  trammels?  did  ihe  meek. 
The  hermit  Constans,  bleed  for  this !  Oh,  Peace 
Is  like  the  rain  from  heaven,  the  clouds  must  burst 
F.re  earth  smile  lovely  with  its  lucid  dews. 
Peace  must  be  won  bv  war,  swords,  swords  alone 
Work  the  sironE:  treaty.     Shall  our  slaves,  that  sold 
Their  blocxl,  their  lives  unto  us  for  base  hire. 
On  our  fair  provmces  set  now  their  price  ? 
Nor  feast,  nor  metal  give  we,  but  cold  sieel ! 
Give  gold  !  as  wisely  might  the  miser  lead 
The  robber  to  his  treasury,  and  then  cry, 
"(io  hence,  and  plunder;"  't  were  to  tempt,  to  bribe 
The  undream'd  perjury,  and  spread  a  lure, 
To  bring  tlie  parled  spoiler  swiftly  back. 
Outnumber  us  I  and  are  we  sunk  so  low 
To  count  our  valour  by  our  helmet  crests? — 
Oh,  every  soul  that  loves  his  native  land, 
It  is  a  legion  ;  where  the  fire  shall  sear 
The  hydra  heads  of  liberty  ?    Our  earth 
Shall  burst  to  bearing  of  as  boon  a  crop 
Of  svvorded  soldiers,  as  of  bladed  grass. 
And  all  our  hills  branch  out  in  groves  of  steel. 
So  thought  our  fathers,  so  they  bravely  strove 
For  the  bleak  freedom  of  their  steamy  moors. 
Their  black  oak's  fruitage  coarse,  and  rites  uncouth 
Of  Druid,  by  ihe  beal-fire's  lurid  flame. 
But  we,  less  drossy  beings,  filter'd  off 
Our  natures  rude  and  gross,  create  anew 
Souls  of  fine  wants  and  delicate  desires, 
Rich  in  the  fair  civilities  of  life, 
Endued  with  sensitiveness  keen  and  clear 
Of  earth's  best  pleasures,  shall  we  tamely  yield 
Our  beauteous  Britain,  our  own  pleasant  isle. 
To  drearv-soul'd  Barbarians?    'Tis  not  now 
Merely  to  'scape  the  heaven-branded  name  of  slaves. 
For  license  lo  breathe  where  we  choose,  and  wield 
At  our  own  wayward  will  uiifeller'd  limbs. 
Oh,  if  we  fail,  free  Christians  must  smk  down 
To  Heathen  slaves,  our  gilded  palace  roofs 
Shout  the  loose  riot  of  new  Lords,  our  wives 
■    Be  like  base  plunder,  vilely  bought  and  sold  ; 

Worse  shame  1  worse  sin !  the  murky  Heathen  groves 
O'er  our  fallen  Churches  their  pale  gloom  advance  ; 
Our  holy  air  go  hot  and  reeking  up 
With  impious  incense  to  blood  beveraged  Gods! 
'    The  deep  damnation  of  a  Pagan  creed 
i     Rot  in  our  children's  souls  I    Then  be  our  peace 
I     Not  hasty,  as  of  timorous  souls  that  snatch 
|i    At  every  feeble  reed,  but  stoop  we  lo  it 
J     As  with  a  conqueror's  pride,  with  steel-gloved  hand 
I]    Seal  our  stern  treaty.     So  if  they  depart, 
Ij    And  with  their  spread  sails  hunt  their  mad  emprize ; 
i|    But  while  one  prow  dash  menace  on  our  shore, 
';  24 


Oiir  earth  be  patient  of  one  armed  hoof. 
Tame  treaty,  tem[)orizing  truce,  avaunt! 
The  foreign  banner  that  usurps  our  winds. 
Be  it  a  foe,  strange  steel  that  doth  divert 
One  ray  of  sunlight  from  our  shores,  be  that 
The  scope  and  centre  of  all  British  swords. 
So  build  we  up  our  peace  on  the  strong  rock 
Of  brave  defiance,  cement  it  with  scorn, 
.Set  bright-arm 'd  N'alour  in  ils  jealous  [xirch. 
Bold  warden;  from  our  own  intrinsic  strength 
Not  from  the  mercy  of  our  foes,  be  free." — 

Oh  the  soul's  fire,  of  that  swift  element 
Th'  intensest,  broadest  spreads  and  nimblest  mounts, 
With  flaky  fierce  contagion  ;  it  hath  caught 
In  that  Baronial  conclave,  it  hath  blazed. 
But  then  rose  Elidure,  with  bashful  mien. 
Into  himself  half  shrinking;  from  his  lips 
The  dewy  words  dropt,  delicate  and  round, 
And  crept  into  the  chambers  of  the  soul. 
Like  the  bee's  liquid  honey: — "And  thou  too, 
Enamour'd  of  this  gaudy  murderer.  War! 
Samor,  in  hunger's  meagre  hour  who  scorns 
A  fair-skinn'd  fruit,  because  its  inward  pulp 
May  be  or  black  or  hollow  ?  this  bland  Peace 
May  be  a  rich-robed  evil ;  war,  stern  war. 
Wears  manifest  its  hideousness,  and  bares 
Deformities  the  Sun  shrinks  to  behold. 
Because  't  is  in  the  wanton  roll  of  chance 
That  he  may  die,  who  desperately  leaps 
Into  the  pit,  with  mad  untimely  arms 
To  clasp  annihilation  ?   Were  no  path 
But  through  the  grim  and  haunted  wilds  of  strife, 
To  the  mild  shrine  of  peace,  maids  would  not  wear 
Their  bridal  chaplets  with  more  joy.  than  I 
Th'  oppressive  morion  :  then  th'  old  vaunt  wefe  wise. 
To  live  in  freedom,  or  for  freedom  die. 
Then  would  I  too  dissemble,  with  vain  boast 
Our  island's  weakness  ;  wear  an  iron  front. 
Though  all  within  were  silken,  soft,  and  smooth. 
For  v\'hat  are  we,  slight  sunshine  birds,  thin  plumed 
For  dalliance  with  the  mild,  luxurious  airs! 
To  grapple  w  ith  these  vultures,  whose  broad  vans, 
Strung  wiih  their  icy  tempests,  but  with  wind 
Of  their  liirth  rushing  down  would  swoop  us?  Then, 
Then,  S;:inor,  eminent  in  strength  and  power, 
It  were  n.^ist  proud  for  thee  alone  to  break 
The  hot  assault,  with  single  arm  t'  arrest 
The  driving  ruin — ruin,  ah!  too  sure. 
Oh,  't  were  most  proud  ;  to  us  sad  comfort ;  sunk, 
Amerced  of  all  our  fair,  smooth  sliding  hours, 
Our  rich  abodes  the  wandering  war-flame's  feast. 
Samor,  our  fiithers  fear'd  not  death  ;  cast  off 
Most  careless  their  coarse  lives;  with  nought  to  lose, 
They  fear'd  no  loss;  our  breathing  is  too  rich, 
Too  precious  this  our  sensitive  warm  mould. 
Its  joyances,  aflections,  hopes,  desires. 
For  such  light  venture.    Oh,  then,  be  we  not 
Most  wretched  from  the  fear  of  wretchedness! 
If  war  must  be,  in  God's  name  let  war  be: 
But,  oh,  with  clinging  hand,  with  lingering  love. 
Clasp  we  our  mistress.  Peace.     Gold  !  w  hat  is  gold  ? 
My  fair  and  wealthy  palace  set  to  sale, 
289 


280 


MILMAxN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Cast  me  a  beggar  to  the  elements'  scorn ; 

But  leave  me  peace,  oh,  leave  ray  country  peace, 

And  I  will  call  it  raercy,  bounty,  love!" — 

So  spake  he,  with  vain  show  of  public  zeal 
Blazoning  his  weak  intent;  and  so  prevail'd 
His  loose  and  languid  eloquence.  Each  rent 
The  golden  frontlet  from  his  helm,  cast  down 
His  breastplate's  golden  scales,  in  contest  free 
Prodigal  rivals  at  rich  price  to  buy 
That  baleful  merchandize,  their  country's  shame. 

Oh,  where  the  royal  Brethren  now  ?  the  pride 
Serene  of  Emrys  ?  where  thy  Dragon  crest, 
Prince  Uther?  for  thy  voice,  young  V'ortiraer? 
Seal,  Samor,  thy  prophetic  lips;  in  vain 
The  trumpet  of  thy  warning  shouts  abroad. 
Will  the  winds  hear  thee  ?  will  the  rocks  obey  ? 
Or  hearts  than  wind  more  light,  than  rocks  more  cold? 

Grey  Cerdic  hath  their  faint  award  ;  they  part 
Jocund,  and  light  of  hope  ;  but  Samor  grasp'd 
The  hand  of  Elidure  — "My  childhood's  friend, 
I  sue  thee  by  all  joys  we  two  have  shared  ; 
Our  interchange  of  souls,  communion  free 
Of  every  thought  and  motion  of  our  hearts. 
Our  infant  pastimes,  and  our  graver  joys. 
Go  not  thou  to  this  feast." — "  Doth  Samor  go?" 
"  Britain  must  have  no  danger,  gentle  friend, 
That  Samor  shares  not ;  thou  art  noted  well 
To  hate  the  riotous  and  brawling  feast. 
With  thy  fond  bride,  thy  Evelene,  await 
Silent  the  knowledge  whether  thou  or  I 
Have  err'd  in  this  day's  council." — "  No,  best  friend, 
Samor  must  have  no  danger  Elidure 
Shares  not.     Oh,  why  this  cold  and  gloomy  dread  ? 
In  the  deep  centre  of  our  isle  be  held 
This  dreaded  banquet.     Samor,  ne'er  thought  I, 
While  my  mild  blood  ran  constant,  thine  would  flag, 
And  curdle  with  the  pallid  frost  of  fear." 

'Tis  famed,  that  then,  albeit  amid  the  rush 
Of  clamorous  joy  unmark'd  in  drearier  days, 
Remember'd  signs  on  earth,  and  signs  in  heaven. 
With  loud  and  solemn  interdict  arraign'd 
That  hasty  treaty;  maniacs  kindled  up 
With  horrible  intelligence  the  pits 
Of  their  deep  hollow  eyes,  and  meaning  strange 
Gave  order  to  their  wandering  utterance:  stream'd 
Amid  the  dusky  woods  broad  sheeted  flames  ; 
The  blue  fires  on  the  fen  at  noon-day  danced 
Their  wavering  morrice,  and  the  bold-eyed  wolves 
llowl'd  on  the  sun.     Life  ominous  and  uncouth 
Seized  upon  ancient  and  forgotten  things; 
The  Cromlechs  rock'd,  the  Druid  circles  wept 
Cold  ruddy  dews;  as  of  that  neighbouring  feast 
Conscious,  the  tall  Stone  Ilenge  did  shrilly  shriek 
.As  with  a  whirlwind,  though  no  cloud  was  moved 
In  the  still  skies.    A  wailing,  as  of  harps, 
Sad  with  no  mortal  sorrow,  sail'd  abroad 
Through  the  black  oaks  of  Mona.    Old  deep  graves 
Were  restless,  and  arm'd  bones  of  buried  men 
Lay  clattering  in  their  stony  cells.     'T  was  faith. 
White  women  upon  sable  steeds  were  seen 


In  fleet  career  'neath  the  rank  air;  the  earth 

Gave  up  no  echo  to  their  noiseless  feet. 

And  on  them  look'd  the  moon  with  leprous  light 

Prodigious  ;  hnply  like  those  slender  shapes 

In  the  ice  desert  by  Caswallon  seen. 

From  Mona  to  the  snowy  Dover  cliflS, 

From  Skiddaw  to  St.  Michael's  vision 'd  mount. 

Unknown  from  heaven  or  earth,  or  nether  pit, 

Unknown  or  from  the  living  or  the  dead, 

From  being  of  this  world,  or  nature  higher, 

Pass'd  one  long  shriek,  whereat  old  Merlin  leap'd 

From  his  hoar  haunt  by  Snowdon,  and  in  dusk 

And  dreary  descant  multer'd  all  abroad 

What  the  thin  air  grew  cold  and  dim  to  hear. 

'T  is  said,  rude  jwrtents  in  the  church  of  God. 
With  insolent  noises,  brake  the  holy  calm. 
The  grey  owl  hooted  at  the  noontide  chaunt. 
The  young  owl  clamour'd  at  the  matin  song, 
The  pics  and  ravens,  from  the  steeple  top, 
To  the  priest's  Benedicite  moan'd  back 
A  sullen  hoarse  Amen,  and  obscene  bats 
Around  the  altar  candlesticks  did  flap 
Their  leathern  wings.    Yea,  from  his  stricken  hand 
The  white-stoled  Bishop  to  the  earth  let  fall 
The  consecrated  chalice  ;  the  holy  wine 
(Ineffable !)  flowed  on  the  pavement  stone. 


BOOK  V. 


Swan  of  the  Ocean,  on  thy  throne  of  waves 
Exultant  dost  thou  sit,  thy  mantling  plumes 
RuflSed  with  joy,  thy  pride  of  neck  elate, 
To  hail  fair  peace,  like  Angel  visitant, 
Descending,  amid  joy  of  earth  and  heaven. 
To  bless  thy  fair  abode.     The  laughing  skies 
Look  bright,  oh,  Britain !  on  thy  hour  of  bliss. 
In  sunshine  liiir  the  blithe  and  bounteous  May 
O'er  hill  and  vale  goes  dancing  ;  blooming  flowers 
Under  her  wanton  feet  their  dewy  bells 
Shake  joyous ;  clouds  of  fragrance  round  her  float. 
City  to  city  cries,  and  town  to  town 
Wafting  glad  tidings:  wide  their  flower-hung  gates 
Throw  back  the  churches,  resonant  with  pomp 
Of  priests  and  people,  to  the  Lord  their  prayers 
Pouring,  the  richest  incense  of  pure  hearts. 
With  garland  and  with  song  the  maids  go  forth. 
And  mingle  with  the  iron  ranks  of  war 
Their  forms  of  melting  softness  ;  gentle  gales 
Blow  music  o'er  the  festal  land,  from  harp 
And  merry  rebeck,  till  the  floating  air 
Seem  harmony;  still  all  fierce  sounds  of  war; 
No  breath  within  the  clarion's  brazen  throat ; 
Soft  slumber  in  the  war-steed's  drooping  mane. 

Not  in  the  palace  proud,  or  gorgeous  hall. 
The  banqueting  of  Peace;  on  Ambri  plain 
Glitter  the  white  pavilions  to  the  sun. 
Their  snowy  pomp  unfolding;  there  the  land 
Pours  its  rejoicing  multitudes  to  gaze, 
Briton  and  Saxon,  in  majestic  league, 

290 


SAMOR. 


281 


Mingling  their  streaming  banners'  blazon'd  waves. 

•  Blithe  as  a  virgin  bridal,  rich  and  proud 
As  gorgeous  triumph  ibr  iiiir  kingdom  won, 
Flows  forth  the  festal  train ;  with  arms  elate 
The  mothers  bear  their  infants  lo  behold 

That  Hengist,  whose  harsh  name  erewhile  their  cheeks 
Blanch'd  to  cold  paleness ;  they  their  little  hands 
Clap,  smiling,  half  delighted,  half  in  dread. 
Upon  that  hated  head,  fwm  virgin  hands. 
Rain  showers  of  bloom  ;  beneath  those  hated  feet 
Is  strewn  a  flowery  pavement ;  harp  and  voice 
Hymn  blessings  on  the  Saxon,  late  denounced 
'.    Th'  implacable,  inexorable  foe. 

Lordly  they  pass'd  and  lofty ;  other  land 
Save  Britain,  of  such  mighty  desjxjts  proud, 

!   Had  made  a  boast  of  slavery  ;  giant  men 
In  soul  as  botiy.     Not  the  Goth  more  dread, 
Tall  Alaric,  who  through  imperial  Rome 
March'd  conqueror,  nor  that  later  Orient  chief, 
Turban'd  Mohammed,  who  o'er  fall'n  Byzance 
His  moony  ensign  planted  :  they,  unarm 'd. 
Yet  terrible,  went  haughty  on,  of  power 

)   A  world  to  vanquish,  not  one  narrow  isle. 

f 

!       The  hoilovv  vault  of  heaven  is  rent  with  shouts, 

•  Wild  din  and  hurry  of  tumultuous  joy 

Waves  the  wide  throng,  for  lo,  in  perfect  strength. 
Consummate  height  of  manhood,  but  the  glow. 
The  purple  grace  of  youth,  th'  ambrosial  hue 
Of  life's  fresh  morning,  on  his  glossy  hair, 
His  smooth  and  flushing  features,  Samor  comes. 
,   His  name  is  on  the  lisping  infant's  lips, 

Floats  on  the  maiden's  song  ;  him  warrior  men 
.   Hail  with  proud  crest  elate  ;  him  present,  deem 
,   Peace  timorous  mercy  on  the  invading  foe. 
Around  the  Kings  of  Britain,  some  her  shame. 
Downy  and  silken  with  luxurious  ease. 
Others  more  hardy,  in  whose  valiant  looks 
Were  freedom  and  command :  of  princely  stem 
]   Alone  were  absent  the  forsaken  King 

And  his  sad  Son,  and  those  twin  royal  youths, 
;    Emrys  and  Uther ;  nor  the  Mountain  Lord, 
i    With  that  young  eaglet  of  his  race,  deign  share 
,    The  gaudy  luxuries  of  peace;  save  these, 
All  Britain's  valiance,  princedom,  and  renown 
March'd  jubilant,  with  symphony  and  song. 

Noon ;  from  his  high  empyreal  throne  the  Sun 
'    Floods  with  broad  light  the  living  plain  ;  more  rich 
,    Ne'er  blazed  his  summer  couch,  when  sea  and  sky. 
In  royal  pomp  of  cloudy  purple  and  gold. 
Curtain  his  western  chambers,  breathing  men 
Gorgeous  and  numberless  as  those  bright  waves 
Flash,  in  their  motion,  the  quick  light ;  aloof 
The  banqueters,  like  Gods  at  nectar  feast, 
,    Sit  sumptuous  and  pavilion'd  ;  all  glad  tones 
>    From  trembling  string,  or  ravishing  breath  or  voice, 
In  clouds  of  harmony  melt  up  to  Heaven  ; 
O'erwhelming  splendour  all  of  sight  and  sound. 
One  rich  oppression  of  eye,  ear,  and  mind. 

Midnight,  in  darkness  heavy,  thick,  and  chill ; 
In  silence  rigid,  deep  and  breathless,  stands 


On  the  wide  plain  one  lonely  man.   Wan  light. 
From  dim  decaying  firebrand  in  his  grasp, 
Feebly,  with  gleam  inconstant,  shows  his  mien 
Hopeless,  too  haughty  to  despair:  His  eye, 
As  jealous  of  dark  foe,  goes  wandering  round : 
Yet  seems  he  one  more  fear'd  than  fearing ;  rent 
His  robes'  rich  splendour ;  and  his  jionderous  arm, 
With  its  wild  weajwu  wearily  declined. 
Bears  token  of  rude  strife — though  rude,  though  fierce, 
By  thy  brow's  pride,  thou  sad  and  stately  Man  I 
No  faint  inglorious  craven  hast  thou  shrunk. 
In  dread  of  death,  or  avarice  base  of  blood. 

At  that  dead  hour,  in  Cassar's  city*  gates 
The  Briton  wives  and  mothers  sate ;  at  eve 
They  from  tlie  plain  had  homeward  turn'd,  to  rock 
Their  infants'  rosy  sleep,  or  trim  the  couch 
For  him  beloved  and  loving;  some,  from  joy 
Sleepless,  sate  watching  the  grey  shadows  fiill. 
In. luxury  of  impatience;  slumbering  some, 
From  weariness  of  pleasure,  in  light  dreams 
Lived  o'er  again  the  morning's  jocund  hours. 

That  hour,  one  horn  with  long  and  solemn  blast 
Went  wailing  up  the  heavens;  less  shrill,  less  drear. 
Blew  through  the  fatal  Roncesvalles  pass, 
In  after  times,  Roland's  deep  bugle,  heard 
Dolorous,  so  poets  feign,  on  Paris'  wall. 
The  air  seem'd  shivering  where  the  knell  pass'd  on. 
As  with  a  cold  wind  shudder'd  the  thick  trees. 

But  those  fond  women  hail  that  brazen  sound, 
Joy's  harbinger,  sweet  signal  of  return  : 
As  the  fond  maid  her  lover's  moonlight  lute. 
They  drink  in  its  dire  harshness,  busy  round 
Gazing,  if  aught  neglected,  careless  aught 
Belie  the  welcome,  or  to  wakening  child 
Smile  the  glad  tidings,  or  along  the  walls 
People  the  dim  air  with  the  forms  they  love. 
Oh,  fond  of  fancy!  credulous  of  hope! 
Ye  hear  but  pleasure  in  that  horn ;  but  see. 
In  the  dim  tumult  of  yon  moving  lights. 
Swift  homeward  h\irrying.     Now  the  slow  delay 
Is  but  a  lengthen'd  rapture:  steps  are  heard, 
And  figures  indistinct  are  in  the  gloom 
Advancing;  yet  no  festal  pomp  proclaim'd 
By  music's  merry  breath,  but  mute  and  slow, 
As  from  dark  funeral— haply  wearied  all 
With  the  long  revel  day.     But  ye  'gin  trace 
Some  well-known  gesture,  dear  familiar  step, 
F.ach  boastfid  of  her  lover's  speedier  pace. 
Saxon  the  first,  how  wearily  slow  ihey  pass! 
Still  are  they  Saxon,  Saxon  still,  the  last 
Saxon  ;  in  wonder  they,  nor  yet  in  fear. 
Question  the  dark  air  with  their  searching  eyes, 
Incredulous  arraign  the  deepening  gloom. 
That  with  an  envious  melancholy  shroud 
Palls  the  long-look'd  for,  late-returnmg.    Them, 
Ah,  deeper  darkness  covers;  to  their  homes 
Never  more  to  return !    Lo,  all  at  once 
The  bloody  knives,  borne  boastful,  their  red  light 


*  Salisbury. — Sarisburga,  qu.  Cajsaris  bursa  T 
291 


282 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Flash  murtherous ;  known  is  all  ere  aught  is  fear'd. 

And  yet  are  there  unfaded  on  their  brows 

The  garlands  that  ye  fondly  wove,  the  air 

Kot  silent  of  your  blessings.     From  these  walls, 

At  rnorn,  three  hundred  breathing  valiant  men 

Went  proudly  forth — in  solitary  life 

r.Ioves  o'er  the  plain  that  one  majestic  shape. 

Like  Spirit  of  \'engeance  o'er  some  ghastly  land 

That  scoff'd  erevvhile,  in  high  portentous  guilt. 

The  slumbering  of  God's  wrath  now  blasted  lies, 

Infecting  with  the  ashes  of  its  wreck 

The  late  chastising  heavens.     So  lone,  so  dark, 

But  pale  with  human  sorrows  at  his  heart. 

The  King  of  that  Bright  City  in  the  Vales, 

Walks  the  waste  gloom;  around  him  the  cold  winds 

Speak  voices  fi-om  the  dead,  and  oft  he  turns. 

Brandishing  defiance  on  the  air,  and  smites 

Some  seeming  Saxon  with  his  smouldering  brand. 

Now  rests  he  in  that  old  mysterious  ring, 
The  dateless  and  the  numberless  Stonehenge, 
That  is,  and  hath  been,  whence  or  how,  none  know.s. 
But  even  the  Master  Druid  with  slow  dread 
Its  dangerous  precincts  trod,  though  noontide  bright 
Revell'd  in  the  rich  heavens,  and  holiest  harps 
Purified  the  calm  air:  rose  like  the  wreck 
Of  some  old  world  the  shadowy  temple  huge, 
Shapeless  magnificence!  here  souls  profane 
Peem'd  rites  so  potent  held  as  made  the  oaks 
Stand  still  and  motionless  'mid  the  wild  storm. 
And  with  a  light,  nor  of  the  stars  nor  moon, 
Sheeted  the  midnight  heavens :  deera'd  some,  more 

sage, 
Th'  Invisible  his  cloudy  presence  here 
Embodied,  and  with  wisdom  heavenly  and  high 
Full  feasted  the  tranced  soul ;  all  the  dire  place 
Fled,  fearing  more,  unknowing  what  they  fear'd. 

Amid  those  stony  giants  that  upfower 
In  massy  darkness,  or  in  the  wind's  rush 
Seem  swaying  on  their  dizzy  balance,  stands. 
If  virtue  of  aught  earthly  may  feel  awe. 
Awe-struck  the  Christian  ;  now  his  calmer  soul 
Had  time  for  grief,  for  memory,  o'er  him  flows 
Deep-lulling  quiet;  here  the  light  and  gay 
Had  felt  a  motion  on  their  lips  like  prayer; 
IVor  marvel  then  that  holy  th()ughts  oppress'd 
With  a  full  ecstasy  the  Christian  soul. 

"  Merciful!  by  whase  will  mine  arm  hath  paved 
With  the  strewn  corpses  of  my  murtherous  foes 
A  dismal  passage,  while  around  me  Death 
Movv'd  Britain  with  his  secret  scythe!  oh  God, 
I  thank  thee,  if  I  die,  a  warrior's  death 
May  be  my  brave  distinction  :  if  this  life 
Be  worthy  thy  upholding,  though  all  lost, 
The  friendshitis  and  the  prides,  that  made  its  course 
Blissful  and  bright,  I  thank  thee  f(>r  my  life: 
Thank  thee,  that  yet  on  British  earth  shall  breathe 
A  Briton,  resolute  on  that  last  crag. 
That  knows  not  the  rude  Saxon's  tread,  to  rise 
Erect  in  .stately  freedom,  and  o'er-brood 
The  dim  and  desert  beacon  of  revenge. 


Or  deign 'st  thou  this  low  frame  of  dust  to  choose 
Thy  minister  of  wrath,  I  not  with  prayer 
Vain  and  presumptuous,  summon  from  the  clouds 
Thy  thunders,  nor  invoke  prodigious  Death 
To  smile  my  foes.     Hopes  perishable  man. 
At  his  wild  bidding,  thou  the  laws  wilt  burst, 
Wherewith  thou  fetterest  thy  Onnipotence  ? 
Harden  to  stern  endurance  these  frail  limbs, 
With  adamantine  patience  sheathe  my  soul. 
That  nor  pale  shrinking  of  the  coward  flesh. 
Nor  inward  palsying  swerve  from  its  brave  scope 
Th'  aspiring  spirit ;  grant  thou  this  sole  prayer, 
And  I  thus  lone,  thus  desolate,  proclaim. 
Single,  yet  dauntless,  to  yon  Saxon  host 
Stubborn  defiance,  haughty  to  bear  up 
The  wreck  of  Britain  with  unstooping  neck." 

Now  over  all  the  orient  sky,  the  Mom 
Spread  rosy  in  her  youth  of  light,  as  fair. 
As  bright  her  rising  on  this  plain  of  death, 
As  yesterday,  w  hen  festal  multitudes 
Greeted  her  dawn  :  so  vain  the  boast  of  man. 
That  earth,  and  air,  and  sky,  their  mimic  hues        "* 
Borrow  from  his  fantastic  woes  and  joys. 


I 


And  o'er  the  plain  began  his  lonely  way 
The  ^Va^rior,  on  his  brow  the  unheeded  wind 
Fanii'd  freshness,  and  the  wandering  lark  unheard, 
Quiver'd  her  blithe  song,  like  an  airy  voice, 
Bathing  in  light.    Anon  a  dale  beneath 
Open'd,  and  slow  withdrew  the  misty  veil 
That  o'er  her  hamlets,  roofs,  and  bowery  trees 
Tinged  with  a  li(]uid  azure  the  thin  air. 
Along  the  winding  path  he  roves,  that  none. 
Save  feet  habituate  to  its  maze,  could  thread. 
Heedless  that  here  to  Elidure's  green  home 
He  came,  unweeiing  visitant.    Within, 
Breathless,  as  though  she  listen'd  in  her  sleep, 
Close  to  the  door,  as  jealous  lest  some  ear 
Earlier  than  her  own  should  catch  the  sound 
Of  Elidure's  returning  tread,  or  voice 
Anticipate  the  welcome  of  her  own. 
Reclined  the  bride,  soft  Evelene.     The  step 
Up  from  the  pillowing  hand  her  flushing  cheek 
Waken'd,  or  ere  the  threshold  he  o'erpast. 
The  form  yet  indistinct  to  her  quick  sight, 
Murmur'd  her  fi)nd  upbraiding.     "Truant  Lord, 
Art  thou  too  changed,  thou  too  of  midnight  feast 
Enamour'd  '.  time  hath  been  the  rosy  cup. 
Thou  Saxon  in  thy  revels,  had  look'd  pale 
To  Evelene's  cheek — 'T  is  wretched  solace,  yet 
'Tis  solace  in  the  drear  extreme  of  grief. 
To  find  one  human  heart  w  hose  deeper  woe 
Makes  weakness  of  our  wailing."    Though  alone 
Of  the  fray's  dizzy  tumult  lay  distinct 
Elidure's  image  on  the  Wanderer's  soul, 
His  image  as  beneath  the  Saxon  steel 
Dying,  he  struggled  back  to  life  from  joy 
His  stern  friend  to  behold  with  fiery  brand 
Piercing  his  path  of  flight,  less  bitter  seem'd 
His  cup  of  woe,  when  from  him  sprang  that  bride. 
Nor  knew  him;  knew  him,  but  not  Elidure. 
Then  sued  for  tidings,  and  with  all  her  soul 

292 


SAMOR. 


283 


Listen'd  but  could  not  hear,  mistrusting  all 
While  yet  but  fearing,  but  when  all  assured, 
Mistrusting  even  her  fears,  even  then  to  hope 
Clinging  with  desperate  energy  of  soul. 
Her  Samor  left  in  that  dead  night  of  mind, 
When  madness  were  a  comfort,  all  wild  whirl, 
All  dizzy  hurry  of  rack'd  sense  were  rich, 
Were  rapturous  to  that  blank  and  dismal  void, 
When  one  incessant  miserable  thought 
Blends  with  the  life,  the  being  of  the  spirit. 

Him  scared  no  Saxon  clarion,  the  drear  blast 
Winding  of  fleet  pursuit ;  carne  o'er  his  soul 
His  own,  his  wedded  Emeric,  her  babes 
Hushing,  while  greedily  with  ear  and  soul 
She  drinks  each  sound  the  busy  babbling  fame 
Spreads  on  the  wandering  winds ;  the  fleetest  steed 
Of  Elidure  bestriding,  still  he  moves 
A  tardy  laggard  to  his  soul's  desire. 
Sedulous  each  throng'd  haunt  of  man  avoids 
His  jealous  speed,  and  still  from  town  and  lower 
Came  blithely  forth  the  jubilant  hymns  of  peace; 
Still  unextinguish'd  their  glad  brilliance,  waned 
In  morn's  grey  mists  the  yellow  festal  fires. 

Day  pass'd,  day  sank ;  't  is  now  the  dewy  eve. 
Beneath  him,  in  the  soft  and  silent  night. 
Spread  the  fair  Valleys,  mead  and  flowery  lawn 
With  their  calm  verdure  interspersed  allay 
The  forest's  ponderous  blackness,  or  retire 
Under  the  chequering  umbrage  of  dim  groves. 
Whose  shadows  almost  slumber :  lar  beyond 
Huge  mountains,  brightening  in  their  secret  glens, 
Their  cold  peaks  bathe  in  the  rich  setting  sun. 
Sweeps  through  the  midst  broad  Severn,  deep  and  dark 
His  monarchy  of  waters,  its  full  flow 
Still  widening,  as  he  scorn'd  to  bear  the  main 
Less  tribute  than  a  sea ;  or  inland  roU'd 
Ambitious  ocean,  of  his  tide  to  claim 
The  wealthy  vassalage.     High  on  its  marge 
Shone  the  Bright  City,  in  her  Roman  pomp. 
Of  bath,  and  theatre,  and  basilic. 
Smooth  swelling  dome,  and  spiring  obelisk. 
Glittering  like  those  more  soft  and  sunny  towns 
That  bask  beneath  the  azure  southern  skies 
In  marble  majesty.     Silent  she  stands 
In  the  rich  quiet  of  the  golden  light ; 
The  banner  on  her  walls  its  cumbrous  folds 
Droops  motionless.     But  Samor  turn'd  aloof. 
Where  lordly  his  fair  dwelling's  long  arcade 
On  its  white  shafts  the  tremulous  glittering  light 
Cherish'd,  and  starry  with  the  river  dews 
Its  mantle  of  gay  flowers,  the  odorous  lawn 
Down  sloped,  as  in  the  limpid  stream  to  bathe. 

No  watch-dog,  with  glad  bark  and  fawning  joy, 
His  Lord  saluted  :  Samor  mark'd  it  not. 
No  menial  caught  the  slack  rein  from  his  hand  : 
He  heeded  not.     No  swift  familiar  step 
Forth  started  at  his  comins;  face  of  joy 
Brightened  not — vacant  all :  yet  heeds  he  not. 
No  infants,  in  their  giddy,  tottering  speed. 
Clung  round  his  knees.    So  early  at  their  rest! 
24*  2L 


Thought  the  fond  father.     Emeric's  chamber  door 
Stands  open  ;  he  but  paused  his  name  to  hear 
Low  mingled  with  her  murmur'd  orisons : 
All  hush'd  as  in  a  tomb;  perchance  she  sleeps, 
At  his  long  absence  heartsick,     lie  the  folds 
Gently  withdrawing  of  his  nuptial  bed. 
As  with  the  amorous  violence  of  his  lijis 
To  wake  her  to  delicious  fear,  bends  down. 
Cold,  cold  as  marble,  the  forsaken  bed 
Received  the  fervent  pressure.     Back  he  sprung. 
And  strange,  like  one  that  moveth  in  his  sleep. 
Stood  with  loose  arms  and  leaden  listless  gaze. 
Unconscious,  to  the  city  walls,  far  seen 
From  that  high  chamber,  rove  his  eyes :  behold 
Against  the  Sun's  last  light  a  wandering  breeze 
Swells  up  the  heavy  banner;  in  the  gleam 
The  White  Horse  of  the  Saxon  shakes  his  mane. 

Then  felt  he  the  blank  silence,  then  perceived 
The  tumult,  and  rude  disarray  that  marr'd 
The  face  of  his  fair  dwelling.     Forth  he  rush'd. 
As  eager  that  his  soul  at  one  wild  draught 
Might  glut  itself  with  perfect  woe,  all  ill 
Exhausted,  laugh  drain'd  destiny  to  scorn. 
Cradle  and  infants'  couch  with  frantic  hand 
Hurrying  he  explores;  the  sad  chill  void 
Almost  delights.    Now  on  the  river  brink 
He  watches  yon  huge  forms  that  pace  the  walls ; 
Saxon  their  long  black  lances,  Saxon  helms 
Nod  o'er  their  lofty  brows,  terrific  gloom. 

Lo!  at  his  feet,  beneath  a  primrose  bed. 
Half  veil'd,  and  branching  alder  that  o'er-droop'd 
Its  dark  green  canopy,  a  slumbering  child — 
If  slumber  might  be  call'd,  that  but  o'erspread 
A  wan  disquiet  o'er  the  wither'd  cheek. 
Choked  the  thin  breath  that  through  the  pallid  lip 
Scarce  struggled,  closed  not  the  soft  sunken  eye. 
Well  Samor  knew  her,  of  his  love  first  pledge, 
First,  playfullest,  and  gentlest:  he  but  late 
Luxurious  in  the  fulness  of  his  woe. 
Clings  to  this  'lorn  hope  like  a  drowning  man. 
Not  yet,  not  yet  in  this  rude  world  alone. 
Lavish  of  fond  oflicious  zeal,  he  bathes 
With  water  from  the  stream  her  marble  brow. 
Chafes  her;  and  with  his  own  warm  breath  recalls 
The  wandering  life,  that  like  a  waning  lamp 
Glimmer'd  anon,  then  faded  :  but  when  slow 
Unfix'd  her  cold  unmeaning  eye  regain'd 
Brief  consciousness,  powerless  her  languid  arm 
Down  fell  again,  half  lifted  in  his  hair 
To  wreathe  as  it  was  wont,  with  effort  faint 
Strove  her  hard  features  for  a  woeful  smile  : 
And  the  vague  murmurs  of  her  lips  'gan  fall 
Intelligible  to  his  ear  alone. 

"And  thou  art  come — too  late — yet  thou  art  come,"- 
He  soothing  her  with  hope,  he  knew  most  false, 
Slow  modell'd  from  her  broken  faltering  voice 
One  sad  continuous  story. — "  'T  was  at  eve 
We  went  to  rest,  I  never  slept  so  soft ; 
Our  mother  lull'd  us  with  assurance  sweet 
Of  thy  returning. — By  and  by  I  woke. 
But  the  bright  morning  was  not  shining  fair, 

"  2'J3 


284 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  the  birds  singing  as  they  useJ.     I  saw. 

By  a  dim  dnsky  light,  huge  iron  men 

With  hair  like  fire,  and  their  fierce  voices  sjiake 

Strange  language :  of  my  prayers  I  thought,  and  strove 

My  eyes  to  close,  still  those  grim-visaged  men 

Stood  in  the  wavering  darkness  by  the  light 

Of  their  blue  weapons — then  they  went  away. 

I  crept  out  to  my  mother's  couch  ;  she  lay 

Asleep,  but  not  as  I  have  seen  her  sleep, 

When  I  have  stolen  at  morn  to  look  on  her, 

And  thou  hast  laid  me  by  her  quiet  side. 

She  shiver'd  in  her  sleeping,  and  her  skin 

Was  chilly  lo  the  touch,  yei,  oh  to  sleep, 

Even  as  she  did,  I  long'd  ;  for  they  came  back, 

Those  shapes  in  all  their  darkness,  all  their  light ; 

Before  their  rugged  faces  I  felt  cold 

As  in  the  snow  time  ;  my  eyes  could  not  see. 

Oh,  but  I  heard  a  dizzy  sound,  like  shrieks 

Of  many  voices  all  at  once.     I  thought 

Rude  hands  were  busy  on  my  mother's  couch, 

As  though  to  bear  her  thence — yet  woke  she  not. 

Oh  Father,  I  have  never  look'd  on  death, 

But  she  was  dead,  I  felt  that  she  was  dead. 

I  could  not  breathe,  yet  from  my  thirsty  throat 

My  voice  was  bursting,  but  down  o'er  me  fell 

The  foldings  of  the  couch — long,  long  it  seem'd. 

Ere  from  that  cumbrous  weight  I  struggled  forth, 

Then  all  was  silent,  all  except  the  dash 

Of  distant  oars  :  I  cried  aloud,  and  heard 

But  my  own  voice,  I  search'd,  yet  found  I  none ; 

Not  one  in  all  these  wide  and  lofty  halls — 

My  mother,  my  sweet  brothers  gone,  all  gone. 

Almost  I  wish'd  those  fierce  men  might  return 

To  bear  me  too  in  their  dread  arms  away. 

Hither  I  wander'd,  for  the  river's  sound 

Was  joyous  to  the  silence  that  came  cold 

Over  my  bosom,  since  the  Sun  hath  shone. 

Yet  it  seem'd  dark — but  oh,  'tis  darker  now, 

Darker,  my  Father,  all  within  cold,  cold. 

The  soft  warmth  of  thy  lips  no  more  can  reach 

This  shuddering  in  my  breast — yet  kiss  me  still." — 

Vain,  all  in  vain,  that  languid  neck  no  more 
Rises  to  meet  his  fondness,  that  pale  hand 
Drops  from  his  shoulder,  that  wooed  voice  hath  spent 
Its  last  of  sweetness  :  wanted  this  alone 
That  could  enhance  his  agony,  baffled  hope. 
Quiet  and  cool  the  deep  tide  at  his  feet 
Rolls  with  a  tranquil  murmur;  one  lone  gleam 
Still  lingering  from  the  sunken  Sun,  beneath 
The  moving  surface,  lightens  its  cold  depth. 
How  pleasant  in  its  secret  caves  to  quench 
The  soul,  the  body's  fever;  to  cast  off 
This  restless,  trembling  consciousness,  that  clings 
Enamour'd  to  its  anguish,  sedulous 
To  nurse  its  own  disquiet :  not  to  feel. 
Though  cast  by  wandering  waves  on  Emeric's  grave ; 
Though  Saxon  barks  triuniphiiut  bound  above. 
To  feel  not.  and  have  freedom  though  in  death. 
For  why  this  barren  wilderness  of  earth 
Still  haunt,  man's  pity,  and  the  arch  fiend's  scofT; 
Why  to  the  wearying  wretchedness  of  life 


Cling  with  a  coward  fondness  ? — but  a  step 
To  quiet — to  forgelfulness,  a  step. 

But  alien  to  proud  Samor,  those  bad  thoughts 
I  Startled  his  nature,  burnt  his  soul  with  shame. 
That  such  unholy  musings  dare  intrude 
On  its  sad  sanctity  ;  upright  he  sprung ; 
Oh,  not  in  vain  a  Christian,  with  clench'd  hand 
j  And  inward  rack  convulsive  of  choked  pain, 
I  Forced  calmness  lo  his  brow ,  his  hollow  voice 
Wrought  to  a  mournful  fortitude. — "  Oh  thou. 
Glorious  in  thy  prosperity  of  crime, 
Hengist,  and  thou  that  barter'st  thy  old  fame 
For  sweet  lascivious  chambering,  hast  unking'J 
Thy  stately  soul  within  tlie  wreathing  arms 
Of  that  fair  Saxon,  in  loose  dalliance  soft 
To  steep  the  inebriate  sense,  on  Samor's  state 
Lxx)k,  and  be  pale  with  envy  ;  he  dare  stand 
Lofty  beneath  yon  starry  throne  of  God, 
And  bless  him,  that  his  fate  is  scant  and  poor 
In  joys  like  yours,  by  all  your  jx)mp,  your  bliss. 
Made  lovesick  of  his  misery ;  still  he  feels 
The  haughty  solace  of  disdain  ;  still  soothes 
The  madness  of  his  grief  by  pitying  you. 
Nor  yet,  oh  impotent  of  cruelly  ! 
I  am  not  utterly  from  this  dark  world 
Estranged  and  outcast :  gone,  for  ever  gone, 
Those  exquisite  mild  luxuries  of  the  heart, 
That  summer  sunshine  of  the  soul,  sweet  love. 
That  makes  life  what  we  deem  of  heaven ;  remain 
Hardier  delights,  severer  joys.    Oh  reft 
Of  all  thy  brave,  thy  princely,  of  my  faith 
Thou  hast  a  deeper  need — be  thou  my  bride, 

0  Britain!  to  thy  wreck  I  proudly  wed 
The  sadness  of  my  widowhood,  and  bid 
Pale  bridemaids  to  our  nuptials,  holy  Wrath 
And  iron-handed  Vengeance;  and  invoke 
Death,  that  dark  minstrel,  from  fast-slaughler'J  mound.? 
Of  Saxons,  to  awake  our  bridal  hymn. 
And  spread  for  torchlight  on  our  spousal  eve 
Wild  gratulation  of  their  funeral  fires. 

"  And  thou,  O  stainless  denizen  of  heaven  ! 
Soft  soul  of  my  lost  Emeric,  endure 
Though  jealous  my  new  bride  from  thee  bereave 
The  rude  tumultuous  day,  the  midnight  hour 

1  consecrate  to  thee;  then  slide  thou  down. 
Like  moonlight  on  the  darkness'  raven  wing. 
And  oh!  if  human  passion,  human  love. 
Stain  the  pure  essence  of  immortal  spirits, 
Leave  heaven  in  heaven,  earth's  frailer  loveliness 
Resumins:,  chaste  mild  fondness,  timorous  warmth 
Visit  my  desert  fancy.     Him  by  day. 
Savage  and  merciless,  with  soul  of  steel. 
And  pale  brow  cloudy  with  a  nation's  cares. 
Shall  midnight  find  an  amorous  dreamer  fond, 
A  dotard  on  a  dim  unreal  shade." 

Now  o'er  what  was  the  rosy,  playful,  warm, 
I  Now  pale,  now  changeless,  icy  cold  the  maid 
Whose  bl  lie  eyes  danced  with  rapture,  whose  light  step 
Was  consort  to  the  air-roving  winds  (half  seal'd 
I  That  lustreless  wan  azure;  stiff  and  damp 

294 


SAMOR. 


285 


Those  sprightly  limlis,)  oft  pausing  as  yet  loath 
To  part  from  what  he  sliudder'd  to  behoUi, 
Heaps  Samor  llie  light  earth ;  ere  o'er  her  face 
He  placed  the  primrose  knot,  once  stoop'd  his  lips. 
And  started  to  find  cold  what  he  knew  dead. 

Now  closed  that  mournful  oflice,  Hearing  fast 
Is  heard  a  dash  of  oars,  and  at  his  side 
Forth  leap'd  an  armed  Saxon*,  with  raised  arm 
Menacing;  but  Samor  down  with  scornful  strength 
The  grim  intruder  dash'd  to  earth,  and  fix'd 
His  stern  heel  on  his  neck,  and  stood  in  act 
The  life  to  trample  from  the  gasping  trunk. 
Sudden  withdrawn  his  angry  tread,  he  spake, 
"Thee  first  of  Saxon  race,  thee  last,  this  arm 
Spares,  not  of  milky  mercy,  but  as  meet 
To  minister  my  purpose  ;  go  unscathed. 
And  tell  to  Hengist,  tell  thy  Lord,  who  robs 
The  Lion's  den,  should  cliani  the  Lion  first ; 
Add,  Samor  is  abroad."— Tlien  to  the  boat 
He  sprang,  and  pass'd  to  Severn's  western  shore. 


BOOK  VL 


A  VOICE,  o'er  all  the  waste  and  prostrate  isle 
Wandereth  a  valiant  voice ;  the  hill,  the  dale, 
Fore.'it  and  mountain,  heath  and  ocean  shore 
Treasure  ils  mystic  murmurs;  all  the  winds 
From  the  bleak  moody  East  to  that  soft  gale 
That  wantons  with  the  summer's  dewy  flowers, 
Familiar  its  dark  burthen  waft  abroad. 

Is  it  an  utterance  of  the  earth  ?  a  sound 
From  the  green  barrows  of  the  ancient  dead  ? 
Doth  fierce  Cassivelan's  cold  sleep  disdain 
That  less  than  Ca?sar  with  a  master's  step 
Walk  his  free  Britain  ?   Doth  thy  restless  grave, 
Bonduca,  to  the  slavish  air  burst  ope, 
And  thou,  amid  the  laggard  cars  of  war, 
Cry,  "  Harness  and  away !"     But  far  and  wide, 
As  when  from  marish  dank,  or  quaking  fen, 
Venomous  and  vast  the  clouds  uproU,  and  spread 
Pale  pestilence  along  the  withering  land, 
So  sweeps  o'er  all  the  isle  his  wasting  bands 
The  conqueror  Saxon ;  he,  far  worse,  far  worse 
His  drear  contagion,  that  the  body's  strength 
Wastes,  and  with  feverish  pallor  overlays 
The  heaven-shaped  features;  this  the  nobler  soul, 
With  slavery's  base  sickliness  attaints, 
•Making  man's  life  more  hideous  than  his  death. 
Thames  rolls  a  Saxon  tide  ;  in  vain  delays 
Deep  Severn  on  Flinlimmon's  summits  rude 
His  narrow  freedom,  tame  anon  endures 
Saxon  dominion  :  high  with  arms  uplift, 
As  he  had  march'd  o'er  necks  of  prostrate  kings, 
Caswallon  on  the  southern  shore  of  Trent 
Drives  onward,  he  nought  deeming  won,  while  aught 
Remains  unwon.     But  still  that  wonderous  voice, 
Like  vulture  in  the  grisly  wake  of  war. 
Hovers,  and  flings  on  air  his  descant  strange. 


"Vengeance  and  Vigilance!" — in  van,  in  rear. 

Around,  above,  beneath,  the  clouds  of  Heaven 

Enshroud  it  in  their  misty  folds;  earth  speaks 

From  all  her  caves.  "  Vengeance  and  Vigilance !" 

Aye,  at  that  sound  the  Briton  crest  assumes 

High  courage  and  heroic  shame ;  he  wears 

With  such  bold  mien  his  slavery,  he  might  seem 

Lord  over  fortune,  and  with  calm  disdain 

He  locks  his  fetters,  like  proud  battle  arms. 

Without  a  foe  o'er  this  wide  land  of  foes 

Marcheth  the  Saxon.    City,  tower,  and  fort 

On  their  harsh  hinge  roll  back  their  summon'd  gates, 

With  such  a  sullen  and  reluctant  jar, 

Submission  seems  defiance.     'I'hough  to  fear 

Impassive,  scarce  the  Victor  dare  unfurl 

Banner  of  conquest  on  the  jealous  air. 

Less  perilous  were  frantic  strife,  were  wrath 

Desperate  of  life,  and  blind  to  death,  wild  hate 

Of  being  struck  all  heedless  so  it  strike, 

Than  this  high  haughty  misery,  that  fierce  woe 

Baffles  by  brave  endurance,  and  confronts 

With  cold  and  stern  conlentedness  all  ill. 

Outrage,  and  insult,  ravage,  rape,  and  wreck, 

That  dog  barbaric  Conquerors'  march  of  war. 

'Tis  like  the  sultry  silence,  ushering  forth 

The  thimder's  cloudy  chariot,  rather  like 

The  murky  smothering  of  volcanic  fire 

Within  its  rocky  prison  ;  forth  anon 

Bursts  the  red  captive,  to  the  lurid  heaven 

Upleaps,  and  with  its  surging  dome  of  smoke 

Shuts  from  the  pale  world  the  meridian  Sun. 

But  in  their  camp,  in  fierce  divan  and  full, 

The  lordly  robbers  sate,  assemblage  proud, 

Elhling.  and  Erie,  and  King.  f()r  council  met, 

For  council  and  carousal ;'"  so  they  deem'd 

The  drunken  sense  would  hardier  daring  grasp, 

And  the  bold  revel  of  the  blood,  the  soul 

Flush  to  more  noble  valiance,  strong  desire 

In  fierce  embrace  to  meet  that  mistress  dark. 

Danger:  Hoarse  din  of  merriment,  the  air 

Smote  with  meet  music  blending  loud  and  deep. 

But  Horsa  lighting  with  disdainful  mirth 
His  broad  bright  eye,  'gan  scofT  with  rugged  jest. 
"Ill  have  we  done,  though  fiir  one  sumptuous  feast 
Be  ours  tiiis  spacious  isle,  ill  have  we  done; — 
That  in  our  prodigal  and  heedless  waste 
Of  those  tall  high-born  Britons  spared  we  none 
To  tilt  at  with  our  thirsty  spears,  and  scare 
The  frost  and  slumber  from  our  sluggish  hearts. 
Now  hang  we  fijrth  our  banners  lo  disport 
In  the  smoooih  breeze,  our  armour's  steeled  clasps 
To  summons  soft  of  Lady's  tender  hands 
Surrender;  or  ffo  joust  the  hardy  oaks 
For  pastime.    Oh  !  along  these  velvet  plains 
To  prance  'mid  timorous  hinds  with  their  pale  souls 
In  their  white  faces,  heralds  crouching  low. 
With  looks  beseeching,  voices  meek,  clasp'd  hands; 
'Tis  tame  and  wearisome  as  at  dead  noon 
To  rock  ujxm  the  flat  and  ha/y  sea." 


*De  pace  denique  ac  l)ello  plerumqiie  in  conviviia  consul- 
tant ;  tanquam  nullo  maKlii  tempore  ant  ad  simplices  coeita- 
lioncspattat  animu3,  aut  ad  magnasincalescat.-TAC.  Germ. 

295 


286 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  This  too,"  cried  hoary  Cerdic  ;  "  this  bright  sword 
Loathes  its  long  Christian  fast,  yet  not  despairs 
Erewhile  to  glut  with  banquet  rich  and  full 
lis  ravening  blade ;  for  trust  me,  fiery  Erie, 
Many  a  fierce  steed  hath  brook'd  the  brazen  curb, 
That  chafed  anon,  from  his  high  seat  to  dust 
Hath  shaken  his  pale  rider:  Erie,  I  read 
In  yon  bow'd  foreheads  sterner  characters 
Than  abject,  tame  allegiance,  homage  base: 
There  the  firm  purpose,  meditation  deep, 
And  study  of  revenge;  the  wand  of  peace 
Is  in  their  hands,  but  in  their  souls  they  grasp 
The  battle-axe  and  spear." — A  bitter  laugh 
Came  with  the  fierce  reply,  "Shall  Horsa  watch 
The  shiftings  in  the  visage  of  a  slave  ? 
I  issue  forth  my  mandate,  and  'tis  done, 
Whether  with  cloudy  or  with  sunshine  brow 
I  know  not  and  regard  not." — Cerdic's  voice, 
Ruffled  to  somewhat  of  prophetic  tone  : 

"  Not,  Horsa,  to  the  stones,  the  deaf  dull  stones. 
Nor  the  cold  current  of  the  senseless  winds 
Speaks  that  wild  orator,  the  Man,  whose  paths 
Are  hidden  as  the  ways  of  fate,  unknown 
Who  knoweth  all,  who  seeth  all  unseen. 
Nor  like  the  lightning  shaft  his  presence  dread 
Divulgeth,  but  to  shatter,  but  to  slay. 
Whose  breath  beneath  the  soft  dove's  snowy  down 
A  soul  might  breathe  of  valour  to  outsoar 
The  falcon's  pitch  of  pride :  I  tell  thee,  Erie, 
This  soft  effeminate  Britain,  to  our  sway 
Gentle  and  pliant  as  a  willow  wand, 
Will  that  dark  Man  uprear  a  ponderous  Mace 
To  crush  our  infant  empire." — "  Man  !  hath  man 
Curdled  the  blood  of  OfTa,  made  his  soui 
Patient  of  that  pale  trembling  motion,  fear, 
And  Ofla  live,  live  shameless  of  his  shame, 
Amid  his  peers  with  unblench'd  front  to  say, 
These  knees  have  quail'd,  these  stubborn  joints  have 

felt 
The  aspen's  coward  fluttering,  and  the  Sun 
That  saw  his  flight,  hath  seen  not  his  revenge? 
Cerdic,  the  name  of  perishable  man 
Thou  dost  belie,  so  titling  beings  dim, 
Viewless  and  formless  denizens  of  air, 
That  sport  and  dally  with  the  human  shape, 
Making  of  mortals  to  their  mortal  peers. 
Dark  things  of  doubt  and  danger.   We  had  sworn, 
Gurmund  and  Sigvart,  jf^lla,  Attilar, 
And  other  six,  than  who  no  German  arm 
Sways  heavier  the  long  lance,  nor  German  foot 
Treads  firmer  battle's  crimson  paths,  I  speak, 
Fiery-soul'd  Horsa,  to  thy  front ;  to  thine, 
High-sceptred  Hengist !  mortal  steel  we  swore 
Should  choke  that  full-voiced  Wanderer's  clamorous 

breath. 
Sage  oath !  as  to  adjure  our  souls,  and  vow 
Th'  irregular  mad  ocean  our  word  '  Peace' 
Should  hearken,  and  sleek  smooth  his  cresting  waves. 
But  gaily  went  we  forth  with  brand  and  bow. 
Like  hunters  to  the  chase,  scoffing  our  prey. 
'  Now  if  he  meet  us  in  his  mortal  shape. 
Let  him  melt  back  inlo  his  native  air; 


Then  shall  he  'scape.' — High  o'er  our  path  a  rock 

Hung  beetling,  from  its  summit  came  a  voice, 

'  Behold  him !' — with  the  voice  a  fragment  vast. 

An  earthquake  had  been  weak  to  hurl  it  forth; 

Two  stalely  necks  to  the  low  earth  sank  down. 

And  o'er  them  that  huge  mass  lay  stern  and  still. 

Like  an  old  giant's  monument.    But  we 

Leap'd  onward,  /Ella  met  the  dark  unknown, 

Heavy  with  ruin  hung  his  arm  in  air. 

But  in  his  valiant  heart  a  javelin  stood. 

Drinking  the  crimson  life.     Still  on  we  swept. 

Many  a  wild  league  o'er  moor  and  marish  swamp. 

Forest  and  wold,  and  still  our  pathway  lay 

O'er  the  warm  corpses  of  our  foremost  peers. 

Sole,  sad  survivors  of  our  host,  we  came, 

Sigvart  and  OfTa ;  on  the  giddy  brink 

Of  precipice  abrupt  the  conqueror  paused. 

As  weary  with  his  prowess,  our  defeat, 

To  mock  us  with  the  calmness  of  his  rest. 

'  Now  come  what  will,'  cried  Sigvart, '  come  what  may. 

Or  thou,  or  I,  or  both.' — Then  on  he  sprung, 

Yet  not  the  more  relax'd  that  shape  of  gloom 

Its  stern  contemptuous  quiet,  waved  his  arm 

With  motion  less  of  strife  than  proud  command, 

And  then  of  Sigvart's  fall  the  deep  abyss 

Sent  up  a  hollow  sound.     I  fled,  proud  Peers  ; 

I  say  again,  I  fled,  and,  or  disdain'd 

That  being  dark  a  lone  and  single  foe, 

Or  by  the  shielding  of  our  mightier  Gods, 

I  'scaped." — "  I  too  (cried  Hermingard),  I  loo 

Of  that  mysterious  Wanderer  have  known 

The  might  and  savage  mercy.     I  had  stray'd 

Into  a  fiibric  fair,  of  Christian  Gods, 

A  fane  it  seem'd,  rich-crested  pillars  ranged 

On  either  side,  above  the  hollow  roof 

Aye  lessening,  seem'd  to  melt  into  the  air 

On  which  it  floated. — High  uprear'd  there  shone 

An  altar,  bright  with  chalice,  lamp,  and  cup. 

All  of  the  flaming  gold.     I  rush'd  to  seize; 

An  arm  was  on  my  neck,  that  dash'd  me  down 

Like  a  soft  infant ;  then  a  vengeful  voice 

Struck  on  my  dizzy  hearing — '  But  thy  blood 

Would  dye  this  holy  pavement  with  foul  stain. 

Heathen,  thy  soul  and  mortal  shape  were  rent 

Asunder.' — As  I  fled,  I  turn'd — reclined 

Low  by  that  altar  on  his  knees,  all  quench'd 

Fierce  wrath  and  fiery  menace,  drooping  all 

Stern  pride  of  mastery,  triumph,  and  high  scorn, 

That  wild  Unknown,  calm  not  with  weariness. 

Gentle  but  not  with  sleep.     Majestic  light 

Boam'd  on  the  quiet  of  his  heavenward  brow, 

Yet  human  tears  stood  glittering  in  his  eyes. 

My  thoughts  were  vengeance,  but  the  cold  clear  air 

Went  creeping  up  my  veins,  an  awful  frost 

Drank  up  the  languid  current  of  my  blood. 

And  unrevenged  I  fled  that  tranquil  Man." 

Upsprang  young  Abisa,  and  beauteous  scorn 
Curl'd  his  smooth  cheek — "In  tumult  or  in  calm, 
But  have  he  blood  within  his  beating  veins, 
Mine  is  a  steel  of  such  a  searching  thirst, 
'Twill  drain  its  crimson  source."    "Thou!  wanton 
Boy," 

296 


SAMOR. 


287 


The  pale  laugh  wrinkling  on  his  swelling  lip. 

"  Thou  I  thou  I  (cried  Oflii)  wirh  thy  molher's  milk 

Yet  white  within  thy  beaniless  I'liei'U." — "  I'roud  Jute, 

The  stem  of  Woden  is  a  niotiniing  tree, 

Its  saplings  soar  to  meet  the  golden  Snn, 

While  tamer  shrulis  oreep  with  base  trail  on  earth. 

Hengist,  my  King,  my  Brother.'  by  our  Sire 

I  swear,  that  ne'er  again  melheglin  cup 

Shall  sparkle  on  these  lips,  till  I  have  met 

This  mystic  deity  of  OlTlx's  fear." 

Then  on  the  Monarch  turn'd  all  eyes  ;  he  sate 
In  darkness,  or,  by  chance  or  art,  the  lamps 
Stream'd  bright  and  yellow  down  the  festal  board 
But  fell  no  rav  within  his  folded  robe. 
Yet  wore  not  Hengist  on  his  brow  his  soul. 
High  spake  he  from  its  cold  and  stately  calm 
Law  to  the  lawless,  to  the  dauntless  dread ; 
But  his  were  rarer  qualities  of  power. 
Dominion  o'er  himself;  deep,  deep  within 
Dwelt  all  the  stormy  passions;  by  no  eye 
Pierced  in  its  dark  abiding  lay  the  spirit 
With  all  its  shames  and  grandeurs,  loves  and  hates, 
And  all  its  greedy  family  of  lusts. 
Though  now  there  seem'd  beneath  his  royal  crown 
A  faint  uncertain  paleness,  as  of  fear 
Not  wholly  quell'd,  and  on  his  cheek  and  lip 
Hover'd  a  quivering  motion,  ere  he  spake. 
But  cool  his  speech. — "  Presumptuous  youth,  thy  oath 
Though  wild,  is  holy — Woden  guard  thee  well. 
Yet  art  thou  sole  in  madness  ?  time  hath  been 
When  the  brave  frenzy  of  rash  daring  spread 
A  broad  contagious  flame  through  all  our  camp, 
Till  not  a  sword  but  shamed  its  sluggish  sheath. 
Needed  not  Saxon  king,  as  now,  to  gdd 
Fair  danger  ere  it  pleased,  as  now  proclaim 
Rich  guerdon  to  the  warrior,  that  aspires 
To  rival  Woden's  blood,  and  be  the  peer 
Of  Abisa  in  peril  and  renown. 
More  lofty  duties  fetter  thee  and  me. 
High  Horsa" — (for  the  fiery  warrior's  hand 
Had  started  to  his  sword's  familiar  hilt) 
Rob  we  not  of  their  fame  the  valiant  Erles." 

No  seat  was  vacant,  not  a  voice  came  forth, 
As  he  were  single  in  his  shame  sate  each, 
Nor  dared  on  his  compeers  to  look,  in  fear 
Soul  might  be  there  more  dauntless  than  his  own. 
Blank  silence  all !  but  loud  that  silence  spake 
Not  vainly.  Samor,  worn  thy  title  proud. 
Avenger!  by  thy  country's  Conquerors  thou 
Magnificently  deified  ;  so  soar'd 
Thy  mortal  virtue  o'er  their  tamer  Gods. 
Not  that  the  vassal  elements  thy  sway 
Hearken'd,  nor  beings  of  the  middle  air 
Stoop'd  on  their  glistening  wines  to  work  thy  will, 
Avenger.'  but  for  thee,  the  .-Mniighty  wrought 
Most  marv'lous,  most  mirao'lous  ;  in  Ihv  soul, 
That  nobler  field,  high  wonders  manifold 
Labour'd  to  light  and  lustre  :  for  what  thotight 
Unwing'd  bv  iu-hreathed  Godhead  e'er  might  dream 
Of  glory  to  be  born  from  this  broad  night 
Of  desolation  and  deep  darkness,  strive 
For  faint,  impalpable,  and  airy  good, 
2N 


Through  the  thick  clouds  of  evil  and  of  w6e. 

Strong,  stately,  constant,  like  an  eagle  set 

To  driidv  the  last  light  of  the  parting  sun? 

What  heart  of  earthly  clay,  that  ne'er  imbibed 

Holier  and  purer  ether,  niicht  endure 

Danger,  dismay,  despair,  all  ills  that  wring 

Within,  and  rack  and  nmkle  ?  not  alone 

Fierce  wrong  and  insult  ol  triumphant  foe. 

But  worse,  far  worse,  iioni  those  our  iiiends  nii.s- 

deem'd. 
Pity  of  calm,  cold  cowards,  or  rude  scorn 
From  sleek  and  smiling  slaves ;  or  scoff  and  luock 
At  our  hard  sufferings  from  those  ingrate  hearts 
For  whom  we  suffer ;  these  the  woes  that  wait 
That  nobly  desjierate,  who  with  steadfast  hand 
The  statue  of  his  country's  fame,  down  dash'd 
And  trampled  by  barbarian  feet,  ingrain'd 
With  the  coarse  dust  and  black,  beR>re  the  world 
Would  rear  again  to  sov'reigniy  and  state. 
But  thou  didst  strive  and  sutler,  thou  didst  hope, 
And  therefore  in  thy  dark  and  silent  deeds 
Ream'd  manifest  God's  Spirit;  till  in  thee 
F.ven  the  base  body  that  e'er  clogs  and  clouds 
The  nobler  energies,  its  state  infirm 
Shook  ofi;  and  by  communion  close  assumed 
The  soul's  immortal  essence,  or  the  soul 
A  climate  and  peculiar  atmosphere 
Spread  round  its  weaker  instrument  of  power. 
Hence  human  accidents  of  heat  and  cold. 
Famine  and  thirst,  wasting  and  weariness. 
Fell  light  and  thin  u]X)n  thy  tranquil  frame. 
Like  flakes  of  snow  up<jn  th'  unbroken  lake  ; 
Thus  didst  thou  pass  most  fearless,  and  most  fear'd; 
By  virtue,  and  thy  foeman's  dread,  array 'd 
In  attributes  of  strong  divinity  ; 
Danger  became  thy  safety,  thy  renown 
Grew  from  thy  utter  desperate  wretchedness. 

But  now  the  more  enjoy 'd  that  Saxon  youth 
His  solitude  of  glory  ;  forth  he  springs 
Hasty,  lest  valorous  repentance  fire 
Some  rival  Erie  of  half  his  peril  yet 
To  wrong  him.    In  his  tent,  soft  languid  soimds 
Expiring  on  her  falling  lute,  arose 
To  welcome  home  her  Lord  his  beauteous  slave; 
His  slave  I  is  that  her  slavery,  round  his  neck 
The  snowy  girdle  of  her  arms  to  wreathe  ? 
To  catch  a  master's  mandate  doth  she  raise 
The  bashful  fringes  of  her  eyes,  and  meet 
Those  glances  of  no  lordly  scorn,  that  soothe 
Her  gentle  wayward  angriness  of  love. 
Soothe,  dare  not  chide,  that  coldness  faint  and  brief 
That  would  be  wooed,  but  sweeter  to  be  won  >. 
Nor  dares  not  she  withhold  that  arm  upraised 
From  their  high  stand  the  furniture  of  fight. 
Glaive,  corslet,  morioti  to  displace;  her  touch 
Now  clings  with  soft  resistance,  playful  now 
Thwarts  his  stem  purpose. — "  Oh,  remove  not  them; 
In  hours  of  absence,  thou  too  dearly  lovest, 
They  are  my  comfort,  my  companions  they. 
My  all  but  thou  :  the  dusky  shades  of  eve 
Brown  o'er  their  glittering  steal,  and  there  array, 
A  bright  and  armed  man,  th'  oflicious  nir 
i-'-J- 


288 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Gives  motion,  and  with  all  thy  graceful  pride 
Shakes  the  light  plumage ;  thou  art  there,  in  spite 
Of  thy  own  tardy  lingering,  thou  art  there. 
Oh,  I  have  woke  at  midnight,  when  my  soul 
With  thee  hath  been  a  wanderer  through  sad  fields, 
'Mid  death  and  battle,  though  my  lightest  touch 
Had  proved  thee  by  my  side,  yet  my  faint  hand 
Lack'd  courage  with  that  dangerous  proof  to  front 
My  unsubstantial  fears.     Oh  then,  if  light 
Of  star  or  moon  on  their  blue  surface  gleam'd, 
Or  wind  awoke  them  into  sound,  again 
Calm  on  my  pillow  droop'd  my  cheek  to  rest, 
Secure  to  find  thee  sweetly  slumbering  there. 
Yet,  yet  unwon,  oh,  lighten  that  cold  brow, 
And  I  will  sing  the  soft  and  sleepy  song 
That  makes  a  woman  of  thy  angry  eyes. 
Lulls  the  rude  tumult  in  thy  troubled  breast, 
Leaving  nought  there  but  melody  and  me." 

Then  started  she  to  feel  how  hard  and  cold 
Between  her  and  her  bosom's  resting-place 
The  corslet  lay,  by  stealth  her  fond  embrace 
Supplanting;  gently  his  one  arm  declined 
Over  her  neck,  in  careless  fondness  hangs; 
Busy  the  other,  its  rude  office  frames. 
Linking  the  breastplate's  clasps ;  now  holds  he  back 
From  her  approaching  lips  his  cheek,  to  fix 
The  weighty  morion  ;  but  her  garrulous  grief 
Paused  not — "  At  midnight .'  now!  oh  brave  misdeem'd, 
Misdeem'd,  who  only  th'  open  day  would  front 
With  his  bold  armour;  who  but  I  would  love, 
I,  weak  and  brain-sick,  one  whose  valour  shrouds 
Its  prowess  in  the  cloudy  gloom  of  night  ? 
Oh  not,  oh  not  to  war,  thou  goest  to  win 
Some  lovelier  or  some  newer  bride.    Go,  go ; 
Though  faithless,  barbarous,  cruel,  cold  to  me, 
Yet  make  not  her  too  wretched,  make  not  her 
Heart-sick  with  sad  expectance." — But  her  arms 
Belied  her  desperate  language,  closer  clasp'd 
With  more  than  maiden  strength.     "Oh,  stony  heart. 
And  I  for  thee  forsook  my  infant  home. 
Where  all  my  steps  were  music,  all  my  smiles 
Glad  sunshine  to  my  parents'  wintry  blood, 
That  glanced  like  summer  waters  at  my  sight: 
For  thee  did  violence  to  my  virgin  fame: 
By  war's  rude  force  might  I  have  seem'd  enthrall'd, 
A  luckless,  pitied  damsel ;  my  fond  heart 
111  brook'd  the  coarse  reproach  of  ravisher 
Should  couple  with  a  name  so  dear  as  thine. 
At  night-fall  fled  I  to  thee ;  even  as  now 
The  stars  shone  beauteous,  and  a  kindly  gloom 
Curtain'd  our  meeting  even  as  now  ;  no  change 
From  soft  and  fond  and  gentle,  but  in  thee." — 
"Peace,  trembler,  peace!  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  hail. 
Borne  in  the  shield  of  honour,  on  the  necks    . 
Of  his  tall  peers,  thy  Abisn  ;  no  voice 
Silent,  no  quiet  in  the  troubled  air. 
Restless  with  his  hymn'd  triumph,  OfTa's  heart 
Sick  with  wan  envy.     Then  Myfanwy,  then 
My  glory  shall  make  rapture  of  thy  tears, 
And  thou  shalt  bless  the  grief  that  wrings  thee  now." 
"  Oh,  glory  hath  a  stern  and  savage  mate, 
Danger  her  lawless  paramour,  enfolds 


Her  beauties  in  his  churlish  arms.    Oh  pause, 
And  yet  farewell,  'tis  exquisite  to  part, 
For  oh,  thou  weep'st  at  parting,  't  was  past  hope 
To  see  a  tear  on  that  stern  face  for  me." — 

She  hath  her  last  cold  kiss  through  the  barr'd  heliri 
Won  hardly  ;  she  is  calm  as  though  it  dwelt 
Yet  on  her  lips ;  she  hears  his  parting  steps, 
Yet  lingers  on  her  cheek  that  liquid  glow, 
Thai  brilliant  harmony  of  smile  and  tear 
That  at  the  presence  of  the  one  beloved 
Flils  o'er  the  settled  purple  of  the  cheek. 
Oh,  if  soft  woman  hath  her  wilder  fears, 
She  hath  her  wilder  hopes,  for  man's  stern  grasp 
Too  thin,  too  airy !  "  Never  yet  found  false. 
Thou  wilt  return  ;"  (so  wanton'd  her  gay  dreams) 
"  So  young,  so  lovely,  (ate  would  shame  to  snatch 
So  early  the  choice  glories  of  the  earth." 
Then  sate  she  down  triumphal  coronets 
To  weave,  but  not  in  modest  quiet  grief, 
And  gentle  resignation  pale  and  mild. 
But  with  a  dancing  heart  and  bright  blithe  eye : 
And  when  her  eyelids  droop'd,  soft  o'er  her  came 
A  sweet  inconstant  slumber,  such  as  sleep 
Love-dreaming  maidens  ere  their  bridal  morn. 
But  through  the  clear  calm  night,  the  azure  plain 
Of  heaven,  with  all  its  glittering  paths  of  light 
Distinct  and  dazzling,  moved  that  fair-hair'd  youth  : 
So  if  old  fable  may  be  won  to  smile 
Its  grace  upon  our  darker  tale,  the  boy, 
Smooth-cheek'd  Endymion,  his  enamour'd  Moon 
Wooed  with  no  lawless  witchcraft  from  her  sphere: 
Nor  she  delay 'd,  her  silver-sandal'd  feet 
Gliding  and  glancing  o'er  the  dews  she  came, 
And  curtain'd  in  a  cloud  of  snowy  light, 
Mock'd  mortal  harjis  that  hymu'<l  her  cold  and  chaste. 
No  amorous  fancies  o'er  thy  downless  cheek 
Flushing  their  rosy  heat,  no  love-lipp'd  tones 
In  sweet  disturbance  stealing  on  the  air. 
Young  Abisa  !  with  more  imperious  charm 
Thou  summon 'st  from  wild  wood  or  cavern'd  heath, 
Nor  vainly,  their  fierce  habitant.     Behold, 
A  shadow  by  thine  own,  its  stately  length 
On  the  white  dews  advancing;  at  thy  side 
The  Avenger,  as  upsprung  from  nether  earth. 

Then  fatal  gladness  leap'd  in  that  young  heart, 
He  flung  his  vizor'd  helrnet  proudly  up. 
And  dash'd  defiance  'gainst  fierce  Oflfe's  dread. 

But  Samor,  for  when  his  pure  heart  was  wean'd 
From  all  the  faint  and  feeble  of  his  kind. 
The  mercies  clung  within,  and  gentleness 
So  mingled  wilh  his  nature,  that  it  slaked 
Even  the  blood-thirsting  frenzy  of  revenge; 
Samor  that  beauteous  youth  survcy'd,  the  stars 
Glimmer'd  a  blue  and  hazy  light,  that  shovv'd 
Ilis  soft  locks  spreading  their  bright  clusters  wide. 
His  vermeil  cheek  most  lovely  in  its  wrath. 
And  brow  that  seem'd  to  wonder  and  delight 
At  its  own  dauntlessness.     So  tall,  so  fair,  I 

Oft  had  he  imaged  his  own  perish'd  boy 
In  flower  of  youth,  that  flower  which  never  bloom'd. 
Tender  and  mild  his  voice,  as  though  he  spake 
298 


SAMOR. 


289 


Even  to  that  dead  beloved — "Oh,  brave  and  fair, 

Why  thus  abroad  amid  the  silent  night, 

With  menace  and  fierce  gesture  wild  and  strange?" 

"Thou  heardst  my  call,  thou  seest  my  arms,  my  aim 

Idly  thon  qtiesiion'st." — "'Tis  not,  gentle  youth, 

Thy  golden  luxury  of  hair,  nor  cheek 

Warm  in  the  rosy  wantonness  of  youth. 

But  ihy  Ijrave  bearing,  gallant  mien  and  proud. 

That  winds  long-banish'd  mercy  round  my  sword, 

To  save  from  it  one  Saxon  life." — "  Soft  praise. 

And  sweet  from  lady's  lips,  but  not  to  hear 

Smooth  Flattery's  descant  come  I,  but  to  win 

What,  being  won,  is  in  its  lofty  self 

Imperishable  beauty,  garlands  youth 

With  honour  passing  the  white  hairs  of  age. 

Glory,  the  life  of  life." — "  And  is  there  none 

Who.se  pillow  dreams  of  thee  are  haunting  now  ? 

No  mother,  whose  last  waking  thought  was  hope, 

At  morn,  to  meet  thee  in  thy  wonted  glow 

Of  loveliness  and  life  ?  No  gentle  maid 

Whom  the  bare  thought  of  paleness  in  thy  cheek. 

Of  death's  wan  chill  upon  thy  brow,  would  waste 

And  wither  like  the  canker'd  flower  of  spring  ? 

Return  to  her,  oh  fair,  high-minded  youth  I 

Ere  yet  too  late,  return." — But  more  delay 

The  hot  youth  brnok'd  not ;  down  he  clasp'd  his  helm. 

And  leaping  to  the  frantic  onset,  cried, 

"  Now,  Offa,  for  thy  shame,  and  for  thy  meed. 

My  brother  HengistI" — As  when  lightning  flame 

Dashes  at  midnight  o'er  his  slumbering  lids. 

Upstarts  the  wild  steed,  all  his  tawny  mane 

Bristling  and  blazing,  he  devours  the  earth 

In  fury ;  even  so  sudden  those  rash  words 

Set  flames  upon  the  Avenger's  brow,  set  wrath 

On  the  impetuous  motion  of  his  spear. 

Oh,  holy  Night!  in  thy  injurious  gloom 
How  blank  the  proud  distinctions  of  man's  fame ! 
Languor  and  loftiness,  and  shame  and  pride 
In  one  dead  darkness,  deep  forgeifulness. 
Lie.  as  within  a  grave,  till  Virtue's  self. 
But  for  her  haughty  consciousness  within. 
Might  wear}'  of  her  mute  and  viewless  deeds. 
Secret  and  still!  that  I  might  violate 
Thy  mysteries,  and  redeem  from  envious  gloom 
That  Saxon  boy's  dead  honours,  dearly  won. 
Most  dearly,  yet  most  nobly.     Morn  shall  tell 
The  issue  of  that  conflict,  but  no  morn 
Will  dawn  uyion  his  silent,  perish'd  praise. 

Two  hours  are  past,  alone  the  Avenger  moves 
Under  the  stars  of  heaven  ;  't  is  midnight  deep. 
Now  comes  his  hour  of  softness  ;  love-sick  boy, 
Tuning  soft  frenzies  to  his  wanton  lute, 
I.f  not  more  wild,  fantastical,  or  fond. 
Than  Britain's  stately  hope,  high  Ilengist's  dread. 
For  ever  at  this  hour,  of  parted  joy 
Dim  gleams  revisit  his  forsaken  soul. 
Like  once-loved  music  o'er  a  maniac's  ear; 
Faintly  and  feebly  sweet,  the  dead  put  on 
Their  earthly  lustre  ;  Emeric  comes,  as  fair 
As  from  the  bridal  altar,  but  less  coy. 
In  fervent  full  abandonment  of  love. 


The  breezes  are  melodious  with  her  voice, 
The  dews  are  printed  by  her  slender  feet. 
She  flows  into  his  arms,  her  fijnd  embrace 
Is  warm  ujion  his  soul.    Thus  aye  she  comes, 
Or  when  't  is  wintry  in  the  starless  skies. 
Or  when  the  moonlight  bathes  the  earth,  to  her 
Heaven  opes  its  crystal  portals,  beauteous  light 
Ushers  her  presence,  sleep  can  ne'er  estrange 
That  luxury  from  his  heart ;  when  consciousness 
Of  all  things  earthly  slumbereth  and  is  dead. 
She  haunts  within,  her  sweet  intrusion  clings 
To  the  luli'd  spirit,  senseless  but  to  her, 
AH,  all  the  living  of  the  man  is  her's. 

Oh,  in  their  droamings,  their  communions  wild 
With  airy,  immaterial  visitants. 
Most  difltr  Guilt  and  Virtue;  there  are  shapes 
Hideous  and  hatefiil,  snaky  Gorgon  smiles, 
And  all  the  fabled  populace  of  hell. 
Brooding  dis()uiet  o'er  the  thorny  couch  ; 
But  \'irtue's  visions  are  almost  as  fair 
.As  angels'  blest  realities;  to  thee 
Lovely  thy  nightly  visitant,  said  Chief! 
As  to  man,  sinless  yet  in  Eden  bowers, 
On  beds  of  odorous  amaranth  asleep. 
Yet  uncreated,  came  his  virgin  bride. 
Delicate  phantom;  then  his  fresh  pure  soul 
Amorous  enchantment  first  entranced,  first  rose 
That  our  best  feeling,  of  lost  Paradise 
That  sole  surviving  pleasure,  holy  love. 

Beauteous  thy  blue  uprising,  mist-robed  Morn! 
.All  thy  bright  glittering  of  fiintastic  dews 
With  their  thin  ti.ssue  silkening  the  green  meads, 
And  all  thy  music  of  blithe  leaves  that  dance 
In  the  caressing  breeze,  and  matins  gay 
From  all  the  living  woodland.  Sleep  is  pleased 
To  be  so  sweetly  banish'd  her  soft  reign. 
But  dreary  are  thy  sounds,  and  sad  thy  light 
On  the  lewd  wassail,  riot's  orgies  rude,  • 
Polluting  day  with  sights  that  shame  dark  night. 
Now  from  the  state  pavilion  fi)rth  are  pour'd 
The  svnod  of  high  banqueters,  their  eves 
Hot  with  loose  raptures  and  distemper'd  joy. 
Voluptuously  turbulent  their  souls. 
Right  in  their  way  stood  fix'd  a  lofty  spear. 
Not  with  gay  garland  crown'd,  or  streaming  silk, 
But,  with  that  beauteous  head  that  yesternight 
Confronted  them  with  graceful  pride ;  the  cheek 
Where  wantnnlv  youth's  rosy  banner  gleam'd. 
Pale,  dewy,  stifl^ening,  lifeless,  hislrele.ss; 
Part  matted  with  red  damp  the  golden  locks 
Clung  round  the  spear,  part  curling  on  the  air, 
Sad  semblance  shovv'd  of  life,  in  all  the  rest 
Making  the  stillness  and  fix'd  cold  more  dread. 

No  cheek  was  there  .so  bright,  voluptuous  heart 
So  hot,  but,  like  bleak  snow,  fear  fell  on  it 
With  a  cold  thrill  and  searching;  if  their  sight 
Had  yet  perception,  humbler  chiefs  might  draw 
From  high  example  comfort  for  their  dread  ; 
Browmicht  they  see  with  kincly  crown  beset. 
White,  sad,  and  shrunken  as  their  own.    Alone, 
'299 


290 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fierce  smiled  the  pride  of  Offa ;  he  held  up 
To  those  wan  lips  the  sparkling  shell  of  mead  : 
"  Drink,  thou  hast  kept  thy  oath,  drink,  soft-Iipp'd 
boy !" 

O'er  all  the  camp  spread  loud  and  wide  and  far 
The  name  of  Abisa;  Myfanwy  heard 
Where  lay  she  dreaming  half,  and  fabling  half 
Of  garlands  and  of  gay  triumphal  pomp. 
How  nimble  are  the  feet  that  bear  light  hearts! 
She  is  gone  forth,  and  all  for  joy  fcffgot 
The  veil  e'er  wont  to  dim  her  dazzling  cheek. 
Forgot  the  braiding  of  her  hair,  the  maid 
So  soft,  so  timorous,  at  the  wanton  breeze 
She  oft  hath  trembled,  'neath  day's  eye  retired 
Even  from  the  fondness  of  her  own  loved  youth. 
Through  files  of  warriors,  who  uncasque  their  brows 
To  fill  their  curious  gaze,  she  hurries  on. 
She  knows  not  what  she  sees,  and  only  knows 
She  sees  not  what  she  seeks,  that  cheek,  that  eye 
Which  fed  on  her  with  such  excess  of  love 
As  if  'twere  worse  than  blindness  to  lose  sight 
Of  its  sole  idol ;  only  she  is  blithe. 
She  only  smiling  'mid  those  many  sad. 
She  meets  even  all  she  longs  for ;  up  from  earth 
(For  now  from  that  sad  eminence  of  scorn 
Had  friendly  hand  removed  it,  now  had  cleansed 
Its  damp  defilement)  that  dear  face  on  her 
Settled  its  fix'd  and  inexpressive  gaze. 
Her  mien  was  strangely  rational,  her  look 
Like  one  that  calmly  ponder'd  what  it  saw. 
Her  voice  articulate  and  passionless. 
"Who  hath  done  this?"  —  "The  Avenger,  the  un- 
known," 
Spake  many  voices.—"  Oh,  my  hands  are  weak  ; 
Ye  see  them  soft  and  delicate  and  white. 
But  thou,  and  thou,  and  thou,  art  bold  and  strong, 
And  bear'st  bright  armour,  ye  will  sure  requite 
The  slaughter  on  the  slaughterer's  head." — Ensued 
Brief  moments  of  a  stagnant  grief,  life  paused, 
As  't  would  prolong  unconsciousness;  delay 
Yet,  yet  that  state  that  wakes  with  waking  sense. 
Then  kindled  up  her  eye,  but  not  with  joy. 
Then  flush'd  her  cheek  a  light  and  sanguine  red. 
That  its  fair  marble  flitted  o'er,  but  left 
Nor  tinge  nor  warmth  ;  she  snatch'd  up  to  her  heart 
That  lifeless  thing  and  fled  ;  as  some  fond  bird 
With  spread  wings  hovering  o'er  her  nest,  looks  round 
At  some  black  shape  of  fear,  then  turns  to  see 
If  yet  her  callow  brood  are  slumbering  safe: 
So  wandering  her  dim  eye  on  all  around, 
Anon  with  full  intensity  of  love. 
Settled  on  her  cold  care.     She  reach'd  the  tent, 
There  miserly  her  treasure  she  o'erbroods ; 
She  lays  it  on  her  lap,  and  sings  to  it, 
Now  gazes  as  she  thought  even  yet  those  eyes 
Might  open,  those  wan  lips,  their  wonted  sounds 
Murmur,  now  almost  sees  a  forming  smile : 
Now  gaily  carols  on  her  broken  songs. 
Ever  his  favourite,  most  familiar  tones. 
And  now  breaks  off,  as  fearful  to  disturb 
His  quiet  slumbers,  only  speaks  in  smiles. 
Language  by  him  e'er  understood,  and  once, 


Once  her  rash  lips  approach 'd :  so  pass'd  the  houts 
From  earliest  morning  till  the  setting  sun. 
Then  that  wild  spirit  and  playfulness  of  grief 
Sadden'd  to  drear  sobriety,  gave  place 
Sweet-dreaming  twilight  to  the  bright  clear  day. 
Then  first  she  thought  of  beasts  and  fowls  obscene 
Battening  on  his  fair  limbs,  no  hand  to  heap 
The  scanty  pity  of  a  little  earth 
Upon  the  brave,  the  princely,  and  the  fair:    ' 
Envious  of  partner  in  her  sacred  toil. 
Bearing  her  cold  wan  burthen  in  her  arms, 
Alone  upon  the  pious  quest  she  speeds. 
She  fears  not,  ah  too  wretched  now  to  fear! 
Darkness  is  on  her  steps,  but  what  to  her 
Though  nature's  rich  varieties  are  blank  ? 
Her  guide  the  unblinded  sympathies  within; 
The  love  that  link'd  her  to  his  living  soul 
Will  light  her  to  him  lifeless ;  yon  wan  stars. 
That  struggle  with  the  haze,  are  bright  enough 
To  beam  upon  the  dead.     But  now  more  fast 
Their  golden  cressets  multiply,  more  clear, 
And  lo  fierce  OfTa  in  her  path  :  his  eye 
Fix'd  on  her  with  a  rnde  imperious  lust, 
As  the  pollution  of  his  bad  desires 
Did  honour  to  their  victim.     But  the  maid. 
Unbelieving,  unsuspecting  aught  impure. 
With  sweet  beseeching,  almost  with  caress. 
Would  win  her  onward  passage  ;  when  her  soul 
Was  startled  into  fear,  she  would  not  think 
Such  savage  nature  dwelt  in  human  hearts. 
She  wept,  she  sued,  she  drew  the  veil  away, 
Upheld  that  lovely  lifeless  thing— in  vain  : 
The  snowy  dove  is  in  the  rude  kite's  grasp. 
Pale,  fluttering,  fainting ;  upon  Heaven  she  call'd, 
Cruelly  calm  look'd  on  her  the  cool  skies; 
She  call'd  on  Abisa,  but  only  felt 
More  deeply  that  cold  glassiness  of  face. 
That  dull,  indiflferent  witness  of  her  shame; 
But  in  the  stress  and  hurry  of  despair 
Strange  energies  were  hers,  with  frantic  voice 
She  call'd  on  the  Avenger — Lo,  he  comes. 
Terrible  in  the  silence  of  his  arms. 
And  earth  is  dank  with  Offa's  lustful  blood. 
But  her  first  motion  was  a  frantic  kiss 
On  Abisa's  cold  lips,  as  though  for  him 
Proud  of  the  untainted  treasure  of  her  love  ; 
Then  turn'd  to  her  preserver,  but  with  looks 
Of  loathing  more  than  thankfulness;  he  stood 
In  gentle  majesty  serene,  yet  proud 
Of  that  light  victory,  of  prevented  crime 
Severely  joyful ;  bitter  strife  of  heart 
Spake  in  her  language — "  Had  it  been  but  death, 
I  yet  had  cursed  thee !  oh,  look  here,  look  here ! 
(And  she  withdrew  the  clust'ring  curls  that  veil'd 
The  rigid  deathfulness  of  that  fair  brow) 
Oh,  one  sole  feeling  to  this  dead  heart  seem'd 
A  duty  and  delight,  the  hate  of  thee. 
Cruel,  even  that  thou  enviest  me,  even  that." 
"That,  British  maiden!  is  a  Saxon's  face, 
Yet  mourns  thy  amorous  heart  in  guilty  tears?" 
"  Is  there  not  beauty  in  a  Saxon's  check. 
Is  there  not  music  on  a  Saxon's  tongue. 
Is  there  not  tenderness  in  Saxon  hearts? 
300 


,SAMOR. 


iiOl 


Oh,  he  is  kind  and  true,  his  love  to  me 

Almost  as  deep  and  fond,  as  mine  lo  him : 

Wild  tliat  1  am,  he  was — ihat  fatal  was 

Makes  agony  my  sacred  ihonglit  of  him.'" — 

"  Maiden,  by  Wye's  iransfuirent  stream  alxxle 

An  aged  pair,  and  their  declining  day 

One  beauteous  child  enlighten'd,  and  dispensed 

Soil  mooidight  o'er  their  darkening  eve;  they  thought 

The  only  fxing  of  death  from  her  to  part. 

But  heavy  was  their  sinking  to  the  grave, 

For  that  iliir  beam  in  unchaste  darkness  qucnch'd 

Its  virgm  lustre,  and  its  light  withdrew, 

Of  their  oKI  linihs  the  life  :  alone  they  dwelt. 

In  discontent  and  cold  distaste  of  all. 

As  her  ingratitude  had  made  them  sick 

Of  the  world's  hoUowness,  and  if  she  fiiil'd 

All  earthly  things  must  needs  be  false  and  frail. 

They  ne'er  reproach'd  her,  for  so  near  the  grave 

They  could  not  hate;  but  for  her  sake  they  loathed 

Kach  old  familiar  face,  that  once  they  loved. 

Where  she  was  wont  to  wander,  wander'd  they ; 

The  garden  (lowers  she  tended,  they  Ixmnd  up 

With  woeful  care  ;  their  chill  and  shaking  hands 

Made  tremulous  music  with  her  lute  :  1  shrunk 

In  hoary  age  to  see  such  childish  joys. 

They  felt  one  after-pleasure ;  the  same  hour 

They  glided  from  their  wnes,  their  parting  breath, 

Blended  in  languid  blessings  on  her  head, 

For  her  went  suppliant  to  the  throne  of  God, 

Their  lost  Myfanwy." — Trembling  stood  she  there, 

Like  one  that  strives  to  weep,  but  the  hard  tears 

Are  frozen  in  their  source.     "  Oh  thou  and  I, 

Sweet  Abisa  (to  that  cold  head  she  spake), 

We  will  go  weep  uix)n  their  graves,  and  win 

Their  spirits  to  fi)rgivene.ss ;  when  they  hear 

How  fervent  and  how  fatal  were  our  loves. 

Heaven  will  lend  airs  to  waft  their  mercy  down." 

"  FonJ  Maid,  beware!  repentance  must  be  chaste 

And  spotless  as  the  unsunn'd  snow;  wilt  thou 

Vet  wanton  with  the  memory  of  thy  sin. 

Bad  thoughts  at  revel  in  thy  heart,  with  vows 

Lightly  made  up  of  guilty  breath  impure, 

Pollute  and  sicken  the  clear  air  that  dwells 

About  the  holy  dwellings  of  the  dead  ; 

Waver  from  God  to  Pagan  paramour 

With  wandering  loose  affections  ?"  "  Hard  and  cold 

Be  thou  content  lo  have  robb'd  this  widow'd  heart 

Of  that  most  lovely  breathing  thing  earth  bore, 

But  spare,  oh  spare,  the  sinless,  senseless  dead ! 

Cruel,  bv  yon  bright  stars  I  oft  have  sworn 

\e'er  to  forego  him;  shall  1  crown  my  sins 

With  perjury  ?  I  will  weep,  and  fast,  and  pray, 

.\nd  wear  the  rough  stones  with  my  tender  knees, 

So  thou  wilt  leave  me  my  sad  thoughts  of  him. 

Oh,  Gtxl  hath  grace  for  all ;  my  earliest  prayer 

Shall  be  for  mercy  on  his  perish 'd  soul. 

The  next  for  those  who  dying  pray'd  for  me, 

And  for  my  sad  and  sinful  self  the  last." 

Most  exquisite  sorcery  of  womankind  ! 
Even  to  the  fall'n  some  cherish'd  loveliness 
Yet  clings,  with  innocent  hypocrisy 
Tricking  their  failures  in  such  tender  hues, 
25  2  M 


We  blame  with  tears,  enamour'd  while  we  blame. 

Even  thus  her  fervent  constancy  of  love 

Brighten'd  that  guilty  maiden. — "Cod  will  weigh 

With  righteous  hand  thy  sorrows  and  thy  sins, 

Damsel ;  I  nor  absolve  thee,  nor  condemn. 

Come  thou  with  me,  and  we  will  reunite 

That  beauteous  boy's  remains:  oh  thou,  even  thou, 

Knew'st  thou  the  studious  cruelties,  cold  crimes 

By  these  barbarians  wrought  on  this  sad  land, 

Wouldst  pardon  this  dishonour  to  the  cor|»se 

Of  that  brave  youth." — She  leap'd  up  to  his  neck, 

"  .\nd  who  art  thou,  that  doest  such  savage  deeds. 

Yet  forcest  us  to  love  thee?" — On  they  past. 

They  reach'd  the  place  of  death,  he  dug  away 

The  earth  that  fisnced  from  w^andering  kite  and  wolf 

Young  Abisa's  fair  limbs;  he  soothed  her  woes 

By  soft  participation,  her  consoled 

By  suffering,  and  the  Christian's  voice  rose  up 

In  prayers  for  mercy  on  a  Saxon's  soul. 


BOOK  VII. 


How  measureless  to  erring  human  sight 

Is  glory  I  Glorious  thy  majestic  state, 

Hengist!  with  captive  cities  fJ^r  thy  thrones. 

And  captive  nations  thy  pale  satellites, 

Britain,  with  all  her  beauty,  pow'er,  and  wealth. 

Thy  palace  of  dominion.     Glorious  thou, 

Caswallon,  in  Caer  Ebranc's  stately  courts. 

By  the  slow  waters  of  the  wandering  Ouse, 

Bright-sceptred  Renegade!  Even  in  your  crimes 

Glitters  a  dazzling  and  meteorous  pomp; 

Though  vour  wild  voyage  hath  lain  through  waves 

of  blood. 
Ye  ride  triumphant  in  your  royal  port. 
But  he,  sad  Pilgrim,  outcast  and  forlorn. 
How  doth  the  midnight  of  his  honour  shame 
Your  broad  meridian,  his  wild  freedom  pass 
Your  plenitude  of  sway,  his  nakedness 
Transcend  your  sweeping  piirplcs,  ray'd  with  gold  I 
Nor  wanleth  to  his  slate  ilis  gorgeous  pride. 
And  hig'a  peculiar  m.ijesty ;  the  pomp 
Of  the  conspiring  elements  sheds  on  him 
Tumultuous  grandeurs;  o'er  his  midnight  couch, 
Amid  the  scathed  oaks  of  the  mountain  moor, 
On  its  broad  wings  of  gloom  the  tempest  stoops. 
Around  his  head  in  crystal  coronets 
The  lightning  falls,  as  though  ihv  fiery  hand. 
Almighty!  through  the  rolling  clouds  put  forth. 
Did  honour  to  the  Freeman.     Mighty  winds 
.And  the  careering  thimders  spread  around 
Turbulent  music;  darkness  rivals  day. 
And  day  with  darkness  vies  in  stateliest  pride 
The  Avenger's  lofty  miseries  to  array. 
When  from  the  East  forth  leaps  the  warrior  Sun 
In  panoply  of  golden  light,  dark  cowers 
His  own  proud  eagle,  marvelling  what  strong  form, 
Uprising  to  usurp  his  haughty  right,' 
Drinks  in  the  intense  magnificence  with  brow 
Undazzled  and  unshrinking  ;  nor  to  him 

301 


292 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fails  homage  from  the  hving  shapes  of  earth  : 
On  him  the  savage,  fierce  ai)d  monstrous,  fawn 
Tame  adoration;  from  his  rugged  sleep 
The  wild  boar,  sleek  his  bristling  wrath,  aloof 
Shrinks,  the  grim  wolf  no  more  his  rest  disturbs, 
Than  the  calm  motion  of  the  moon  she  bays. 

Now,  by  her  native  sylvan  Wye,  that  Maid 
Left  to  cold  penitence  and  prayer,  again 
Sets  forth  the  liigh  Avenger  :  now  his  path 
Through  Towey's  vale  winds  velvet  soft  and  green. 
The  year  is  in  its  waning  autumn  glow, 
But  the  warm  Sun,  with  all  his  summer  love, 
Hangs  o'er  this  gentle  valley,  loath  to  part 
From  the  blue  stream  that  to  his  amorous  beams 
Now  her  cool  bosom  spreads,  now  coyer  slides 
Under  her  alder  shade,  whose  umbrage  green, 
Glancing  and  breaking  the  fantastic  rays, 
The  deep  dark  mirror  frets  with  mazy  light. 
A  day  that  seems  in  its  rich  noon  to  blend 
All  seasons'  choice  deliciousness,  high  hung 
On  Dinevaur  and  Carreg  Cennon  rude. 
And  on  bold  Drusslyn  gleam'd  the  woods  their  hues, 
Changeful  and  brilliant,  as  their  leaves  had  drunk 
The  sun's  empyreal  fountains  ;  not  more  bright 
The  groves  of  those  Atlantic  Isles,  w  here  rove 
(Dream'd  elder  Poesy  such  fancies  sweet) 
The  spirits  of  the  brave,  stern  Peleus'  son, 
And  Diomede,  through  bovvers  that  the  blue  air 
Arcli'd  with  immortal  spring  of  fragrant  gold. 
The  merry  birds,  as  thougli  they  had  o'erdream'd 
The  churlish  winter,  spnng-tide  virelays 
Carolling,  pruned  their  all-forgotten  plumes. 
Upon  the  sunny  shallow  lay  the  trout 
Kindling  the  soft  gems  of  its  skin  ;  the  snake 
As  fresh  and  wanton  in  its  green  attire 
Wound  its  gay  rings  along  the  flowery  sward. 

That  overpowering  beauty  in  mild  bonds 
Of  sweet  amazement  and  infatuate  bliss, 
Took  prisoner  Samor's  spirit.     On  a  rock, 
'xVeath  a  white  canopy  of  glistening  birch, 
He  lay  surrender'd.     The  thin  whispering  leaves. 
The  welling  waters  flow,  the  lingering,  long, 
IjQve-d  welling  descant  of  the  joyous  birds 
Came  mingling  with  the  languor  of  his  sense. 
Most  soothing  each  in  turn,  must  slumb'ring  soft. 

'Tis  no  harsh  breaking  in  that  train  of  sound 
Delicious,  but  a  low  and  measured  dash 
That  blends  and  deepens  all  the  mingling  tones; 
'Tis  nought  to  cloud  or  dim  that  slow  intrudes 
On  the  universal  brilliance  ;  crowning  all 
Moves  the  gay  apparition,  and  fires  up 
The  restless  glittering  to  intensor  blaze. 

Slow  up  the  tide  the  gaudy  bark  comes  on, 
Her  oars  scarce  startling  the  unrufned  air; 
The  waters  to  her  swan-like  prow  give  place. 
Along  the  oar-blades  leap  up  to  the  sun 
In  lucid  flakes,  and  dance,  as 't  were  their  sport 
To  waft  that  beauteous  freight.     And  exquisite 
As  that  voluptuous  Memphian  on  the  stream 
Of  Cydnus,  leading  with  bliss-breathing  smiles 


Her  throngs  of  rash  beholders,  glided  down 

To  welcome  to  his  soft  imprisonment 

The  Lord  of  half  the  world,  so  wondrous  fair 

Under  an  awning  cool  of  fluttering  silk 

The  Lady  of  that  graceful  galley  sate. 

But  not  in  her  instinct  the  melting  form 

With  passion,  the  smooth  limbs  in  dazzling  glow 

Translucent  through  the  thin  lascivious  veil. 

Skilful  with  careless  blandishments  to  fire 

The  loose  imaginations,  she  herein 

Least  like  that  Oriental  harlot  Queen. 

Of  all  her  shape,  of  all  her  soul  was  pride 

The  sustenance,  the  luxury,  the  life. 

The  innate  scorn  of  her  full  eye  repaid 

With  lofty  thanklessness  the  homage  fawn'd 

By  her  fair  handmaids,  and  her  oarmen  gay. 

Who  seem'd  to  wanton  in  their  servile  toil. 

Around  she  gazed,  as  in  her  haughtiness 

She  thought  that  God  had  form'd  this  living  pomp 

Of  woodland,  stream,  and  rock,  her  height  of  soul 

To  pamper,  that  to  welcome  her  the  earth 

Attired  its  breathing  brightness,  and  the  sun 

Only  on  her  look'd  from  his  azure  sphere. 

Knows  Samor  that  bright  Lady  ?  Who  knows  not 
Amid  her  twinkling  retinue  of  stars 
The  queenly  summer  moon  ?  Ye  too  he  knows, 
The  minion  rowers  of  her  royal  state. 
Entitled  once  by  courteous  falsehoods  bland 
Nobles  of  Britain,  from  the  general  wreck 
Most  despicably  saved  by  Saxon  scorn. 
Meet  vassalage  for  Vortigern,  now  shrunk 
And  dwindled  from  proud  Britain's  sov'reign  lord 
To  petty  Prince  of  Dyfed.*     Ye  yet  cling 
Even  to  the  hollow  semblance  of  a  crown, 
Ye  gauzy  summer  motes,  that  float  and  bask 
In  the  warm  noontide  of  a  court,  light  things 
Of  noise  and  glittering,  that  to  royal  ears 
Tinkle  your  poisonous  flatteries,  then  most  proud 
When  most  obtrusive  your  gay  nothingncs.s. 

Under  a  rock  where  Samor  lay  un.seen 
Beneath  the  sparkling  birchen  shade,  the  bark 
Glided  so  near,  the  silver-twinkling  leaves 
Play'd  like  a  wavering  veil  o'er  the  bright  face 
And  marble  neck  of  that  reclining  Queen. 

Now,  Samor,  now't  is  at  thy  thirsty  lips 
The  cup  of  vengeance,  now  quafi'  deep,  quaff  deep ! 
Now,  by  the  bones  that  bleach  on  .Ambri  plain. 
By  thy  lost  Emeric's  silent  chamber  bowers. 
By  that  soft  cheek  o'er  which  the  primrose  blooms. 
Now  lanch  the  unerring  javelin  I  lo,  she  tempts, 
The  Saxon's  daughter,  and  the  false  King's  bride, 
The  tame  and  baffled  lingering  of  revenge. 

And  up  the  Avenger  stood  ;  a  ray  of  light 
Quiver'd  the  brandish'd  javelin  ;  creeping  awe 
Froze  up  the  rowers'  hearts;  down  fell  the  oars, 
And  to  the  shore  round  swung  the  ungovem'd  bark. 

But  'mid  those  feminine  and  timorous  men 
Intrepid  that  soft  lady  her  fair  front 


"  Or,  Dimetia,  i.  e.  South  Wales. 


302 


SAMOR. 


293 


1  Advanced,  and,  "  Who  art  thou,  whose  impious  arm 
i  'Gainst  royalty's  anointed  head  dare  sway 
Irreverent  menace?" — "One  whom  grinding  wrong, 
And  injuries  savage,  black,  and  manilold 
Have  almost  madden 'd  to  the  deep  base  shame 
Of  soiling  his  bright  arms  w  iili  woman's  blofjd." 
(He  cast  the  javelin  from  him,  and  went  on) 
"But  tell  thy  sire,  Rovvcna,  tell  thy  lord, 
Britons  have  yet  to  learn  their  codes  ol"  war. 
That  vet  fastidious  vengeance  will  not  slake 
But  on  a  worthy  victnn  its  deep  thirst." 

1      Then  was  the  mingling  of  their  looks  elate, 
As  when  two  falcons,  far  from  this  low  earth, 
Meet  in  the  sun's  broad  blaze,  they,  glad  and  proud 
Each  of  their  kuidred,  (lap  their  radiant  wings. 

"  I  know  thee  now,  majestic  Rebel !  thee 
The  untraceable,  nntameablel  I  know 
'  The  chosen  Man  of  Faiel  of  all  our  race 
The  designated  danger  ;  merciful 
Saxon  ne'er  coupled  with  thy  name  till  now. 
Yet  think  not  thou  from  rivalry  aloof 
In  proud  and  lonely  excellence  to  stand. 
For  with  re(]uital  royal  and  profuse 
I  will  outsoar  thee  ;  this  white  woman's  hand 
Shall  cast  thee  llengist's  pardon  for  thy  deeds 
Of  guilty  fame;  this  smooth  and  purple  cheek 
Smile  thee  fair  honours  in  Caer  Merddhyn's  court." 

"Pardon,  and  honour.  Lady!  one  alone 
Jealous  prerogative  of  pardon  holds 
O'er  Samor's  soul,  the  universal  God! 
Caer  Merddhyn's  honours!  to  fall'n  Vortigcrn 
To  be  install'd  prime  flatterer,  meekly  laud 
;  The  bounteous-hearted  monarch,  who  cast  ofT 
'  His  throne,  his  people,  and  his  fame,  and  thought 
■  For  bride  so  fair  the  dowry  all  too  poor." 
i 

No  wrath,  but  brighter  joy  the  Lady's  cheek 
;  Fmblazon'd;  "  Why  should  slight  and  tinsel  ties 

Of  blood  and  birthplace  hold  asunder  hearts 
,  Kindred  in  grandeur?  thou  art  brave  and  free, 
I  And  brave  and  free  is  Hengist;  why  disdains 
I  Valour  to  mate  with  valour,  might  with  might?" 
"Valour  beneath  the  snn  goes  proudly  forth; 
And  in  the  cloudy  battle's  van  affronts 
His  hauberk'd  foe,  but  folds  not  secret  steel 
Under  the  mild  and  festal  robe  of  peace, 
Nor  creeps  with  midnight  stealth  on  the  weak  sleep 
Of  women  and  soft  infants." — Then  appear'd 
:  Tears  in  her  haughty  eyes,  tears  beautiful. 
For  drops  of  shame  they  wtre  {l>r  those  black  crimes 
That  fleck'd  and  dimm'd  her  father's  blaze  of  fame. 
Still  paused  not  the  Avenger. — "  Did  my  God, 
Did  Britain  claim  the  ofTerine,  I  dare  hope 
Yet  I  could  rend  from  this  worn  heart  away 
Its  pleasant  lust  of  vensjeance :  private  w  rongs 
Are  but  thin  drops  in  my  full  tide  of  hate; 
But  all  my  country's  mjuries,  all  my  God's 
Concentrate  in  the  mighty  passion  flood. 
My  life,  my  soul,  my  being;  we  must  be, 
I  and  thy  father,  through  all  space  of  time, 
Even  to  the  end,  Destroyer  or  Destroy'd." 


"Harsh  and  Implacable!  yet  be  not  thou 
Discourteous:  wilt  thou  to  Caer  Merddhyn  come. 
An  honour'd  guest,  in  freedom  to  depart 
When,  where  thou  wilt,  thy  pledge  my  royal  faith?" 

"A  Saxon's  faith!"  burst  biiler  Inim  his  lips. 
He  check'd  the  upbraiding  Idiie.     "  If  fraud  and  sin 
In  such  a  lovely  temple  hold  llieir  shrine. 
It  were  not  strange  did  lieiuls  of  darkness  dwell 
Within  yon  beauteous  sun  !"  But  she  uiili  smile 
Mild  as  May  morning  on  a  violet  bank, 
"  Why  slay'st  thou  ?  can  the  Uncon(|iierable  fear — ?" 
"Fear,  Lady!  fear  and  I  are  strangers  now." 
"What  wondrous  sjiell,"  pursued  her  playfiil  mirth, 
"So  steels  thee  ?" — "  One  most  simple  and  most  strong, 
A  calm  proud  conscience,  and  a  fiiilh  in  God." 

Then  sate  he  by  the  Lady's  side ;  set  forth 
Uixjn  its  dancing  voyage  down  the  tide 
The  bark  obeisant  to  ils  dashing  oars. 
But  those  gay  rowers  veering  with  the  wind 
Of  soft  court  favour,  'gan  with  subtle  joy 
And  cold  fijctitious  transport  hail  again 
Their  gentle  peer,  their  old  and  honour'd  friend. 
i  But  with  a  glance  the  imperial  laiiy  froze 
To  silence  their  smooth-lying  lips,  nor  brook'd 
Idle  intrusion  on  her  rapturous  feast. 
Deep  drank  she  in  the  majesty  and  jiomp. 
Wherewith  instinct  the  Avenger  moved  and  spake. 
And  what  high  beauty  from  heroic  soul 
Emanates  on  the  outward  shape,  nor  pall'd 
On  her  insatiate  appetite  the  joy; 
Till  that  commercing  deep  of  stately  thoughts, 
Proud  admiration,  and  intense  delight 
In  what  is  heart-subliming,  towering,  grand. 
Regenerate  from  the  trance  that  bathed  her  sense. 
Sprang  up  a  fiery  passion,  o'er  her  flow  'd 
Secret  the  intoxicating  ecstasy. 
Love,  dangerous,  deep,  intolerable  love. 

What  beauteous  seeming  and  magnificent, 
Weareth  that  brilliant  sin?  now  not  o'er  her 
Came  it  in  melting  languor,  soft  and  bland. 
But  like  her  own  high  nature,  eminent, 
DisdaiiifijI,  and  elale,  allied  to  all 
That  beautified,  that  glorified,  and  seem'd 
Mysterious  union  of  upsoaring  sjHrits, 
Wedding  of  lofty  thoughts  with  lofty  thoughts, 
And  the  fine  joy  of  being  to  this  eanh 
A  thing  of  wonder:  and  as  fioals  the  air 
Clear,  white,  and  stainless  in  the  highest  heavens, 
Seem'd  from  its  exaltation  fresh  and  jjure, 
Alxjve  all  taint  her  amorous  madness  rose. 
Had  it  seem'd  love,  her  very  pride  had  quell'd 
The  unplumed  fantasy,  her  inbred  scorn 
Warr'd  on  the  young  infirmity,  but  now 
Upon  her  soul's  \yM  crest  it  planted  high 
lis  banner  of  dominion,  and  she  haifd 
Its  coming  as  a  guest  of  pomp  and  jKjwer. 

But,  though  o'er  all  her  features  mantling  spead 
A  vivid  restlessness,  a  liislnuis  glow. 
A  deepening  purple,  though  her  eye  indulged 
Kicher  delirium,  though  her  languid  breath 

303 


294 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Came  with  a  throb  and  struggled  from  her  heart, 

Vet  in  that  noble  kindness  that  disdains 

With  greedy  and  suspicions  gaze  to  search 

The  sin  that  may  be,  ratlicr  chastening  all 

With  his  own  native  purity,  serene 

The  Warrior  sate.     The  placid  gliding  bark 

AVith  motion  like  to  stillness,  flowing  on, 

^Vhere  wiih  green  diadem  of  woods  above, 

Beneath  the  white  breadth  of  the  expanding  stream, 

Caer  Merddhyn  in  the  li(iuid  noontide  rose., 

Fair  rose  Caer  Merddhyn,  rose  her  towery  height 
The  air  enriching,  nor  mis-seem'd  a  King 
Such  stately  dwelling;  populous  her  streets, 
And  throng'd  with  human  faces,  but  o'er  all 
A  lassitude  and  heavy  sadness  hiuig, 
Blankness  of  looks  and  weariness  of  hearts. 
And  listlessness  of  motion  faltering  on. 
With  all  the  pomps,  the  luxuries  of  life, 
It  seem'd  a  city  of  the  dead.    The  shapes. 
The  steps  of  men  were  there,  but  soul  and  spirit, 
And  stirring  energy,  and  vivid  mind, 
Passion  and  earnestness  in  torpor  slept. 
The  cold  blood  stagnates  in  the  drowsy  veins. 
Alike  all  feelings  lazy  languor  seal'd  ; 
To  still  them,  not  delight,  the  mothers  held 
Their  infants,  as  the  radiant  Queen  past  on  ; 
But  even  in  them  the  laughing  spring  of  joy 
Was  dead,  and  dry,  and  frozen. — "Oh,  high  God  ! 
(So  spake  the  Wanderer  in  his  secret  soul) 
Hath  tyranny  such  bleak  and  withering  power 
Man's  heavenly  essence  to  embrute,  and  thou, 
Once  princely  Vortigern,  the  tyrant  thou !" — 

Worse  sight!  worse  shame  I  they  reach  the  broad 
hill's  brow, 
Where  in  its  royalty  the  palace  look'd 
Awe  on  its  va.ssal  city;  there,  even  there. 
On  that  high  threshold,  armed  Saxon  files 
From  the  weak  people  fenced  the  weaker  King. 
But  through  that  legion  hateful  and  accurst 
Onward  the  Avenger  that  bright  Lady's  band 
Led,  as  the  Sibyl  sage  the  Love-queen's  son 
Calm  through  the  doleful  regions  of  the  dead. 

Within  the  hall  with  royal  banners  hung, 
And  shields  of  royal  blazon,  royal  arms. 
Least  royal  he,  sate  Vortigern  ;  deep  thought 
And  miserable  on  his  faded  brow 
Traced  its  bleak  lines;  before  him  glittering  lay 
The  crown  of  Britain,  which  his  eye  perused 
With  a  sick  sadness,  as  each  gem  were  full 
Of  woeful  ruminations,  blank  remorse  ; 
And  as  bad  Angels  loathe,  yet  upward  watch, 
Heaven's  Sun,  bright  type  of  their  once  radiant  state, 
Kven  so  in  bitterness  that  fiillen  King, 
Painfully  banqueting  on  self-reproach, 
A  drear  remembrance  of  lost  grandeurs  drew 
From  that  fliir  ring,  and  cursed  its  blaze  that  flash'd 
Past  splendours  o'er  the  darkness  of  his  soul. 
And  memory  fnvm  what  height  to  what  depth  sunk. 
He  welters  in  the  abyss  of  shame  profound. 
Beside  him  o'er  his  harp  Aneurin  bow'd. 
The  vvhite-hair'd  Bard,  sole  faithful  he,  sole  friend  ; 


For  minds  of  jwets  from  their  own  high  sphere 

Look  down  on  earth's  distinctions,  high  and  low, 

Simkon  or  soaring,  as  the  equal  sun 

.Sheds  light  along  the  vale  and  mountain's  brow. 

He  in  the  hall  of  feasting  who  fast  seal'd 

The  treasures  of  his  harmony,  now  pours 

Into  the  wounded  heart  his  syrups  sweet. 

And  laps  it  in  the  silken  folds  of  sound. 

But  even  along  his  strings  the  infectious  grief 

Hath  crept,  and  wither'd  up  the  wantonness 

And  lost  in  wayward  wanderings  of  despair 

Stray  the  vague  tones;  anon  bursts  full  and  free 

A  start,  a  swell  of  pride,  then  sinks  away 

Involuntary  to  such  doleful  fall, 

Misery  so  musical,  its  languid  breath 

Feeds,  while  it  soiiens  the  deep-rooted  woe. 

Such  melodies  at  tragic  midnight  heard 

'Mid  a  deserted  city,  gliding  o'er 

The  deep  green  moss  of  tower  and  fane  o'erthrown, 

Had  seem'd  immortal  sorrows  in  the  air. 

O'er  man's  inconstant  grandeurs.     Sad  such  wreck, 

More  sud,  more  worthy  Angels  woe  the  waste 

And  desolation  of  a  noble  mind, 

High  fertile  faculties  run  wild  and  rank. 

Bright  liery  qualities  in  darkness  slaked. 

That  liquid  intercourse  of  giief  broke  oCT, 

Thus  spake  the  King — "  Who  thus  unbidden  bursts 

On  kingly  solitude  ?  why  ask  I  thee  ? 

No  brow  between  the  Scot  and  Southern  sea 

Beareth  such  gallant  insolence  abroad. 

But  Samor,  the  wild  Wanderer,  the  denounced. 

The  desperate!  Art  thou  here  to  stun  mine  ears 

With  "  Vortigern  is  abject,  lost,  disgraced  ?" 

'Tis  well  that  with  thee  comes  my  bright  excuse, 

My  poverty's  rich  treasure,  my  night's  star. 

Beauteous  Rowena." — Joy  seem'd  his,  but  yet 

Was  effijrt  and  was  struggle  in  that  joy. 

The  clinging  of  a  desperate  soul  to  what 

It  would  delight  in,  but  did  not  delight. 

The  striving  of  a  barren  heart  to  force 

The  perish'd  bloom  of  pleasure. — "  King,  I  come 

To  put  a  spell  njion  thee,  conjure  up 

Thy  vaiour  from  its  tomb  within  thy  breast. 

To  rend  the  adamant  that  trammels  fast 

Thy  strength  of  soul.    By  yon  bright  glaive  that  smote, 

By  Fsk's  wild  bank,  beneath  his  fiither's  shield, 

The  royal  Caledonian's  Son  ;  yon  Hag, 

That,  when  by  fated  Aries  rash  Britain  lost 

Her  wild  bright  hazard  for  imperial  state, 

Clouding  the  car  of  adverse  victory  shook 

Untarnish'd  in  the  sun  its  blazon  broad, 

Norstoop'd  though  all  was  fallen  ;  by  yon  rich  crown 

Whereon  when  llow'd  the  holy  oil,  this  isle 

From  all  her  seas  her  gratiilant  acclaim 

Sent  up,  and  overcast  heaven's  vault  with  joy; 

By  Vortigern,  the  great,  the  brave,  the  wise  I" — 

"  Crave!  wise!  ay,  that  it  is.     The  veriest  wretch 

That  from  base  birth-jilace  to  his  baser  grave. 

Creeps  with  his  fellow  reptiles,  that  ne'er  knew 

What  luxury  'tis,  what  loftiness  to  soar. 

And  with  one  soul  to  wield  a  host  of  souls 

In  free  subjection,  oh  that  fireless  dust, 

Clay  unin(l)rm'd  that  only  lives  to  die, 

304 


SAMOR. 


295 


That  is  to  me  a  God  :  to  me  whose  curse, 
And  brand,  and  mock  it  is  to  have  been  great — 
And  be — oh  I  Samor,  Samor,  I  was  King, 
King  of  this  spacious,  rich,  and  glorious  isle, 
And  thou,  and  sncli  as  thou,  my  regal  state 
Didst  vassal ;  now,  but  now  an  eye  may  trace 
The  circuit  of  my  realm,  a  shepherd's  Iwy 
Count  my  thin  people,  like  his  mountain  flock." 

"Oh,  Monarch,  ill  must  be  atoned  by  good, 
And  to  repentant  deeds  of  mightiest  fame 
Heaven  can  upraise  the  farthest  sunken.     Power 
Fails  not  the  aspirant  will.     I  knew  thee  once 
A  being  of  those  arduous  energies. 
Strong  aspirations,  graspings  undefined. 
Tumultuous  thirsts  and  passions,  that  of  man 
Make  Fiend  or  Angel." — "  True,  too  true,  but  thou 
Hast  seized  the  Seraph's  air-plumed  wings,  and  I 
The  Demon's  vans  of  darkness.     Had  all  fallen, 
All  perish'd,  one  wide  ignominy  swept 
Princes  and  Lords  and  People,  I  had  found 
A  forlorn  comfort  in  the  general  wreck ; 
But  in  its  curst  sublimity  thy  fame 
Obtrudes  its  radiant  presence,  and  makes  groan 
This  ruin  of  a  Monarch." — "  Rare  it  is, 
Oh  King,  in  Fame's  rich  galaxy  to  shine 
With  steadfast  blaze  unwiihering,  but  to  dawn 
From  darkness,  scatter  off  the  black  eclipse 
That  veils  the  wither'd  lustre,  tliis  most  rare, 
Maketh  man's  soul  an  everlasting  fire 
Worthy  the  God  that  hung  the  heavens  with  light; 
'Tis  hard  for  downcast  spirit  to  o'erleap 
Ruin's  sad  barriers,  but  Heaven's  angels  drop 
Soft  dews  beneath  his  burning  feet,  his  flight 
Imp  with  strong  plumes;  his  coming  doth  adorn 
The  earth  he  moves  on;  till  Remorse  abash'd 
Before  the  orient  glories  fades  and  flies." 

"  Peace!  peace !  thou  canst  not  see  what  cold  within 
Lies  like  a  palsy  on  the  flagging  powers. 
Makes  me  a  thin  and  shrinking  reed,  the  sport 
Of  every  lazy  wind,  the  shape,  the  life, 
The  woe,  without  the  faculties  of  man: 
Shame,  Shame. — Oh,  turn  thy  lofty  brow  away, 
Heavy  it  hangs  o'er  me  like  loosen 'd  crag 
Over  the  mountain  traveller — I  endure, 
Of  all  this  nation,  the  curse-wrinkled  lips, 
Out-pointed  fingei^,  ribald  jests,  coarse  scorns. 
Men  that  have  lick'd  the  dust  beneath  my  feet, 
Worn  their  tame  faces  by  the  mould  of  mine, 
Them,  to  confront  even  them." — L'nkingly  tears 
Choked  the  full  utterance,  met  his  eye  the  glance 
Of  that  proud  Queen,  who,  all  uninark'd,  drank  in 
That  passionate  discourse,  from  her  contempt. 
Though  far  below  his  own,  he  shrunk,  and  wrought 
To  a  brief  pride  his  wan  dejected  mien. 
"Here  is  my  throne,  my  kingdom  in  this  breast, 
Afy  diadem  the  wealth  of  light  that  shines 
From  yon  fair  brow  upon  me." — Stronger  pain 
Rurst  in  u]xm  the  infant  pride:  forth  fled 
The  Monarch,  happy  could  he  fly  himself. 
Him  fbllow'd  that  old  Bard.     'Tis  vain,  all  vain, 
(Thus  spake  the  high  Avenger.}   "  Beauteous  Queen, 
25* 


I  claim  thy  faith,  and  part." — "  So  swifi,  so  soon, 
Our  festal  cheer  untasted,  welcome  cup 
Uncrown'd  >." — "Fair  Queen,  in  the  iH'llucid  stream 
My  beverage  dances;  the  coarse  mountain  boor 
Shares  his  hard  fare  with  me ;  the  hand  that  feasts 
The  winged  wanderers  of  the  air,  feasts  me." 
With  lips  in  act  of  speech  apart,  the  (^iieen. 
As  to  her  will  her  tongue  disdainful  scorn'd 
Allegiance,  chain'd  in  silence  stood  again. 
Twice  she  es.say'd  to  speak,  twice  o'er  iier  shame 
Swept  his  petrific  hand,  and  rosy  fire 
O'er  face  and  neck  and  forehead  flush'd,  till  shrunk 
From  that  strong  heat  the  eye,  and  down  on  earth 
Settled  its  dose-fringed  orb;  with  pressure  soft 
Her  blushing  fingers  his  bronzed  hand  embraced. 

"  Here  in  this  palace  is  my  rule,  this  land 
Is  mine  by  my  prevaihng  power :  wouldst  thou 
Of  this  high  seat,  this  realm  be  lord  ? — Why  starts 
Unwonted  colour  to  thy  cheek?  why  shrinks 
Into  its  sphere  thine  eye  ?    Said  I  this  soul, 
And  what  soft  beauty  glitters  in  this  shape, 
Had  it  appall'd  thee  ?" — Eagerly  she  grasp'd 
The  hand  she  held,  as  though  from  thence  to  wring 
A  swift  reply,  yet  gazed  upon  the  earth. 
As  wistful  'neath  its  darkness  she  might  shrink 
From  her  own  shame.     Blank  wonder  Samor's  brow 
To  living  stone  congeal'd — "  This  then  the  close 
To  all  thy  lavish  love  of  Vortigern  I" 

*'  My  love  I  he  was  a  King,  upon  his  brow 
The  beauty  of  a  royal  crown,  his  height 
Dominion,  like  a  precious  mantle,  dipt 
In  heaven's  pure  light  array'd,  and  o'er  him  flung 
Transcendent  grandeur;  above  all  he  stood, 
.And  F  by  such  fimd  splendours  woo'd  and  won. 
Took  seat  upon  his  eminence;  a  plant 
To  spread,  and  mantle  an  imperial  throne, 
Not  like  tame  ivy  round  a  ruin  creep. 
Or  wreathe  the  tomb  of  royalty.     His  pride 
I  wedded,  not  his  shame ;  bats  may  not  build 
With  the  light-loving  lark.     He,  he  himself 
By  self-abasement  has  divorced  me,  set 
Distance  between  us  wide  and  far  as  heaven 
From  the  black  pit  of  infamy." — "  High  Queen, 
What  seest  thou  in  this  bleak  and  batier'd  brow, 
These  rough  scathed  limbs,  this  wan  and  sunken  face 
With  misery's  riigeed  furrows  deeply  plough'd 
To  dazzle  or  delight  ?     Lone  outcast  I, 
Friendless,  but  daily,  nightly  by  fierce  foes 
Beset  and  hunted  like  a  loathsome  brute; 
Thy  nation's  inothers  vent  all  hate  on  me, 
Link  with  a  scathing  curse  no  name  but  mine. 
Oh,  what  wouldst  thou  and  softness  with  a  life 
Like  mine  so  dreary,  desperate,  dark,  and  fierce  ?" 

"Oh,  't  is  because  all  hate  thee,  that  I  love. 
Because  all  dread  thee,  I  would  mate  with  thee; 
Thy  miseries,  thy  dangers  deeper  plunge 
My  soul  in  passion,  that  alone  thou  walk'st 
Smote  at  by  every  arm,  yet  struck  by  none. 
That  mastery  of  thy  single  soul  holds  down 
The  Su.\on's  mounting  empire,  clips  its  wings 

305 


29G 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Rapacious  aud  wide-shadowing,  ihat  ihy  liime 

Lik?  a  riih  rainbow  cloud,  sails  oii  through  air, 

To  morlal  grasp  impalpable,  to  sight 

III  lonely  brilhance  iTiani(i3st;  my  soul 

To  that  thy  airy  chariot  would  aspire, 

And  dazzle  by  thy  side,  and  daunt  the  world." — 

"  Loose  and  unrighteous  to  thy  lawful  Lord, 
Yet  wouldst  thou  poison  v\ith  adulterous  shame 
Its  spotless  lustre,  its  pure  white  de/ile. 
And  clog  with  guilt  its  vaunted  wheels."  —  "Guilt! 

Guilt! 
Ah,  now  I  know  why  mine  eye  shrunk  from  thine, 
Why  sought  the  base  earth,  why   brook'd  not  my 

tongue 
The  motions  of  my  will — but  we — shrink  we  ? 
The  lofty  are  their  own  high  law;  dull  codes. 
Cold  customs,  trammel  but  the  base ;  our  sins 
Shall  be  the  wanderings  of  the  meteor  fire, 
More  wonder'd  than  the  regular  calm  stars: 
Our  acting  shall  ennoble,  what  tame  tongues 
Falter  at  even  in  word  ;  opinions,  hues 
Shall  at  our  haughty  bidding  shift  and  change. 
And  what  we  do,  shall  therefore  be  call'd  great. 
Yes,  yes,  I  feet  thy  shrinking  hand,  I  see 
VVhite-lipp'd  abhorrence  quivering  in  thy  mien 
As  at  some  loathsome  viper.     Woe,  oh  woe 
To  him  that  tramples  on  the  viper's  wrath." — 
Then  shook  she  back  her  golden  hair,  away 
Cast  his  cold  hand. — "  Ho,  Saxons  at  the  gate. 
Ho,  Saxons,  to  your  injured  Queen!"    The  hall 
Sudden  was  walled  with  fiery  arms  and  spears 
Bickering  fierce  menace  ;  numerous,  swift,  and  strong. 
As  when  old  Cadmus  by  clear  Dirce  spread 
That  dangerous  seed  uncouth,  long,  wide,  and  bright 
Under  the  fatal  ploughshare  leap'd  to  life. 
To  havoc  the  wild  harvest,  and  shook  up 
Its  bearded  grim  fertility  of  death. 
But  then  his  sword  the  Avenger  grasp'd,  and  cried, 
"Twice  have  I  trusted  Saxon  liaiih,  and  twice 
Beneath  my  feet  the  smooth  fair  ice  hath  burst 
Its  glassy  treachery  :  once  this  arm  redeem'd 
The  infatuate  blindness.     Saxons,  I  am  he. 
Who  with  his  single  strength  on  Ambri  plain 
Scared  your  hot  massacre,  your  proudest  necks 
Strew'd  for  his  pavement  of  retreat,  ye  see 
Mine  arm  unwither'd,  my  unbroken  sword." 

But  they  sprung  onward  ;  Ihat  bright  Lady's  brow 
Awful  delight  absorb'd  the  while,  she  moved 
Before  tlieir  wrath,  her  arm's  high  sway  waved  back 
Their  fury  from  her  presence.     Swift  they  came. 
Swift  they  departed  ;  silence  down  the  walls 
Crept  o'er  the  banners  broad,  and  pendent  shields. 

She  look'd  on  Samor,  all  his  pride  was  hers, 
She  look'd  on  Samor,  all  thai  pride  was  queiich'd 
In  exquisite  mild  transjwrt;  at  his  feet 
The  Queen,  the  haughty,  the  disdainful  fell. 
Her  fine  fiiir  hair  lay  (loating  on  the  earth; 
Her  round  arms  clung  beseeching  to  his  knees. 

"  A  curse  upon  me,  that  my  wilful  heart 
'Gainst  head  so  brave,  so  noble,  dream'd  of  wrath, 


Of  danger  and  rude  menace.    What  I  did. 

I  know  not;  what  I  said,  it  pleased  not  tlipe; 

Enough,  'I  was  base,  't  was  criminal,  't  was  false. 

Oh  Chief!  when  we  would  compass  wild  desires. 

Words  alien  to  the  heart  start  up,  yet  seem 

Most  strong  persuasion ;  of  all  serpents,  scorn 

Slings  to  worse  frenzy,  worst  a  woman's  soul. 

Forget,  all,  all  forget,  but  one  soft  word. 

And  that  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  rescued  life. 

Forget  not." — "  Lady,  were  I  rich  in  love. 

As  yon  full  Sun  in  light,  I  could  not  spare 

A  beam  upon  a  Saxon.     JN'ow,  but  now 

The  fountains  of  my  heart  are  drj',  the  stock 

Where  fresh  and  rich  my  green  affections  bloom'd, 

Is  vvillier'd  to  the  root;  hard,  doleful,  dead, 

My  breast's  impa.ssive  iron  scatters  off" 

All  melting  blandishments,  all  soft  delights. 

As  the  waved  baimer  the  thin  morning  dews. 

With  one  harsh  discord  to  consummate  all ; 

Thou  art  thy  Father's  daughter." — She  arose 

In  miserable  calmness  resolute. 

She  took  his  hand,  she  led  him  forth,  beneath 

The  murky  scowling  of  those  Saxons  stern, 

Whose  angry  wonder  scarce  herself  controll'd : 

Gave  one  fond  lingering  pressure,  and  but  one. 

Then  watch'd  him  through  the  city,  up  the  vale. 

If  gazing  with  such  emptiness  of  eye 

Were  watching,  which  his  distance  seem'd  to  freeze 

Gradual  to  hoUower  wanness;  down  her  arms 

Hung,  only  that  she  stood  and  faintly  breathed, 

Pulse,  motion,  sense,  life,  all  seem'd  fled  with  him. 

Sudden  above  her,  the  mild  air  'gan  waft 
I  Wild  fiery  sounds,  like  those  of  battle  morn 
Which  champing  war-steed's  neigh,  and  lance's  rush 
Impatient  answers.     On  the  palace  top 
Aneurin  in  his  bardic  glory  stood  ; 
The  sunlight  on  his  old  prophetic  brow 
Flash'd  strong,  yet  dazzled  not,  his  long  white  locks 
Stream'd  back  upon  his  azure  robe,  like  rack 
O'er  heaven's  unclouded  blue,  his  pale  thin  hand 
With  strength  of  mounting  phrenzy  lanch'd  abroad 
The  war-song  of  Cassivelan  :  glad  sounds 
To  that  tranced  queen,  fi)r  Samor's  hastier  port 
Deliberate  grandeur  slacken'd,  he  look'd  back. 
Proud  gratitude  lor  that  wild  flattery. — "  Ail, 
All  in  one  wide  conspiracy  (so  spake 
Rowena's  bitter  joy),  thee,  only  thee 
To  glorify.     Oh,  were  man  mute,  this  earth 
Would  leap  to  utterance  of  thy  fame,  the  winds 
Find  voices  eloquent,  Ihe  streams,  the  stones. 
To  lofty  music  burst  of  thy  renown." 

Slowly  retired  the  Queen;  she  call'd  around 
Her  slaves,  her  handmaids;  arrogant  their  looks 
Seem'd  to  confront  her,  eyes  aye  wont  to  shrink 
Celbre  her  gaze,  now  sceni'd  to  pry  and  pierce 
Her  deepest  soul's  recesses;  and  she  blush'd 
Even  in  her  plenitude  of  scorn.     They  stood 
Trembling  before  her  wayward  mood,  yet  seem'd 
Mockeries  their  tremors;  solitude  s!,e  sought, 
Yel  solitude  found  none,  things  sensele.ss  look 
Stern  cognizance  of  all  her  acts,  her  thoughts  ! 

306 


SAMOR. 


297 


Eyes  hiins;  the  empiy  wnlls,  weak  laughing  sounds 
Of  triumph  o'er  her  shame,  pervaded  wide 
'I'he  iran(|ud  air,  all  with  herself"  at  league 
Shook  scorns  u[Hin  herself.     Dim  evening  falls 
O'er  earth  and  sky.  slow  Hits  the  shadowy  night. 
"Slaves  there!"  she  cried.  "  my  steed  !  alone  1  ride." 
She,  wont  to  find  her  every  look  a  law, 
Now  almost  wonders  all  so  swift  obey. 

The  moon's  white  sickle  tenderly  array'd 
With  dubious  lustre  the  grey  heavens;  scarce  tinged 
The  dew-webs,  whiten'd  not  the  yellow  crown 
Of  the  unwuvmg  forest ;  ignorant, 
Or  with  leign'd  ignorance  'guiling  even  herself. 
Long  upon  Samor's  track  the  Lady  rides. 

'Tis  not  a  stag  that  couches  on  the  heath ; 
Hope  on  her  dim  cheek  brightens,  from  her  steed 
Soft  she  dismounts,  she  ruffles  not  the  fern. 
The  moss  springs  prinlless  up  beneath  her  feet. 
So  light  her  gliding  to  that  slumbering  man. 
She  knows  him,  she  starts  back. — "  Oh,  came  I  here, 
Lo*t  and  abased,  him,  only  him  to  seek. 
That  answers  mine  immodest  heart  with  flight, 
With  scorn,  perchance  with  hate!  yet  wonderous  he, 
Wonderous  in  rest  as  action!  Sleep'st  thou  calm. 
While  numberless  as  these  brown  heath-spikes  rise 
Ijegions  of  spears  around  thee,  for  thy  blood 
Leagued  in  one  furious  thirst?  Unwise  and  rash! 
To-night  thou  sluniber'st  not  unguarded,  sleeji; 
And  if  Rowena  mingle  with  thy  dreams. 
Sleep  calmly,  breathingly  as  now!  He  wakes — 
Oh,  hateful  even  in  slumber  that  harsh  name 
Grates  on  his  sense." — His  eyes  unfold,  nor  start, 
So  soft  the  vision  ;  wonder's  self  is  calm, 
And  quaffs  it  in  with  mild  unshrinking  gaze. 
Her  long  brijht  hair,  like  threads  of  silver  streak 
The  moonlight,  her  fair  forehead's  marble  arch 
Wild  joyous  fearfulness,  ecstatic  doubt. 
Bathe  with  the  dewiness  of  melting  snow. 
Ere  yet  unblanch'd  its  stainless  gliiter  pure. 
Oh,  soft  and  slow  that  melody  of  mien 
Steals  o'er  the  slumberer,  ere  the  reason  woke. 
The  sense  was  drunken,  one  hand  (()lded  hers 

■    That  ansvver'd  not  its  pressure,  nor  withdrew. 
Tremulous,  yet  motionless  :  his  rising  head 
Found  on  her  other  arm  such  pillowing  soft, 
A    the  (bnd  ringdove  on  its  male's  smooth  down. 
They  spake  not,  moved  not.    'Tis  the  noon  of  night, 
Hour  known  to  Samor  not  by  sign  or  sound 
Of  man's  wise  art  to  mark  the  fleeting  time. 
Nor  changing  of  the  starry  heavens  ;  but  e'er 
By  motion  of  the  secret  soul,  by  calm 
Habitual  sliding  into  the  soothed  heart. 
Distinct  from  turbulent  day  and  weary  eve, 
Eraeric's  own  hour,  her  consecrated  sjxit 
In  his  life's  wilderness.     She  comes,  she  comes, 

,     The  clouds  have  dropt  her  from  their  silvery  folds; 
The  mild  air  vvafis  her,  the  rank  earth  impure 
Stainless  she  skims,  distrust,  doubt,  fear,  no  place 
Find  in  ilie  sinless  candour  of  her  mien. 
In  languid  soft  security  she  melts 
On  Samor's  fever'd  soul,  she  fills  his  sense. 


Her  softness  like  the  nightingale's  first  notes 

After  rude  evening,  o'er  his  passion  steals: 

lie  cast  not  off  Itovvena's  hand,  it  fell 

As  from  a  dead  man's  grasp;  slow  rose  his  head 

From  its  fair  zone,  as  from  a  baid^  of  snow 

The  winter  traveller,  by  its  smoothness  gulled 

Almost  to  deathful  sleep;  he  dares  not  now 

Welcome  that  heavenly  visitant,  nor  could, 

Nor  would  he  her  mild  rescue  bid  depart. 

Nor  dares  he  now  with  chill  abhorrence  shrink 

From  that  impassion 'd  Lady  ;  on  his  lips 

Clung  wretched,  pale,  beseechingness,  that  framed 

Nor  word  nor  sound.     Hut  time  for  thought  in  her 

Gave  time  for  shame,  for  struggling  pride  gave  time. 

"Thou  deem'st  me  loose,  wild,  wanton,  deem'st  me 

come 
To  lure  thee  with  light  sweets  of  lawless  love. 
Hunting    mine   own   shame   through   the   midnight 

woods. 
Oh  false,  all  false. — How  thee  shall  I  persuade. 
Ay  me!  that  scarce  persuade  myself,  'twas  chance, 
'T  was  fate,  't  was  ministration  of  bad  spirits. 
That  led  me  thoughtless,  hopeless  —  did  I  say 
Hopeless  ?  yet  scorn  not  thou,  the  lightest  won 
j\re  oft  best  won.    Oh  why,  ere  now  so  mild. 
So  gentle,  why  so  stern,  so  ghastly  still  ?" 
"Thou  lovest  my  pride,  my  honour,  my  renown  ; 
Now,  Queen  Rowena,  mayst  thou  do  a  deed 
Shall  make  my  pride  thine  own,  make  thee  my  fount 
Of  honour,  all  my  noontide  of  renown 
On  thee  in  all  its  golden  brilliance  shine; 
And  if  henceforth  man's  voice  cry  out,  High  deeds 
Hath  Samor's  arm  achieved,  thy  heart  shall  bound 
And  thy  lips  answer,  '  Mine!  all  mine!'  and  I 
Will  bless  thee,  thank  thee,  praise  thee  for  that  truth." 

O'er  proud  Rowena  past  his  solemn  voice 
Tremendously  delightful,  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  over  Jove's  bolt-minist'ring  bird, 
That  sternly  rocks  on  th'  agitated  air. 
'•  Speak,  speak  ;  't  is  hours,  'i  is  years  until  't  is  done." 
Return'd  one  brief,  one  |)owerful  word — "  Depart." 
She  struggled  yet  to  wear  the  lofty  light 
That  flush'd  her  brow  ;  she  sirnggled,  and  she  fell 
Her  white  arms  round  his  neck.    Light  as  I  he  breeze 
Pass'd  over  his  her  cheek.    Then  back 
She  started,  seized  her  courser's  rein  ;  fiir,  far 
The  rocks  gave  answer  to  ils  trampling  hoof!?. 

To  solitude,  to  peace,  ah,  not  to  peace  ! 
Was  Samor  left  ;  large  dewy  beads  distil 
From  his  full  brow,  as  from  the  forest  leaves 
The  sunny  icicle:  fierce,  merciless. 
Relentless  inquest  o'er  himself  he  holds, 
In  him  a  sin  in  thought  is  sin  in  deed. 

"  And  I,  that  on  the  frantic  v\axen  wings 
Of  mine  own  arrogance,  have  dcem'd  my  soul 
Kindred  and  heritor  of  that  rich  bliss 
That  bathes  the  Angels'  radiant  wings  in  strength; 
That  wander'd  o'er  this  sublunary  wild 
As  with  a  chartered  scorn,  that  niix'd  vviih  men 
But  in  disdainful  masiery  to  o'er-rule 

307 


298 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Their  dim  and  wavering  destinies,  that  took 

With  noble  violence  admiring  earth, 

0"er  me  hath  passion  wound  her  silken  nets ; 

And  that  soft  Dalila,  lascivious  sin, 

Shorn  my  full  honours.     Now,  who  clothed  my  steps 

With  darkness,  dread,  and  danger,  hung  my  arms 

With  lightning,  kept  at  bay  the  envious  death 

That  feasts  upon  the  famous  of  mankind  ; 

God,  God  abandons  me.     So  farewell  pride, 

And  with  pride  farewell  strength,  the  burning  tiope, 

Glad  agonies,  brave  bliss  of  holy  war, 

Trans|v)rts  of  trampling  on  my  countrj^'s  foes, 

And  all  the  beauty,  majesty,  renown, 

Vengeance,  of  thy  triumphal  state.     Ye  too, 

f^arewell,  soft  midnights,  delicate  regards 

Fix'd  on  me  from  fond  eyes  yet  bright  from  heaven, 

Mild  agitations  of  the  purer  sense. 

Fresh  bloomings  of  my  faded  joys,  ye  dreams 

Lovelier  than  actual  bliss,  as  heaven  than  earth, 

Emeric  abandons  me.    For  how  can  snow 

Drop  on  his  foul  earth  stainless  ?  how  canst  thou 

Visit  unsullied  thy  sad  shrine  defiled. 

Or  beam  upon  this  lust-benighted  heart? 

Oh  never  felt  before,  the  fear  to  front 

Mine  own  past  life,  the  ignoble  shame  that  burns 

At  human  sight,  and  memory  that  ne'er  sleeps; 

Heart-sickening  at  its  own  deformities, 

A  miserable  welcome  bid  I  ye  ; 

Come,  dismal  comforters,  faint-footed  guides, 

Teach  me  the  hate  of  life,  the  dread  of  death." 

And  Samor  wander'd  on,  not  now  with  scope 
Resolved,  and  steady  purpose  that  absorb'd 
And  fix'd  on  one  stern  centre  all  his  soul, 
True  as  the  arrow  to  its  mark.    Now  where, 
Whither,  is  all  indifferent;  he  pursues 
The  wildering  of  the  forest  track,  the  brook 
Winding  its  lucid  error:  two  sad  days 
And  chance  hath  led  him  back  to  Wye's  green  bank. 

Sudden  before  him  swept  in  gallant  pack. 
Fleet  hounds,  whose  keen  scent  quafT'd  the  morning 

dews. 
Sole  on  their  track  a  noble  huntsman  bow'd 
O'er  his  steed's  high-curved  neck.    But  when  he  saw 
Samor,  that  scarce  his  coming  mark'd  or  heard 
He  vaulted  from  his  uncheck'd  steed  so  fleet. 
The  courser  seem'd  to  feel  it  not,  but  on 
Went  stately  bounding  down  the  glen.     But  he 
TJnslung  his  bugle  horn,  his  hutuing-spear 
Cast  to  the  winds,  and  held  his  burnish'd  sword 
To  heaven,  as  though  to  paragon  its  light. 

"Oh,  thunderer  Thor,  but  one  bold  prayer  of  mine 
E'er  scaled  thy  heavens,  and  that,  munificent, 
I  thank  thee  for  Iliy  granting.     Samor  now. 
Now  Christian,  now  baptized  in  ( lernian  blood, 
Avenger,  we  are  met,  and  ere  we  part, 
Earth  must  be  ruddier  with  some  blood  of  ours." 

"  Noble  .Argantyr,  deem  not  tliou  unknown 
Thy  name,  thy  presence,  nor  forgot,  how  thou. 
When  Murther  quafT'd  his  elnl  on  Ambri  plain. 
Didst  hold  thy  jealous  steel  aloft,  lest  slain  | 


From  gore  by  treason  shed,  should  dim  its  gleam; 

And  when  I  burst  my  iron  toils,  and  won 

My  dangerous  safety,  how  indignant  joy 

Stood  bathing  thy  stern  brow.     Brave  Anglian,  thou, 

But  thou,  of  German  race,  to  faint  sloth  chill'st 

My  sword's  quick  wrath." — "  What,  Samor  out  of  love 

With  strife,  with  music  of  conflicting  steel  ? 

Hath  Abisa's  pale  blood  so  quench'd  his  fire? 

Were  't  not  I  now  could  force  my  glorious  will. 

Yea,  I  could  sue  thee,  Briton,  for  the  joy. 

Thou  wilt  not  credit,  air  hath  been  defiled 

With  creeping  whispers  cold,  that  I,  1  shrunk 

To  second  in  his  dangers  that  brave  boy. 

As  though  Argantyr  would  partake  a  foe, 

And  with  division  spiritless  and  base. 

Mete  out  his  province  in  one  man  to  slay, 

Hear;  'Well  the  famous  Anglian  won  his  half 

Of  that  great  conquest!'  But  I  have  thee  now 

Whole,  undivided,  now,  or  man,  or  more. 

If  aught  be  mortal  in  thee,  guard  that  spot. 

My  steel  will  search  it." — "Samor  is  not  now 

As  Samor  was,  but  knows  not  yet  to  scorn 

Such  brave  alluremenls."     Forth  his  anlace  flash'd. 

But  not  as  wont,  uplooks  he  to  the  sky ; 

He  thinks  not  now,  oh,  if  I  fall,  float  near. 

My  Emeric,  that  no  Angel's  voice  but  thine 

Welcome  thy  Samor  to  his  opening  heaven  :  i 

And  if  I  vanquish,  Britain  and  the  Lord  J 

Take  to  your  hecatomb  one  Saxon  more. 

But  on  Argantyr  sprung,  as  wanton  boy 
To  the  cool  health  of  summer  streamlet  pure  : 
Around,  above,  beneath  his  winged  sword 
Leaps  in  its  fiery  joy,  red,  fierce  and  far 
As  from  a  midnight  furnace  start  the  sparks. 
As  brazen  statue  on  proud  palace  top, 
Shakes  off  the  pelting  tempest,  so  endured 
Samor,  but  not  in  patient  hope  austere 
Of  victory  ;  but  habitual  skill  and  power 
Protracting  long  the  cold  indifferent  strife; 
Till  twice  that  sword  that  in  its  downward  sweep 
Flash'd  the  white  sunlight,  cloudy  rose  and  dim 
With  ominous  purple:  then  his  nature  burst 
Its  languid  bonds,  not  front  alone  to  front ; 
But  soul  to  soul  the  riot  of  the  fight 
They  mingle,  like  to  giddy  chariot  wheels 
The  whirling  of  their  swords,  as  fierce  the  din 
Of  buckler  brast,  helm  riven,  and  breastplate  cloven 
As  when  the  |X)lar  wind  the  ice-field  rends. 
Such  nobleness  sublime  of  hideous  fight 
From  Ilion's  towers  her  floating  mantled  dames  , 

Saw  not;  nor  Thebes,  when  Capaneus  call'd  down 
Jove's  thunder,  and  disdain'd  its  fall ;  nor  pride 
Of  later  Bards,  when  mad  Orlando  met 
On  that  frail  bridge  the  giant  .Sarzan  king, 
.And  with  him  in  the  boiling  flood  dash'd  down. 
Till  that  fijnd  eagerness,  that  brave  delight 
O'erpower'd  frail  nature,  breathless  each,  and  each 
Careless,  yet  conscious  of  deep  trenching  wounds. 
For  admiration  paused,  for  hope,  for.(xjwer 
To  satiate  the  unwearying  strong  desire. 

Lo,  the  fnr  hills  Arsaiityr  first  descried 
Radiant  willi  spearmen,  and  he  cried,  "  Away, 
308 


SAM  OR, 


299 


'Ti8  Ilengist  wiili  his  blootly  bands,  I  know 
The  motion  of  his  crosi ;  brave  Chief,  away." — 
"Away!  ami  leave  Argantyr  here  lo  boast 
Samor  halli  fled  him!" — "Oh,  we  meet  again; 
Thou  art  a  quarry  ((>r  tlie  Goils,  base  lance 
Must  ne'er  vaunt  IiIockI  of  thine.     .Argantyr  spares 
Kut  fur  himself  sucli  noble  giiine.     Still  here  ! 
Froward  and  furious,  if  ihou  netulsl  must  die. 
Why  so  must  I  ;  (ell  lleugist  will  not  spare 
An  iiieh  of  cjuivering  lile  on  all  thy  limbs. 
And  I  with  such  a  jealous  lust  pursue 
A  noble  conquest  o'er  thee,  1  must  shield 
Thy  life  with  mine,  for  my  peculiar  fame; 
Freely  mine  own  death  on  the  hazard  cast 
For  such  a  precious  stake  as  slaving  thee." 

As  through   dusk  twilight  stolen,  love-breathless 

maid 
For  interchange  of  gentle  vows,  by  noise 
Starfled  of  envious  footstep,  chides  away 
Her  lingering  yoiiih,  yet  for  his  lingering  loves, 
Till  her  fond  force  hath  driven  him  from  her  side; 
So  earnest  the  brave  Anglian  sued  to  flight 
Reluctant  Samor;  o'er  his  sword-hilt  bow'd. 
Stood  sorrowing  for  the  wounds  himself  had  made, 
That  marr'd  his  speedier  flight.     Anon  approach'd 
Ilengist,  encircled  by  his  state  of  spears. 
And  bright  Rowena  by  his  side.     "But  now 
Thy  steed  along  our  camp  rush'd  masterless, 
Therefore   we    seek    thee,   Anglian.      How !    thou 

bleedst ! 
And  strange!  thv  foeman  bites  not  the  red  earth. 
What  might  hath  scathless  met  Argantyr's  steel  ?" 

"  He,  gasp'd  he  here  in  death,  thy  soul  would  dance, 
The  Wanderer!" — "lie!  he  wars  but  on  soft  boys, 
He  dares  not  front  Argantyr." — "  False,  't  is  false!" 
Burst  frotn  Rowena  ;  "  he  dares  deeds  our  Gods 
Had  shrunk  from  (Hengist's  cloudy  brow  she  mark'd), 
Or  whence  liis  proud  claim  lo  my  father's  hate?" 
"  Where  hath  the  Recreant  fled  !  Pursue,  pursue  !" 
Cried  Hengist.     "  Hast  thou  wings  to  cleave  the  air  ? 
Or  windest  the  deep  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Thou  mayst  o'ertake.     Yet  Samor  is  not  now," 
He  said,  "as  Samor  was;  were  Samor  more. 
Earth  and  Argantyr  had  been  wed  erenow." 

So  spake  the  Anglian  ;  leap'd  Rowena's  heart 
In  hope,  in  shame,  in  anguish,  in  delight. 
"Oh,  hath  my  softness  sunk  so  deep  to  change 
Thy  sieadfist  nature,  yet  thus  changed,  thy  might 
Wrests  honour  from  thy  foeman's  lips." — "Oh  now," 
Laughing  in  baffled  bitterness,  exclaim'd 
The  Saxon  King,  "  now  weave  we  softer  nets 
To  toil  this  dangerous  Wanderer.     W'hat  say'st  thou. 
Fair-eyed  Rowena,  now  thou  hast  cast  off 
Thy  fond,  thy  lovesick  \'ortigern  ?  perchance 
The  sunshine  of  thy  beauty  might  melt  down 
This  savage  to  a  tame  submissive  slave." 

Rowena,  whose  proud  look  with  beauteous  awe 
Smote  her  beholders,  wore  her  loveliness 
As  though  she  eloried  in  its  power;  now  close 
Crowded  o'er  all  her  face  her  mantle's  folds, 
•2N 


That  ill  conceal'd  the  purple  fire  within. 
Then  forward  past  they  to  the  Saxon  camp. 

But  far  by  Wye's  green  marge  had  Samor  fled. 
Till  now  the  ebbing  blood  with  short  (juii-k  throb 
Beat  at  his  heart,  his  laiigu;d  leet  were  clogg'd 
With  the  thick  forest  leaves,  the  keen  air  search'd 
With  a  cold  thrill  his  wounds.    lie  (i»lls,  scarce  sobs; 
"Mercilid  Cod,  on  this  in  all  my  life 
The  sole,  the  single  dav  1  would  not  die." 
Then  faint,  and  sickly,  an  oppressive  rest  * 

Seul'd  sight  and  sense.     When  sleep  fell  on  him,  eve 
Wiis  gathering  fast,  but  when  he  woke,  morn  shot 
From  the  grey  east  her  faint  pellucid  light 
His  blood  was  slaunch'd,  a  soothing  coolness  lay 
On  his  mild  wounds,  the  rude  arch  of  the  boughs 
Seem'd  woven  with  oiricious  care  to  veil 
The  bright  Sun  from  his  eyelids;  the  dry  leaves 
Were  gather'd  round  him,  like  a  ftjathery  couch. 
He  lay  and  listen'd,  a  soft  step  approach'd 
Light  as  the  wren  along  the  unshaking  spray. 
And  o'er  him  lean'd  a  maiden  pale,  yet  blithe 
With  tinge  of  joy,  that  settled  hue. — "  Is  't  thou. 
Gentle  Myfan  wy  ?"     "  Blessings  on  thy  waking ; 
I  long'd  to  tell  thee  what  sweet  dreams  have  soothed 
My  sorrow  since  we  parted  ;  in  my  sleep 
My  parents  came,  and  with  them  that  fond  youth. 
And  they  smiled  on  him  kindly.     Think'st  thou  God 
Can  have  such  mercy  on  sins  dark  as  mine  I" 
"God's  plenteous  mercy  on  thee  for  thy  care 
Of  me,  sweet  maiden." — "  Pardon  me,  oh  thou. 
Heaven  pardon  me,  when  first  I  saw  thee  cold. 
Helpless,  and  bleeding,  evil  thoughts  arose 
Of  ray  poor  Abisa's  untimely  death." 

But  deeper  meditation  Samor's  mind 
Beset.     "  Almighty,  truly  thou  ordain'st 
Wisdom  from  baby  lips;  what  moral  high 
Breathes  in  this  simple  maid's  light-hearted  smiles! 
And  I,  for  wi.'^dom  famed,  for  pride  of  mind. 
Insulted  with  weak  doubts  thy  infinite, 
illimitable  goodness;  she  so  soft. 
So  delicate,  so  sinful  and  so  sad. 
Springs  on  her  airy  plumes  of  hope  to  thee. 
Oh,  were  mine  guilt  of  act  not  thought,  the  stain 
Thy  fi)unt  of  living  mercy  might  efface." 
He  prest  a  kiss  upon  her  cheek  so  pure 
Even  Abisa  had  granted  it.     "Farewell. 
My  kind  preserver,  cherish  thou  thy  hope. 
As  't  were  an  infant  fiindling  on  thy  breast." 
And  fresh  with  hope,  like  gay  stag  newly  bathed. 
Forth  on  his  voyage  lone  the  Avenger  past. 


BOOK  VIH. 


IIi.s  path  is  'mid  the  Cambrian  mountains  wild  ; 
The  many  fountains  that  well  wandering  down 
Plinlimmon's  hiice  round  side  their  murmurs  smooth 
Float  round  him;  Idris,  that  like  warrior  old 
His  batter'd  and  fantastic  helmet  rears. 
Scattering  the  elements'  wrath,  frowns  o'er  his  way 
309 


300 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  broad  irregular  duskiness.     Aloof 
Snowdon,  the  triple-headed  giant,  soars, 
Clouds  rolling  half-way  down  his  rugged  sides. 

Slow  as  he  trod  amid  their  dizzy  heights, 
Their  silenres  and  dimly  mingling  sounds, 
Rushing  of  torrents,  roar  of  prison'd  winds; 
O'er  all  his  wounded  soul  flow'd  strength,  and  pride, 
And  hardihood  ;  again  his  front  soar'd  up 
To  commerce  with  the  skies,  and  frank  and  bold 
His  majesty  of  step  his  rugged  path 
Imprinted.     So  in  old  poetic  failh 
Hyperion  from  his  native  Delian  bowers, 
'Mid  the  rich  music  of  those  sisters  nine, 
Walk'd  the  bright  heights  of  Helicon,  and  shook 
His  forehead's  clustering  glories  wide,  and  flush'd 
The  smoothness  of  his  fair  immortal  face 
With  purpieGodliead.  Whence,  ye  mountains,  whence 
The  spirit  that  within  your  secret  caves 
Holds  kindred  with  man's  soul  ?    Is  't  that  your  pomp 
Of  exaltation,  your  af-'rial  crowns 
In  their  heaven-scaling  rivalry  cast  forth 
Bold  sympathies  of  loftiness,  and  scorn 
Contagious  ?  or  in  that  your  purer  air, 
Where  fresh  and  virgin  from  its  golden  fount, 
Lies  the  fine  light  at  morning,  or  at  eve 
Melts  upward  and  resolves  itself  from  earth. 
And  with  its  last  clear  trembling  round  ye  clings  : 
The  soul,  unwound  its  coarse  material  chains. 
Basks  in  its  own  divinity,  and  feels 
There  in  the  verge  and  portal  of  the  heavens 
The  neighbourhood  of  brighter  worlds  unseen? 
Where  the  blue  Glasslyn  hurries  her  fleet  course 
To  wanton  on  the  yellow  level  sands. 
On  either  side  in  sheer  ascent  abrupt 
The  rocks,  like  barriers  that  in  elder  time 
Wall'd  the  huge  cities  of  the  Anakim, 
Upblacken  to  the  sky,  whose  tender  blue 
With  mild  relief  salutes  th' o'erlabour'd  sight. 
There  on  the  scanty  slippery  way,  that  winds 
With  the  stream's  windings,  Samor  loiters  on. 
But  who  art  thou,  that  in  the  Avenger's  path 
Standest  in  dark  serenity?  what  joy 
Instinct  amid  ihy  thick  black  locks  reveals 
The  full  voluptuous  quietude  within? 
Oh,  Prophet!  in  thy  wanderings  wide  and  far 
Amid  the  pregnant  hours  of  future  time. 
Haply  the  form  of  Samor,  disarray 'd 
Calamity's  sad  venture,  hath  appear'd 
In  plenitude  of  glory.     Hence  thine  eye 
With  recognition  glad  and  bright  salutes 
The  Man  of  Fate.     To  earth  the  Prophet  old 
Bow'd  down,  then  look'd  he  on  the  waters  dark, 
Then  upward  to  the  mounlains.     "Stony  earth. 
Within  thy  secret  bosom  feel'st  not  thou 
A  wonderous  presence?  dwells  not,  thou  blue  stream, 
Under  thy  depth  of  waves  a  silent  awe? — 
Yea,  Snowdon,  lift  thou  up  in  sternest  pride 
Thy  cloudy  mantled  brow  ;  ye  know  him  all. 
Ye  know  the  Avenger." — "  Merlin,  mock  not  thou 
Thy  fellow-creature  of  the  dust,  the  child 
Of  sin  and  .sorrow,  with  o'erlabour'd  phrase, 
Abusing  the  immortal  elements 


From  their  high  calm  indifference  to  sense 

Of  our  light  motions.     Simple  truth  severe 

Best  seemeth  aged  lips;  oh,  holy  famed 

And  sage,  how  ill  strong  Wisdom's  voice  melts  down 

To  the  faint  chime  of  flattery." — "  Poor  of  pride  I 

Feeble  of  hope !  thou  seest  thyself  forlorn, 

An  hunted  wanderer  in  thy  native  land. 

I  see  thee  clad  in  victory  and  revenge. 

Thy  glory  sailing  wide  on  all  the  winds, 

Beautiful  with  thy  blessings  at  thy  feet 

Thy  own  fair  Britain,  Fate  so  freely  spreads, 

Her  music  volume  for  my  sight." — "Oh,  blind, 

And  ignorant  as  blind  our  insect  race! 

The  mole  would  count  the  sunbeams,  the  blind  worm 

Search  the  hid  jewels  in  the  depths  of  earth. 

And  man,  dim  dreamer,  would  invade  the  heavens, 

Self-seated  in  the  Almighty's  councils,  read 

The  secrets  of  Omniscience,  yea,  with  gaze 

Familiar  scrutinize  the  Inscrutable. 

I  tell  thee.  Merlin,  that  the  soul  of  man 

Is  destiny  on  earth  !   God  gave  us  limbs 

To  execute,  and  intellect  to  will 

Or  good  or  evil,  and  his  unseen  Spirit 

Our  appetites  of  holiness,  else  faint 

And  wavering,  doth  corroborate  :  hence  man's  pride% 

Man's  glories,  and  man's  virtues  all  are  God's. 

If  yet  this  heart  unwearied  may  bear  on. 

Nor  from  its  holy  purpose  faintly  swerve, 

The  Lord  be  praised,  its  fate  is  pride  and  joy. 

But  if,  and  oh  the  peril !  it  play  false 

Its  country's  lofty  hazard,  shall  itshifl 

On  wayward  destiny  its  sloth  and  sin? 

Evil  is  not,  where  man  no  evil  wills, 

And  good  is  not,  where  will  not  man  and  God." 

"Chief  wise  as  brave,  as  to  our  feeble  sight 
Yon  pebble's  slight  circumference,  the  Past, 
The  Present,  and  the  future  of  this  world 
Are  to  the  All-seeing  vision;  oft  doth  Heaven 
In  sign  and  symbol  duskily  reveal 
The  unborn  future  ;  oft  Fate's  chariot  wheels 
Are  harbinger'd  by  voices  that  proclaim 
The  fashion  of  Iheir  coming;  gifted  Seers 
Feel  on  their  lips  articulate  the  deeds 
Of  later  days,  and  dim  oracular  sights 
Crowd  the  weak  eves,  till  pall'd  attention  faint 
To  dizziness." — "Oil,  Merlin,  time  hath  been 
When  in  the  guilty  ciiies  the  Lord's  voice 
Hath  spoken  by  his  Prophets,  hath  made  quail 
By  apparitions  ominous  and  dire 
Strong  empires  on  their  unassailed  height. 
But  oh,  for  us  of  this  devoted  isle, 
nrench'd  with  the  vi:ils  of  Almighty  wrath. 
To  gaze  up,  and  beseech  the  clouds  io  rain 
Bright  miracles  on  this  poor  speck  of  earth." 

"Shame  choke  thy  speech,  despondent  slanderer! 
thee 
Avenger!  this  from  thee!  Away!  my  lips 
Burn  with  the  fire  of  heaven,  my  heart  flows  o'er 
With  gladness  and  with  elorv.     Peerless  Isle, 
How  dost  thou  sit  amid  thy  blue  domain 
Of  ocean  like  a  sceptred  Queen!  The  bonds 

310 


SAMOR. 


301 


Like  flax  have  wither'd  from  tliy  comely  limbs. 

Thou,  the  strong  freedom  of  thy  utitamed  locks 

Shaking  abroad,  adornest  God's  liiir  world. 

Thou  noblest  Mden  of  man's  (iiilen  state, 

Apart  and  sever'd  from  the  common  earth, 

Even  like  a  precious  jewel,  deep  and  far 

In  the  abyss  of  lime  ihy  dawn  of  pride 

Still  with  a  fuller  and  more  constant  bliize 

Grows  to  its  broad  meridian,  and  Time's  rolls 

Are  silent  of  thy  setting.     Oh,  how  fair 

The  steps  of  freemen  in  thy  vales  of  peace ; 

Thy  broad  towns  teem  with  wealth,  thy  yellow  fields 

Laugh  in  their  full  fertility;  thy  bays 

Whiten  and  glisten  with  thy  myriad  barks. 

The  .Angels  love  thee,  and  the  airs  of  heaven 

.•\re  gladden'd  by  thy  holy  hymns;  while  Faith 

Sits  on  thy  altars,  like  a  nestling  dove, 

la  unattainted  snowiness  of  plume." 

"  Now,  by  my  soul,  thon  strange  and  solemn  Man, 
Mistrust  thee  more  I  dare  not ;  be  't  a  dream 
Or  revelation  of  immortal  truth. 
Of  Britain's  fame  I  cannot  choose  but  hear 
With  a  child's  transport." — Then  the  Prophet  shook 
The  dark  profusion  of  his  swelling  hair 
With  a  stern  triumph;  then  his  aged  eye 
Grew  restless  with  delight:  his  thin  white  hand 
Closing  around  the  Baron's  arm,  lay  there 
Like  a  hard  glove  of  steel.     He  led  him  on. 
Till  now  the  black  and  shaggy  pass  spread  out 
To  a  green  quiet  valley,  after  named 
The  Bed  of  Gelert,  that  too-faithfiil  hoimd 
Slain  fondly  by  his  erring  Lord  :  the  stream 
Here  curl'd  more  wanton,  lightly  wafling  down 
The  last  thin  golden  leaves  the  alders  dropt. 
Like  fairy  barges  skimming  the  blue  waves. 
That  stream  o'erpass'd,  rightward  their  silent  way 
Lay  to  the  foot  of  Snowdon.     Pause  was  none, 
They  front  the  steep  ascent,  and  upward  wind 
A  long,  sheer,  toilsome  path,  their  footfalls  struck 
Upon  the  black  bare  stillness,  audible 
As  in  thick  forest  the  lone  woodman's  axe. 
'T  was  strange,  yet  slack'd  not  that  old  reverend  Man 
His  upward  step,  as  though  the  mountain  air 
Were  his  peculiar  element,  slill  his  breath 
Respired  unlabouring,  lively  bounded  on 
His  limbs,  late  slow  and  tremulous.  Three  long  hours 
Now  front  to  front  upon  that  topmost  peak, 
Erwydfa,  sit  they  motionless,  alone  : 
As  when  two  vultures  on  some  broken  tower, 
That  beetles  o'er  a  dismal  battle-field. 
In  dark  and  greedy  patience  nnninate 
Their  evening  feast ;  a  stillness  as  of  sleep 
Heaves  in  their  rufifled  plumes,  their  deep  bright  eyes 
Half  closed  in  languid  rest;  so  undistnrb'd, 
So  lofty,  sate  the  .Avenger  and  the  Seer. 
The  atmosphere,  that  palls  our  restless  world. 
Lay  coiling  in  its  murky  folds  below  : 
So  in  some  regal  theatre,  when  droops 
The  unfolding  curtain,  and  within  it  shrouds 
The  high  disastrous  passions,  crimes,  and  woes 
Erewhile  that  fretted  on  its  pomp  of  scene  ; 
Thus  Earth,  with  all  its  solemn  tragedies. 


Heroic  vauniings,  sumptuous  imagings, 

Set  in  its  veil  of  darkness  from  their  sight. 

Tiie  filmless,  the  pellucid  heaven  ulxjve 

One  broad  pure  sheet  of  sunlight. — "  Gifled  Man, 

(Cried  Samor,)  wherefore  to  this  desolate 

Untrodden!" — "Ha!  untrodden!  know  ye  not. 

Where  coarse  humanity  defiles  not,  there 

The  snowy-fooled  Angels  lightly  skim 

The  taintless  soil,  the  fragrance  of  their  plnmes 

F^ins  the  pure  air  where  chokes  no  breath  of  sin 

The  limpid  current?  Desolate!  the  motes 

That  flicker  in  the  sun  are  few  and  rare 

To  the  immortal  faces  that  smile  down 

Exquisite  transiwrl  on  the  ravish'd  sense. 

Here,  from  their  kindred  elements,  emanate 

The  festive  creatures  of  the  heavenly  fields. 

Glories,  and  Mercies,  and  Beatitudes 

Some  dropping  on  the  silent  summer  dews. 

Some  trembling  on  the  rainbow's  violet  verge, 

Some  rarely  charioteering  on  the  wings 

Of  the  mild  winds,  in  moonlight  some.     Why  shakes 

The  Man  of  Vengeance  ?  wherefore  of  mine  hand 

This  passionate  wringing?" — "Tell  me,  truly  tell; 

The  name  of  Emeric  from  some  mild-lipp'd  tone 

Hath  it  e'er  trembled  on  thine  ear?  Old  Man, 

Is't  sin  to  .say  her  presence  might  adorn 

That  gentle  company  ?" — "To  souls  like  thine. 

Warrior,  Heaven  grants  sweet  intercourse  and  free 

With  its  beatified." — "Ah!  nov^'  thon  rakest 

The  a-shes  of  a  buried  grief;  gone  all, 

My  gentle  visitations  broken  off, 

My  delicate  discoiirsings  silent,  ceased  ! 

Oh,  I  talk  idly,  Prophet,  speak  thou  on." 

"  Ay,  Warrior,  and  of  mild  and  soft  no  more ; 
Grandeurs  there  are,  to  which  the  gates  of  heaven 
.Set  wide  their  burnish'd  portals:  midnight  feels 
Cherubic  splendours  ranging  her  dun  gloom. 
The  tempests  are  ennobled  by  the  stale 
Of  high  seraphic  motion.     I  have  seen, 
I,  Merlin,  have  beheld.     It  stood  in  light. 
It  spake  in  sounds  fi)r  earth's  gross  winds  too  pure. 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn  't  was  here 
I  lay,  I  know  not  if  1  slept  or  v\oke, 
Yet   mine  eyes   saw.      Long,   long   this   heart   had 

yearn'd, 
'Mid  those  rich  passings  and  majestic  shows 
1  for  shape  distinct,  and  palpable  clear  sound. 
I  It  burst  at  length,  yea,  front  to  front  it  stood, 
j  The  immortal  Presence.     I  clench'd  up  the  dust 
In  the  agony  and  rapture  of  my  fear. 
And  my  soul  wept  with  terror  and  deep  joy. 
1  It  stood  upon  the  winds,  an  Angel  plumed. 

And  mail'd  and  crown'd  ;  his  plumes  cast  forth  a  tinge 
I  Like  blood  on  th'  air  around  :  his  arms,  in  shape 
I  Etherial  panoply  complete,  in  hue 
j  The  moonlight  on  the  dark  Llanberis  lake, 
!  A  bright  blue  rippling  glitter;  for  the  crown, 
I  Palm  leaves  of  orient  light  his  brow  enwreathed, 

That  bloom'd  in  fair  divinily  of  wrath, 
1  And  beautiful  relentlessness  austere. 
j  Knowledge  was  in  my  heart,  and  on  my  lips; 
I  I  felt  hira,  w  ho  he  was. — "  Archangel  I  hail, 

311 


302 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Destroyer!  art  not  lliou  God's  Delegate, 

To  break  the  glassy  glories  of  this  world  ? 

The  gem-knosp'd  diadem,  the  ivory  ball. 

Sceptre  and  sword,  imperial  mantle  broad. 

The  Lord  of  Nations,  Thimdershaft  of  war, 

Are  glorious  on  the  pale  submissive  earth  : 

Thou  comest,  and  lo,  for  throne,  for  sword,  for  king. 

Bare  ashes  and  thin  dust.    Thou  art,  that  aye 

The  rich-tower'd  cities  smoulder'st  to  pale  heaps 

Of  lazy  moss-stones,  and  aye  after  thee 

Hoots  Desolation,  like  a  dank-wing'd  owf 

Upon  the  marble  palaces  of  Kings. 

Thou  wert,  when  old  Assyrian  Nineveh 

Sank  to  a  pool  of  waters,  waste  and  foul ; 

Thou,  when  the  Median's  brow  the  massy  tiar 

Let  fall,  and  when  the  Grecian's  brazen  throne 

Sever'd  and  split  lo  the  four  winds ;  and  now 

Consummatest  thy  work  of  wreck  and  scorn, 

Even  on  Rome's  Cresars,  making  the  earth  sick 

Of  its  own  hoUovvness.     Archangel!  Hail, 

Vicegerent  of  destruction  !  Cupbearer, 

That  pour'st  the  bitter  liquor  of  Heaven's  wrath, 

A  lamentable  homage  pay  I  thee. 

And  sue  thee  tell  if  Britain's  d.ays  are  full. 

Her  lips  for  thy  sad  beverage  ripe.     Thereat 

Earthward  his  sunny  spear  its  lurid  point 

Declined,  and  lo,  a  White  Hor.se,  through  the  land 

Ranging  in  stately  speed  ;  our  city  gates 

Shrunk  open  at  his  coming,  onr  fair  fields 

Wither'd  before  him,  so  his  fiery  breath 

Flared  broad  amazement  through  the  gasping  land. 

Triumph  was  in  the  trampling  of  his  feet. 

And  the  strong  joy  of  mockery,  for  he  trod 

On  broken  principalities ;  his  mane 

Familiar  Conquest,  as  a  rushing  wind, 

Fann'd  in  loose  brilhant  streamings." — "  False-lipp'd 

Seer, 
Thou  spakest  of  gladness,  and  thy  ominous  tone 
Is  darkness  and  dismay." — "  Hark,  Warrior,  hark  : 
That  wanton  mane  was  trail'd  down  to  the  dust, 
That  fiery  trampling  falter'd  to  dull  dread,       , 
That  pale  victorious  steed  Thee,  Thee  I  saw. 
Visible  as  thou  stand'st,  with  mastering  arm 
Drag  down,  and  on  his  strong  and  baflled  neck 
Full  trod  thy  iron-sandal'd  heel.    The  sight 
Was  wine  unto  my  soul,  and  I  laugh'd  out, 
And  mock'd  the  ruinous  Seraph  in  the  clouds. 

"  Yet  stood  he  in  the  quiet  of  his  wrath. 
Angelic  Expectation,  that  awaits 
Calmly  till  God  accomplisli  God's  high  will. 
Full  on  his  brow.     Then  stoop'd  the  spear  again. 
And  lo.  Seven  Steeds,  like  that  pale  One,  bestrode 
The  patient  Isle,  and  they  that  on  them  rode 
Wore  diadem  and  regal  pall;  then  rose 
To  war  against  those  royal  riders  fierce, 
From  a  round  table,  Knights  in  sunlike  arms. 
Shields  bossy  with  rich  impress  quaint,  and  fair 
Their  coursers,  as  the  fire-hoof'd  steeds  of  Morn. 
To  white-arm'd  Ladies  in  a  stately  court 
Bards  hymn'd  the  deeds  of  that  fine  chivalry, 
And  their  crown'd  Captain's  title  smote  mine  ear, 
'Arthur  of  Bretagne.' — Years  went  rolling  on, 


Cloudy,  discordant,  and  tempestuous  years. 

For  the  sword  reap'd  the  harvest  of  the  land, 

And  battle  was  the  may-game  of  her  sons. 

And  lo,  a  Raven  o'er  the  Eastern  sea 

Swoop'd  desolation  on  the  Isle ;  her  wings 

Blasted  where'er  tiiey  waved,  the  earth  wept  blood 

In  her  foul  talons'  gripe.     But  he  that  rode 

On  the  White  Steed,  the  Sovereign  of  the  Land 

(Patience,  Avenger,  patience!),  fair  was  he 

That  Sovereign,  as  the  virgin's  spring-tide  dream, 

Holy  as  new-anointed  Christian  Priest, 

Valiant  as  warrior  burnish'd  for  the  fight, 

Fond  and  ecstatic  as  love-dreaming  Bard, 

Solemn  and  w  ise  as  old  Philosopher, 

Stately  as  king-born  lion  in  the  wood ; 

As  he  his  fine  face  heavenward  turn'd  in  prayer, 

The  Angels  bent  down  from  their  throning  clouds, 

To  wonder  at  that  admirable  King, 

Sky-wandering  voices  peal'd  in  transport  out — 

'  Alfred  !'  the  baffled  Raven  cower'd  aloof, 

The  isle  look'd  up  to  heaven  in  peace  and  joy. 

"  Still  stood  he  there,  betwixt  me  and  the  sun, 
Th'  Archangel ;  not  in  sleep,  nor  senselessness 
Absorb'd,  but  terrible  inaction  spread 
Over  his  innate  menace.     Oh,  I  strove. 
Yet  dared  not  hope  the  dregs  of  wrath  were  drain'd, 
The  mission  of  dismay  fnlfill'd  and  done; 
Yet  had  those  wiijgs  of  fatal  hue  droop'd  down 
In  folded  motionlessness,  vvreathy  light 
Had  crept  and  wound  around  that  dusky  spear. 
Silvering  its  perilous  darkness.     Dropt  at  once 
That  lender  light  awav;  at  once  those  wings 
Started  asunder,  and  spread  wide  and  red 
The  rain  of  desolation,  thicker  roll'd 
The  pedestal  of  clouds  whereon  he  stood, 
As  to  bear  up  the  effort  of  his  wrath. 
Again  the  Eastern  Raven  snufTd  our  air. 
The  frantic  White  Horse  laved  his  hoofs  in  blood. 
Till  from  the  Southern  Continent  sprung  forth 
A  Leopard,  on  the  ocean  shore  he  ramp'd. 
Woe  to  the  White  Horse,  to  the  Raven  woe, 
Woe  for  the  title  of  the  Leonard  Lord, 
The  Conqueror!  and  a  Bell  I  heard,  that  sway'd 
Along  the  isle,  and  froze  it  into  peace 
With  its  majestic  tyranny  of  sound. 

"  But  he,  upon  the  air,  ih'  Archangel,  he. 
The  summons  of  whose  eye  from  climes  remote 
Beckon'd  those  grisly  ministers  of  wrath. 
Northward  he  look'd,  no  northern  ruin  came. 
To  th'  East,  there  all  was  still.   The  South,  nor  shape 
Nor  sound.  The  West,  calm  stretch'd  th'  unruflled  sea. 
Ha!  thought  I,  earth  hath  now  no  ruin  more. 
The  race  of  havoc  is  extinct  for  us  : 
Angel  of  wreck,  away!  thy  task  is  o'er; 
Majestic  Mischief,  from  our  isle  away ! 
He  went  not;  as  an  earthquake's  second  shock, 
With  dreary  longing  watch'd  I  what  might  come ; 
Moments  were  years ;  and  lo,  the  Island's  sons 
Nor  Briton  they,  nor  Saxon,  nor  the  stock 
Of  those  new-comers,  but  from  each  had  flow'd 
All  qualities  of  honour  and  renown, 

312 


SAMOR. 


303 


The  foul  dishonest  dregs  had  fumed  away. 
And  the  rich  quinlesseiice,  uiimix'd,  uiisoil'd, 
A  harmony  of  energies  sublime, 
Knit  in  that  high-brow'd  people.    Courtesy, 
Death-scorning  valour,  Fame's  immorial  thirst, 
And  honour  inbreathed  like  the  lilie  of  life. 

"Then  rose  that  strong  Archangel,  and  he  smote 
The  biisom  of  the  land;  at  once  leap'd  np 
'l^hat  mighty  [)eople.     Here  a  Snow-vvliite  Rose, 
And  there  a  Red,  with  fatal  blos.*oming. 
And  deadly  fragrance,  maddening  all  the  land. 
I  heard,  1  saw — ah,  impious  sights  and  sounds! 
'I'wo  war-cries  in  one  tongue,  two  banner-rolls 
Woven  in  one  loom,  two  lances  from  one  forge, 
Two  children  from  one  womb  in  conflict  met; 
'Gainst  brother  brother's  blood  cried  out  to  heaven, 
And  he  that  rent  the  vizor  oi'  his  foe 
I/K)k'd  through  the  shatter'd  bars,  and  saw  his  son. 
11a,  Britain  I  in  thine  entrails  dost  thou  flesh 
Thy  ravin  I  thy  baronial  castles  blaze 
With  firebrands  from  their  hospitable  hearths. 

"  Mercy,"  I  cried  aloud,  "  thou  Merciless  ! 
Destroy  no  more.  Destroyer!  Prone  I  fell, 
And  hid  mine  aching  eyes  deep  in  the  dust; 
So  from  my  rocking  memory  to  shut  out 
Those  wars  unnatural.     Pass'd  a  sound  at  length 
As  of  a  Wild  Boar  hunted  to  his  death : 
I  raised  mine  head,  still  there  the  Archangel  stood ; 
Another  pause,  another  gleam  of  hope; 
But  in  that  quiet  interval  me-seem'd 
Trumpetiiigs,  as  of  victory  from  the  sea, 
Flow'd  o'er  the  Isle,  and  glories  beam'd  abroad 
From  a  triumphant  throne,  where  sate  elate 
A  Virgin  :  all  around  her  Poets'  harps 
Sirew'd  flowers  of  amaranth  blooming;  and  mcthought 
Was  joy  and  solemn  welcoming  in  heaven 
Of  a  pure  incense,  that  from  all  the  Isle 
Soar'd  to  the  unapprouched  throne  of  God. 

"  Then  saw  I  through  the  Isle  a  River  broad 
And  full,  and  they  that  drank  thereof  look'd  up 
Like  children  dropt  f^jrth  from  a  nobler  world, 
So  powerful  that  jiroiid  water  work'd  within, 
Freshening  the  Ixjdy  and  the  soul :  and  each 
Beauty  array 'd  and  a  frank  simple  strength. 
The  river's  name  was  Freedom  :  her  fair  tide 
So  pleasant  thrall'd  mine  eye,  I  saw  not  rise 
Th' .Archangel's  spear:   th' earth's  reeling  woke  me 

then. 
For  lo,  upon  a  thnne,  a  gallant  Prince, 
That  with  misguided  sceptre  strove  to  check 
That  powerful  stream  :  whereat  the  rebel  tide 
Swell'd  up  with  indignation,  and  aloof 
Siood  gathering  its  high-cresting  waves ;  down  came 
The  deluge,  that  fair  throne,  and  all  its  strong 
Xobility  of  pillars,  with  a  crash 
Came  to  the  earth,  while  they  that  drank  rush'd  out 
Inebriate  with  excess  of  that  fierce  stream. 
And  cast  a  bloody  sacrifice,  that  head 
Endiadem'd  with  royaltv,  to  glut 
The  tide  implacable.     'Tis  sad  to  hear. 
Ay,  Samor,  what  was  it  to  see !  Brave  Chief, 
2G 


Cold  winter  leads  the  pleasant  summer  on. 

The  night  must  darken  ere  the  morning  dawn; 

The  summer  came,  the  morning  dawn'd,  I  saw 

The  arch'd  heavens  open  o'er  the  angelic  shape, 

.•\nd  upward  like  a  cloud  he  mingled  in 

To  the  sky's  cloudiness.     I  cried  aloud 

'  For  ever!'  the  close  settling  in  the  heaven 

Seem'd  to  reply  '  For  ever.'     I\ot  with  him 

I'ass'd  ofT  my  vision  fair.     Another  throne 

Stood  by  the  venturous  margin  of  that  stream  : 

Then  merriment,  and  loose-liarp'd  wantonness 

Smoothed  the  late  ruffled  air;  immo<iest  tones. 

To  which  fair  forms  in  dancing  motion  swam : 

They  paused,  then  dark  around  that  throne  it  seem'd 

Whereat  those  holy  hymns  that  scarce  had  ceased 

To  float  up  in  their  airy-winged  course. 

In  faintness  'gan  to  tremble  and  break  off; 

That  stream  again  upgather'd  its  waked  wrath, 

And  foamy  menace.     When  behold,  a  fleet 

Came  tilting  o'er  the  ocean  waves,  and  cast 

A  Lady  and  a  Warrior  on  the  shore, 

And  kingly  crowns  around  their  brows  august 

Out  blossom'd ;  on  the  throne  they  took  their  seat, 

Soar'd  gladness  on  the  wings  of  those  pure  hymns, 

And  the  majestic  stream  in  sunlight  flow 

And  full  rejoicing  murmur,  all  its  waves 

Wafted  around  the  high  and  steady  throne. 

"  Now  listen  with  thy  soul,  not  with  thine  ears : 
Briton  !  beside  that  stream  a  Tree  sprang  out. 
With  ever-mounting  height,  and  amplitude 
Aye-spreading ;  deep  in  earth  its  gnarle^d  roots 
Struck  down,  as  though  lo  strengthen  this  frail  world: 
Its  crown  amid  the  clouds  seem'd  soaring  up 
For  calm  above  earth's  tossing  and  rude  stir. 
And  its  broad  branching  spread  so  wide,  its  shade 
Lay  upon  distant  realms;  one  golden  bright. 
Close  by  the  cradle  of  the  infant  sun. 
And  others  in  new  western  worlds  remote ; 
And  from  that  mystic  river.  Freedom,  flow'd 
A  moisture  like  the  sap  of  life,  that  fed 
And  fertilized  the  spacious  Tree;  the  gales 
Of  ocean  with  a  gorgeous  freshness  flush'd 
The  beauty  of  its  foliage.     Blossoms  rare 
Were  on  it ;  holy  deeds,  that  in  the  airs 
Of  heaven  delicious  smelt,  and  fruits  on  earth 
Shower'd  from  it,  making  its  sad  visage  smile, 
For  life  and  hope  and  bliss  was  in  their  taste. 
Amid  the  state  of  boughs  twin  Eagles  hung 
Their  eyries.  Victory  and  Renown,  and  swung 
In  rapturous  sport  with  the  tumultuous  winds. 
But  birds  obscene.  Dishonour,  Shame,  Dismay, 
Scared  by  the  light  of  the  bright  leaves,  aloof 
Far  wheel'd  their  sullen  flight,  nor  dared  to  stoop. 
I  saw  the  nations  graft  their  wasted  trunks 
From  those  broad  boughs  of  beauty  and  of  strength. 
And  dip  their  drain'd  urns  in  that  sacred  stream. 
But  in  the  deep  peculiar  shade  there  stood 
A  Throne,  an  Altar,  and  a  Senate-house. 
Upon  the  throne  a  King  sate,  triple-crown'd 
As  by  three  kingdoms;  voices  eloquent 
In  harmony  of  discord  fulmined  forth 
From  that  wise  Senate :  in  swift  intercourse 

313 


304 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  and  fro  from  heaven's  crystal  battlements 

To  that  pure  altar  Angels  stoop'd  their  flight 

And  through  the  sunny  boughs  Philosophers 

Held  commerce  with  the  skies,  and  drew  from  thence 

The  stars  to  suffer  their  sage  scrutiny ; 

And  Poets  sent  up  through  the  bowery  vault 

Such  lavish  harmonies,  the  charm'd  air  seem'd 

Forgetful  of  its  twinkling  motion  dim. 

"Oh,  admirable  Tree!  thou  shalt  not  fall 
By  foreign  axe,  or  slow  decay  within ! 
The  tempests  strengthen  thee,  the  summer  airs 
Corrupt  not,  but  adorn.     Until  that  tide, 
Freedom,  the  Inexhaustible,  exhaust, 
Lives  the  coeval  Immortality." 

The  Prophet  ceased  :  still  Samor  on  his  face, 
That  in  solemnity  of  firm  appeal 
Look'd  heavenward,  with  a  passionate  belief 
Gazed,  and  a  glad  abandonment.    "  Ha,  Seer, 
But  now  when  thou  began'st  't  was  noon  of  day, 
And  now  deep  night.     Yea,  Merlin,  and  by  night 
The  Tamer  of  the  White  Steed  must  go  forge 
His  iron  curb."     Forth  like  a  cataract 
He  burst,  and  bounded  down  the  mountain  side. 
"Yet  once  again,  tumultuous  world,  1  plunge 
Amid  thy  mad  abyss ;  thou  proud  and  fierce, 
I  come  to  break  and  tame  thee !  see  ye  not, 
Wise  Hengist!  strong  Casvvallon  !  how  the  sand 
Is  under  your  high  towering  thrones,  the  worm 
Is  in  your  showy  palms." — .-Vnd  then  a  pause 
Of  tumult  and  proud  trembling  in  his  soul, 
And,  "  False  it  was  not,  but  a  gleam  vouchsafed 
From  the  eternal  orb  of  truth,  the  sense 
That  inbred  and  ingrain'd  with  my  soul's  life, 
Hath  made  of  Britain  to  this  leaping  heart 
A  sound  not  merely  of  deep  love,  but  pride 
Intense,  and  inborn  majesty.     I  feel, 
And  from  my  earliest  consciousness  have  felt, 
That  in  the  wide  hereafter,  where  old  Fate 
Broods  o'er  the  unravelling  web  of  human  things, 
Woven  by  the  Almighty,  spreads  thy  tissue  broad 
In  light,  among  tlie  dark  and  mazy  threads; 
Vicissitude  or  mutability 
Quench  not  its  desolate  lustre,  on  it  winds 
Unbroken,  unattainted,  unobscured." — 

So  pass'd  he:  who  had  seen,  him  then  had  deem'd. 
By  the  proud  steed-like  tossing  of  his  crest, 
His  motion  like  the  uncheck'd  August  sun 
Travelling  the  cloudless  vacancy  of  air, 
A  monarch  for  his  summer  pastime  gone 
Into  the  shadv  grove,  with  courtier  train, 
And  plumed  steed,  and  laden  sumpter  mule. 
Cool  canopy,  and  velvet  carpeting. 
But  he  beneath  the  sleety  winter  sky. 
Even  his  hard  arms  bit  into  by  the  keen 
And  searching  airs,  houseless,  by  hazard  foimd 
His  coarse  irregular  fare,  his  drink,  the  ice 
Toilsomely  broken  from  the  stiff  black  pool. 
The  furr'd  wolf  in  the  mossy  oaken  trunk 
Lapp'd  himself  from  the  beating  snow,  but  on 
Went  Samor  with  unshivering  naked  foot ; 


The  tempest  from  the  mountain  side  tore  down 
The  pine,  like  a  scathed  trophy  casting  it 
To  moulder  in  the  vale,  but  Samor's  brow 
Fronted  the  rude  sky ;  the  free  torrent  felt 
The  ice  its  rushing  turbulence  o'ergrow. 
Translucent  in  its  cold  captivity 
It  hung,  but  Samor  burst  the  invading  frost 
From  the  untamed  waters  of  his  soul,  and  flow'd 
Fetterless  on  his  deep  unfathom'd  course. 

And  thou,  wild  Deva,  how  hast  thou  foregone 
Thy  summer  music,  and  thy  sunny  play 
Of  eddies  whitening  'mid  thy  channel  stones; 
Bard-beloved  river,  on  whose  green-fringed  brink 
The  fine  imagining  Grecian  sure  had  feign'd 
'Twixt  thy  smooth  Naiads  and  the  Sylvans  rude 
Of  thy  grey  woods  stolen  amorous  intercourse ; 
With  such  a  slow  reluctance  thou  delay 'st 
Under  the  dipping  branches,  that  flap  up 
With  every  shifting  motion  of  the  wind 
Thy  limpid  moisture,  and  with  serpent  coil 
Dost  seem  as  thou  wouldst  mingle  with  thyself 
To  wander  o'er  again  the  same  loved  course. 
Now  lies  thy  ice-bound  bosom  mute  and  flat 
As  marble  pavement,  thy  o'ershadowing  woods 
One  bare,  brown  leaflessness,  that  faintly  drop 
At  intervals  the  heavy  icicles, 
Like  tears  upon  a  monumental  stone. 
But  though  the  merry  waters  and  brisk  leaves 
Are  silent,  with  their  close-couch'd  birds  of  song. 
Even  in  this  blank  dead  season  music  loves 
Thy  banks,  and  sounds  harmonious  must  be  heard 
Even  o'er  thy  frozen  waters.    'T  was  a  hymn 
From  a  low  chapel  by  the  river  side. 
Came  struggling  through  the  thick  and  hazy  air, 
And  made  a  gushing  as  of  tears  flow  o'er 
The  Wanderer's  soul ;  the  form  winds  could  not  bow, 
Nor  crazing  tempests, those  soft  sounds  amate; 
Those  dews  of  music  melt  into  the  frame 
Of  adamant,  proof  against  the  parching  frost 

Under  the  fwrch  he  glided  in.  and  knelt 
Unnoticed  in  the  throng :  whose  motion  sway'd 
The  beasts  of  ravin,  he  before  his  God 
Wore  nought  distinctive,  save  of  those  bruised  reeds 
Was  he  the  sorest  bruised,  and  deepest  seem'd 
The  full  devotion  settling  round  his  heart. 
More  musical  than  the  music  on  that  soul. 
So  long  inured  to  things  tumultuous,  sights 
Rugged  and  strange,  and  hurrying  and  distract. 
Came  the  sensation  of  a  face  beloved. 
The  calm  of  that  old  reverend  brow,  the  glow 
Of  ils  thin  silver  locks,  was  like  a  flash 
Of  sunlight  in  the  pauses  of  a  storm. 
Now  hath  the  white-stoled  Bishop  lifted  up 
His  arms,  his  parting  benison  descends 
Like  summer  rain  upon  his  flock.    Whose  ear. 
Oh,  holy  Germain,  felt  thy  gentle  tones 
As  Samor's  ?  ah,  when  last  thy  saintly  brow 
For  him  look'd  heavenward,  and  less  tremulous  then 
Thy  voice  on  him  breathed  blessing,  't  was  in  times 
Far  brighter,  at  that  jocund  bridal  hour 
When  Emeric,  rosy  between  shame  and  joy, 

314 


SAMOR. 


305 


Stood  with  him  by  the  altar  side: — "Thus  live 
In  love  till  life's  departure;" — Such  thy  prayer; 
Ah,  words  how  vain !  sweet  blessings  unenjoy'd  ! 

The  throng  hath  ported ;  in  the  House  of  God 
Still  knelt  the  armed  man  ;  with  pressure  strong 
He  clasp'd  old  Germain's  hand — "Good  Bishop,  thou 
Art  skill'd  in  balancing  our  earthly  sins. 
I  was  a  man,  whose  high  ambitious  head 
Was  among  God's  bright  stars ;  1  deem'd  of  earth, 
As  of  a  place  whose  dust  my  feet  shook  off 
With  a  heaven-gifted  scorn,  so  far,  so  high 
Seem'd  I  above  its  tainting  elevate. 
At  midnight,  on  my  slumber  came  the  sin, 
I  will  not  say  how  exquisite  and  fair ; 
Mine  eyelids  sprung  apart  to  drink  it  in. 
My  soul  leap'd  up  to  clasp  it,  and  the  folds 
Of  passion,  like  a  fiery  robe,  wrapt  in 
My  nature  ;  I  had  fallen,  but  bounteous  Heaven 
Of  its  most  blest  permitted  one  t'  extend 
A  snow-white  arm  of  rescue." — "The  hot  tears 
Corrode  and  fret  the  warrior's  brazen  helm  ; 
I  will  not  »sk  thee  of  thine  outward  eyes. 
Hath  thy  soul  wept  ?" — "  Ay,  bishop,  tears  of  blood  ; 
Sorrow  and  shame  weigh'd  down  nay  nerveless  arm. 
And  clipp'd  th' aspiring  plumage  of  my  soul ; 
From  out  mine  own  heart  scorn  hiss'd  at  me." — "  Well, 
Strong  Man  of  arms,  hast  fought  the  inward  fight, 
And  God  remit  thy  sins,  as  I  remit." — 

"  Then  take  thou  to  thine  arras  thy  ancient  friend." 
So  saying,  uprose  Samor,  like  a  star 
Out  of  the  ocean,  shining  his  bright  face 
With  the  pure  dews  of  penitence.     But  he, 
The  old  man,  fell  upon  his  neck  and  wept. 
As  though  th'  endearing  name,  my  Son,  were  voiced 
By  nature,  not  by  saintly  use,  a  sound 
Not  of  the  lips,  but  th'  overflowing  heart. 

Theirs  was  a  broken  conference,  drear  thoughts 
Of  anguish,  desolation,  and  despair. 
So  moulded  up  with  recollections  sweet. 
They  made  the  sunken  visage  smile  through  tears; 
A  few  fair  roses  shed  on  a  brown  heath, 
A  little  honey  in  deep  cups  of  gall : 
Light  bridal  airs  broke  in  upon  by  sounds 
Funereal,  shouts  of  triumph  languishing 
To  the  faint  shriek  of  agony,  direness  forced 
Into  the  fresh  bowers  of  delight,  and  death, 
Th'  unjoyous,  in  the  laughing  feast  of  joy. 

'Tis  th'one  poor  luxury  the  wretched  have. 
To  speak  of  wretchedness — yet  brief  their  speech, 
"Vengeance  and  vigilance,"  the  stern  adieu 
Even  in  that  hoary  Bishop's  ear,  he  went. 

But  by  the  Bishop's  side,  just  there  where  knelt 
Th'  Avenger,  a  new  form :  't  was  man  in  garb. 
But  the  thin  fringing  of  the  humid  eye, 
The  delicate  wanderings  of  the  rosy  veins. 
The  round  full  alabaster  of  the  skin. 
The  briefness  of  the  modest  sliding  step. 
Something  of  womanly  composure  smooth. 
Even  in  the  close  and  girt  habiliments. 


Belied  the  stern  appearance, — "  Priest,  with  him 

But  now  who  parted,  is  my  soul  allied 

In  secret,  close  society;  his  failh 

Must  be  my  (ailh,  his  God  my  God." — "  Fair  youth, 

I  question  not  by  what  imperious  lie 

Of  .admiration  or  strong  love  thou  'rt  led  ; 

For  as  the  Heavens  with  silent  power  intense 

Draw  upward  the  light  mists  and  f()gs  of  earth. 

And  steeping  them  in  glory,  hang  them  forth 

F'resh,  renovate,  and  radiant ;  virtue  holds 

The  like  attractive  influence,  to  her  trains 

Souls  light  and  clayey-tinctured,  till  they  catch 

The  fair  contagion  of  her  beauty,  beam 

With  her  imparted  light.     Hear,  heathen  youth. 

Hear  and  believe." — .As  when  beneath  the  nave 

Tail  arching,  the  Cathedral  organ  'gins 

Its  prelude,  lingeringly  exquisite 

Within  retired  the  linshful  sweetness  dwells, 

.Anon  like  simliglit,  or  the  floodgate  rush 

Of  waters,  bursts  it  (i>rih,  clear,  solenyi,  full ; 

It  breaks  upon  the  mazy  fretted  ronf. 

It  coils  up  round  the  clustering  pillars  tall. 

It  leaps  into  the  cell-like  chapels,  strikes 

Beneath  the  pavement  sepulchres,  at  once 

The  living  temple  is  instinct,  ablaze 

With  the  uncontroH'd  exuberance  of  sound. 

Even  so  with  smoothing  gentleness  began 
The  mitred  Preacher,  wiiming  audience  close: 
Till  rising  up,  the  rapid  argument 
Soar'd  to  the  Empyrean,  linking  earth 
With  heaven  by  golden  chains  of  eloquence; 
Till  the  mind,  all  its  faculties  and  powers. 
Lay  floating,  self-surrender'd  in  the  deep 
Of  admiration.     Wondrous  't  was  to  see. 
With  the  transitions  of  the  Holy  Creed, 
The  workings  of  that  regular  bright  face  : 
Now  ashy  blank,  now  glittering  bright,  now  dew'd 
With  fast  sad  tears,  now  with  a  weeping  smile, 
Now  heavy  with  droop'd  eyelids,  open  now 
With  forehead  arch'd  in  rapture;  till  at  last 
Ensued  a  gasping  listening  without  breath. 
But  as  the  voire  severe  wound  up  the  strain 
And  from  the  heavenly  history  to  enforce 
The  everlasting  moral,  'gan  extort 
From  the  novitiate  in  the  jealous  faith 
Passionless  purity,  and  life  sincere 
From  all  the  soft  indulgences  of  sin  ; 
Forbidden  in  the  secret  heart  to  shrine 
A  dear  imlawful  image,  to  reserve 
A  sad  and  narrow  sanctuary  for  desire : 
Then  stood  in  speechlessness,  yet  suppliant. 
With  snowy  arms  outstretch'd,  and  quivering  loose. 
The  veiling  mantle  thrown  in  anguish  back, 
Confest  the  Woman  :  starting  from  their  band. 
Like  golden  waters  o'er  a  marble  bed, 
Flow'd  out  her  long  locks  o'er  her  half-bare  neck. 

"To  tell  me  that  in  such  cold  solemn  tones. 
All,  all  unwelcome,  bitter  as  it  is, 
I  must  believe,  for  its  oppressive  truth 
Loads  on  my  soul,  and  he  believes  it  all. 
To  tell  it  me  here,  here,  where  all  around 

315 


306 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Linger  his  vestiges,  where  the  warm  air 

Yet  hath  the  motion  of  his  breath,  the  sound 

Of  his  departing  footsteps  beating  yet 

Upon  my  heart.     Long  sought !  and  f()und  in  vain ! 

In  sunshine  have  I  sought  thee  and  in  shade. 

O'er  mountain  have  I  track'd  thee,  and  through  vale, 

The  clouds  iiave  wrapped  thee,  but  I  lost  thee  not. 

The  torrents  drown'd  thy  track,  but  not  from  me, 

I  dared  not  meet  thee,  but  I  sought  thee  still ; 

To  me  forbid,  alone  to  me,  what  all 

The  coarse  and  common  things  of  nature  may; 

The  airs  of  heaven  may  touch  thee,  I  may  not, 

All  human  eyes  behold  thee — all  but  mine; 

And  thou,  the  senseless,  enviable  dust 

JMayst  cherish  the  round  traces  of  his  limbs, 

His  fresh  (air  image  must  away  from  me. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  dust  whereon  thou  treadst, 

lilven  though  I  felt  thee  not !" — And  is  this  she. 

The  virgin  of  the  festal  hall,  who  won 

A  kingdom  for  a  smile,  nor  deign'd  regard 

Its  winning,  and  who  stoop'd  lo  be  a  Queen  ? 

And  is  this  she,  whose  coming  on  the  earth 

Was  like  the  Morn  in  her  impearled  car, 

Loftiest  or  loveliest  which,  't  were  bold  to  say  ? 

She  whose  enamouring  scorn  fell  luxury-like 

On  her  beholders,  who  seem'd  glad  to  shrink 

Beneath  the  wreathed  contempt  of  her  full  lip? 

This  she,  the  Lady  of  the  summer  bark. 

To  whom  the  sinishine  and  the  airs,  and  all 

Th' inconstant  waters  play'd  the  courtier  smooth, 

That  cast  a  human  feeling  of  delight 

At  her  bewitching  presence  o'er  the  blind 

Unconscious  forms  of  nature  ?  Is  this  she? 

Those  rich  lips,  for  a  monarch's  banquet  meet, 

Visiting  the  dust  with  Irantic  kiss,  thus  low. 

Thus  desolate,  thus  fallen,  of  her  fall 

Careless,  so  deep  in  shame,  yet  unashamed  ! 

But  thou,  Heaven  reconciled,  on  earth  the  seal'd, 
The  anointed  by  the  prophet's  gladdening  oils, 
God's  instrument,  hath  midnight  now  resumed 
Its  spirit-wafring  function  ?    Emeric,  she 
On  earth  so  mild,  in  her  had  anger  seem'd 
Unnatural  as  a  war-song  on  a  lule. 
As  blood  upon  the  pinion  of  a  dove. 
1[\  heaven  has  she  her  heavenly  qualities 
Unlearnt?  is  she  the  angel  now  in  all 
But  its  best  part,  forgiveness  ?    Can  it  be 
Th'  ungentle  North,  the  bleak  and  snowy  air 
Estrange  her  now?  those  elements  of  earth 
But  tyrannize  beneath  the  moon,  the  stars 
And  spiriis  in  their  nature  privileged 
From  heat  and  cold,  from  fevering  and  from  frost, 
Their  pure  and  constant  temperament  maintain, 
f  Slide  through  the  storm  serene,  and  rosy  warm 
Rove  the  frore  winter  air.     Are  sounds  abroad. 
That  Sanior  from  his  mossy  pillow,  stretch'd 
Under  the  oak,  uplifts  his  head,  and  then 
Like  one  bliss-overcome,  subsides  again  ? 
Half  sleep,  half  sense  he  lies,  his  nuptial  hymn, 
Articulate  each  gay  and  dancing  word. 
Distinct  each  delicate  and  dwelling  liill. 
Is  somewhere  in  the  air  about  him  ;  loolis 


Are  on  him  of  a  bashful  eye,  too  fond 
To  turn  away,  too  timorous  to  fix 
And  rest  unwavering.     All  the  marriage  rile 
Is  acting  now  anew  ;  the  sunlight  falls 
I'pi'n  'he  gold-clasp'd  book  of  prayer,  as  then 
It  fell,  and  Germain  speaks  as  Germain  spake ; 
And  Emeric,  on  her  cheek  the  tear  is  there. 
Where  then  it  hung  in  lucid  trembling  bright; 
The  ver}'  fluttering  of  her  yielded  hand. 
When  gliding  up  her  finger  small,  the  ring 
Made  her  his  own  for  ever,  throbs  again 
Upon  his  sensitive  touoh.     He  dares  not  move 
Lest  he  should  break  the  lovely  bubble  frail; 
His  tranced  eyes  stir  not,  lest  they  rove  away 
From  that  delicious  sight;  his  open  hand 
Lies  pulseless,  lest  the  slightest  cliange  disturb 
That  exquisite  sensation  :  so  he  lies, 
Knowing  all  false,  yet  feeling  all  as  true. 

And  it  was  false,  yet  why  ?  that  is  indeed. 
Which  is  to  sense  and  sight.     Ah,  well  beseems 
Us,  the  strong  insects  of  an  .April  morn, 
Steady  and  constant  as  the  thistle's  down  , 
When  winds  are  on  it,  lasting  as  the  flake 
Of  spring  snow  op  the  warm  and  grassy  ground. 
Well  beseems  us,  ourselves,  our  forms,  our  lives. 
The  earth  we  tread  on,  and  the  air  we  breathe. 
The  light  and  glassy  peopling  of  a  dream, 
T' arraign  our  visions  for  their  perishing, 
.And  on  their  unreality  to  rail. 
Ungrateful  to  the  illusion,  that  deceives 
To  rapture,  and  unwise  to  cast  away 
Sweet  flowers  because  they  are  not  amaranth. 

Thou,  Samor,  nor  ungrateful  nor  unwise, 
That,  'scaping  from  this  cold  and  dark  below. 
Dost  spread  thee  out  for  thy  peculiar  joy 
A  land  of  fair  imaginings,  with  shapes, 
.And  sounds,  and  motions,  and  sweet  stillnesses. 
Dost  give  up  all  the  moon  beholds  to  woe 
And  tumult,  but  in  some  far  quiet  sphere 
Findest  thyself  a  pure  companionship 
With  spirits  thou  didst  love,  and  who  loved  thee 
While  passionate  and  earthly  sense  was  theirs. 


BOOK  IX. 


Who  tracks  the  ship  along  the  sea  of  storms  ? 
Who  through  the  dark  haste  of  the  wintry  clouds 
Pierceth  to  where  the  planet  in  retired 
And  constant  motion  the  blue  arch  of  heaven 
Traverseth  ?  Sometimes  on  the  mountain  top 
Of  some  huge  wave  the  reappearine  bark 
Takes  its  high  stand,  with  pennon  fluttering  far 
And  cautious  sail  half  fiirl'd,  yet  eminent 
As  of  th' assaulting  element  in  disdain. 
Sometimes  amid  the  darkness  falling  off, 
And  scattering  from  its  crystal  sphere  away, 
Bursts  out  the  argent  orb  refresh'd,  and  shows 
Its  lamp  unquenchable.    Thou  voyager 

316 


SAMOR. 


307 


'Mid  the  rude  waves  of  des«lation,  Star 

Of  Britain's  gloomy  night,  so  bafllest  thou 

My  swift  poetic  vision !  now  the  waves 

Ride  o'er  thee,  now  the  clouds  devour  thee  up, 

And  thou  art  lost  to  sight,  and  dare  I  say 

Lost  to  thy  immortality  of  song? 

Thee  too  anon  I  see  emerging  proud 

From  the  dusk  billows  of  calamity, 

That  swoln  and  haughty  from  the  recent  wreck 

Of  thy  compatriot  navy,  thee  assail 

With  their  accumulated  weight  of  surge. 

Thou  topst  some  high-brow'd  wave,  and  shaking  off 

On  either  side  their  fury,  brandishest 

Thy  solitary  banner.     Thee  I  see, 

Within  th'  embosoming  midnight  of  the  land, 

On  gliding  with  smooth  motion  undisturb'd, 

And  through  the  glimpses  of  the  breaking  gloom, 

Sometimes  a  solemn  beauty  sheddest  forth 

On  the  distemper'd  face  of  human  things. 

Full  in  the  centre  of  Caer  Ehranc*  stood 
A  temple,  by  the  August  Severus  rear'd 
To  Mavors  the  Implacable ;  what  time 
That  Caesar  sloop'd  his  eagles  on  the  wreck 
Of  British  freedom,  when  the  mountaineer, 
The  King  of  Morven,  if  old  songs  be  sooth, 
Fmgal,  from  Carun's  bloody  flashing  waves  t 
Shook  the  fled  Roman  on  his  new-built  wall ; 
And  Ossian  woke  up  on  his  hill  of  dreams, 
And  spread  the  glory  of  his  song  abroad. 
To  halo  round  his  sceptred  Hero's  head. 

But  not  the  less  his  work  of  pride  pursued 
Th'  imperial  Roman  ;  up  the  pillars  rose. 
Slow  lengthening  out  their  long  unbroken  lines  ; 
In  delicate  solidity  advanced. 
And  stately  grace  toward  the  sky,  till  met 
By  the  light  massiveness  of  roof,  that  sloped 
Down  on  their  flowery  capitals.     Nor  knew 
That  man  of  purple  and  of-diadem. 
The  Universal  Architect  at  work. 
Framing  for  him  a  narrow  building  dark. 
The  grave's  lone  building.  Th'  emperor  and  his  bones 
Into  the  blank  of  things  forgot  and  past 
Had  moulder'd,  but  this  proud  and  'during  pile, 
By  wild  weeds  overgrown,  by  yellow  hues 
Of  age  deep  tinted,  still  a  triumph  wrought 
O'er  time,  and  Christian  disregard,  and  stood 
As  though  to  mock  its  Maker's  perishing. 

Upon  the  eastern  pediment  stood  out 
A  fierce  relief,  whore  the  tumultuous  stone 
Was  nobly  touch'd  into  a  fit  device 
For  th'  immortal  Homicide  within  :  it  show'd 
His  coming  on  the  earth ;  the  (lod  had  burst 
The  gates  of  Janus,  that  fell  shattering  back 
Behind  him,  from  the  wall  the  rearing  steeds 
Sprung  forth,  and  with  their  stony  hoofs  the  air 
Insulted.     Them  Bellona  urged,  abroad 
Her  snaky  locks  from  her  bare  wrinkled  brow 
Went  scattering  ;  forward  the  haggard  charioteer 
Lean'd,  following  to  the  coursers'  reeking  flanks 


•York. 
26* 


t  Gibbon,  ch.  vi. 


20 


The  furrowing  scourge  with  all  herself,  and  hung 
Over  their  backs  half  fury,  and  half  joy. 
As  though  to  listen  to  their  bruising  hoofs, 
That  trampled  the  thick  massacre.     Erect 
Behind,  with  shield  drawn  in  and  forward  spear, 
The  coned  helm  finely  shaped  to  th'  arching  brow. 
The  God  stood  up  within  the  car,  that  seem'd 
To  rush  whenever  the  fleet  wind  swept  by. 
His  brow  was  glory,  and  his  arm  was  jwwer, 
And  a  smooth  immorlalily  of  youth. 
Like  freshness  from  Elysium  newly  left, 
Th'  embalming  of  celestial  airs  inhaled, 
j  Touch'd  with  a  beauty  to  be  shudder'd  at 
j  His  massy  shape,  a  lightning-like  fierce  grace. 
That  makes  itself  admired,  whilst  it  destroys. 

There  on  a  throne,  fronting  the  morning  sun, 
Caswallon  sate  ;  his  sceptre  a  bright  sword 
Unsheathed ;  with  savage  art  had  he  broke  up 
His  helmet  to  the  likeness  of  a  crown. 
Thereon  uncouthly  set  and  clustering  bright 
Rich  jewels  glitter'd  ;  to  his  people  ranged 
Upon  the  steps  of  marble  sloping  down. 
Barbaric  justice  minist'ring  he  sate. 
Expounding  the  absolute  law  of  his  own  will, 
And  from  the  abject  at  his  feet  received 
Homage  that  seem'd  like  worship:  not  alone 
From  his  wild  people,  but  from  lips  baptized. 
Came  titles  that  might  make  the  patient  Heavens 
Burst  to  the  utterance  of  a  laughing  scorn ; 
Might  wake  up  from  the  bosom  of  the  grave, 
A  bitter  and  compassionate  contempt. 
To  hear  the  inheritance  of  her  dull  worms. 
Named  in  his  dauntless  and  unblushing  style, 
" Unconqu'rable !    Omnipotent!    Supreme!" — 

But  all  along  the  ranging  column  files. 
And  all  abroad  the  turgid  laudings  spread, 
"Unconqu'rable!    Omnipotent!    Supreme!" 

Yet  he,  the  Stranger,  whom  Prince  Malwyn  leads 
He  bows  not,  those  hymn'd  flatteries  seem  to  jar 
Upon  his  sense,  .so  high  his  head  he  bears 
Above  them,  like  a  man  constrain'd  to  walk 
Amid  low  tufts  of  poisonous  herbs  ;  he  fronts 
The  monarch,  and  thus  'gins  his  taunting  strain  : 
"  Unconqu'rable!  whose  conquering  is  the  wolf's 
That  when  the  shifting  battle  rages  yet. 
Steals  to  some  desert  corner  of  the  field. 
And  riots  on  the  spoils.     Omnipotent! 
Ay,  as  a  passive  weapon,  wielded  now. 
Now  cast  away  contemptuous  for  the  dust 
To  canker  and  to  rust  around.     Supreme! 
O'er  whom  is  Ruin  on  its  vulture  wings. 
Scoffing  the  bubble  whereupon  thou  ridest. 
And  waiting  Hengist's  call  to  swoop  and  pierce 
And  dissipate  its  swoln  and  airy  pride. 
Whose  diadem  of  glory,  sword  of  power, 
Yea,  breath  of  life,  at  Hengist's  wayward  will. 
Cling  to  thee,  ready  at  his  beck  to  fade, 
And  shiver  and  expire." — "  At  Hengist's  call  I 
At  Hengist's  beck!  at  Hengist's!" — the  word  choked. 
With  eyes  that  dug  into  the  Stranger's  face, 

317 


308 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  so  by  wrath  bewilder'd,  they  had  lost 
liislinction,  rose  Caswallon.     From  the  wall 
A  lance  he  seized,  huge  as  a  pine-tree  stem, 
That  on  Blencathara  stands  sheer  'gainst  Heaven's 

storms : 
I'ar  o'er  all  heads  a  long  and  rapid  flight 
It  cut  along  the  air,  till  almost  fail'd 
The  sight  to  track  it  to  its  ponderous  fall. 
Then  taking  on  his  throne  his  quiet  seat, 
'•  Back,  back  to  Hengist,  say  my  lance  flies  thus, 
Bid  him  o'ercast  it,  then  come  here  again 
To  menace  at  Caswallon." — "  Soft  and  weak, 
(Pursued  the  unwondering  Stranger)  know'st  thou  not, 
There  is  a  strength,  that  is  not  of  the  arm, 
Wor  standeth  in  the  muscles'  sinewy  play  ? 
It  striketh,  but  its  striking  is  unseen. 
It  wieldeth,  what  it  wieldeth  seeming  yet 
Sway'd  by  its  own  free  motion.     King,  I  say. 
Thou  stepp'st  not,  speak'st  not,  but  obedient  still 
To  Ilengist's  empire,  thou  'rt  a  dog  that  hunts 
But  as  thy  master  slips  thee  on  his  game, 
A  bridled  steed  that  vaunteth  as  his  own 
His  rider's  prowess." — "  Hah  !  [  know  thee  now, 
Insolent  outcast,  Samor?" — "And  I  thee, 
Self<)utcast,  once  a  Briton — oh  thou  fall'n 
When  most  thou  seem'st  exalted,  oh  most  base 
When  most  ennobled,  a  most  pitiful  slave 
When  bearing  thee  most  lordly!    Briton  once, 
Ay,  every  clod  of  earth  that  makes  a  part 
Of  this  isle's  round,  each  leaf  of  every  tree, 
And  every  wave  of  every  streamlet  brook. 
Should  look  ujwn  thee  with  a  mother's  glance. 
And  speak  unto  thee  with  a  mother's  voice. 
But  thou,  most  impious  and  unnatural  son. 
Hast  sold  thy  mother  to  the  shame  and  curse 
Of  foreign  lust,  hast  knit  a  league  to  rend 
And  sever  her,  most  proud  if  some  torn  limb 
Be  cast  thee  for  thy  lot." — Then  rose  again 
Caswallon,  from  his  brow  the  crown  took  off. 
And  placing  it  in  Samor's  hand — "  I  read 
Thy  purpose,  and  there  's  fire  in  't,  by  my  throne ! 
Now,  Samor,  place  that  crown  upon  my  head, 
Do  me  thy  homage,  kneeling,  as  thy  king. 
And  thou  and  I,  we'll  have  a  glorious  tilt 
At  these  proud  Saxons.    Turn  not  off;  may  boys 
(Jild  their  young  javelins  in  Caswallon 's  blood, 
And  women  pluck  me  by  the  beard,  if  e'er 
On  other  terms  I  league  with  thee." — The  crown 
Samor  received,  and  Samor  look'd  to  heaven, 
And  Samor  bow'd  his  knee, — "Almighty  Cod, 
If  thine  eternal  thunderbolts  are  yet 
I'nweary  of  their  (unction  dire,  if  earth 
Yet,  yet  have  not  exhausted  and  consumed 
Thy  flame-wing'd  armoury  of  wrath,  reserve 
Some  signal  and  particular  revenge 
For  this  man's  head  :  so  this  foul  earth  shall  leam, 
Kre  doomsdav,  that  the  sin,  whose  monstrous  shape 
Doth  most  offend  thy  nice  and  sensitive  sight. 
Is  to  bear  arms  against  our  native  land. 
Make  thou  of  him  a  monumental  ruin, 
To  publish  in  the  ages  long  remote. 
That  sometimes  is  thy  red  right  hand  uplift 


Against  the  living  guilty." — .And  to  earth, 

Upleaping,  Samor  dash'd  the  crown  ;  the  jems 

Lay  starry  on  the  pavement  white.     On  high 

Caswallon  the  rear'd  sword  of  justice  swung. 

Heavy  with  death,  above  ih'  Avenger's  head. 

But  he — "Caswallon,  hold  thine  hand,  here,  here 

Thy  warrant  for  my  safety,  by  thy  son 

A  poniard  given,  upon  his  heart  to  wreak 

All  evil  done  myself"     With  bosom  bare 

Stood  Malwyn  by  th'  Avenger's  side.     But  he 

\'iewing  that  downy  skin  empurpled  o'er 

With  youth's  light  colouring,  and  his  constant  mien. 

Cast  down  the  dagger,  and  "  Fall  what  fall  may. 

Excellent  boy,  my  hand  shall  still  he  white 

From  blood  of  thine.'* — Like  viild-lKjar  in  his  rush 

BafHed,  or  torrent-check'd,  Caswallon  paused — 

"Now,  Christian,  where  learnt  thou  the  art  to  wrest 

My  vengeance  from  me?    Go,  go,  I  may  strike 

If  the  fit  fire  me. — By  Andraste,  boy. 

Boy  Malwyn,  there's  thy  father  in  thy  blood. 

Ha !    Samor,  thou  hast  'scaped  me  now,  erewhile 

I  '11  make  a  footstool  of  thy  neck,  to  mount 

On  Britain's  throne :  alive  or  dead,  I  'II  have 

A  knee  as  supple,  and  a  front  as  low 

From  thee,  as  any  of  my  milk-fed  slaves  : 

Go,  go." — ."^nd  Malwyn  led  the  Avenger  forth 

Along  the  dull  and  sleepy  shore  of  Ouse, 

Till  all  Caer  Ebranc's  sounds  flagg'd  on  his  ear. 

And  all  its  towers  had  dwindled  from  his  sight 

Ere  parting,  Malwyn  clasp'd  his  hand,  and  tears 

Hung  in  his  eyelids. — "Oh,  thou  know'st  not  yet 

How  Hengist  sways  my  father's  passive  mind! 

My  sister,  my  sweet  Lilian,  she  whose  sight 

Made  mine  eyes  tremble,  whom  I  've  stolen  to  see, 

Despite  my  father's  stern  command,  asleep 

With  parted  lips,  and  snowy  breathing  skin. 

Scarce  knew  she  me,  her  brother ;  her  knew  I 

So  only  that  my  spirit  yearn'd  to  mix 

^Vith  hers  in  fondness,  she,  even  she,  the  soft 

The  innocent,  a  wolf  had  loved  her,  she 

Hath  felt  the  drowning  waters  o'er  her  close, 

Fair  victim  of  a  hellish  sacrifice." 

After  a  troubled  silence,  spake  the  Chief: 

"  Malwyn,  my  Christian  pupil,  God  will  give 

The  loved  on  earth  another  meeting-place  ; 

Adieu,  remember.  Vengeance,  Vigilance." — 

The  spring  had  made  an  early  effort  fnint, 
T' encroach  upon  the  Winter's  ancient  reign. 
And  she  had  lured  forth  from  the  glittering  earth 
The  snowdrop  and  pale  cowslip,  ih'  elder  tree 
And  hawthorn  their  green  buds  shot  out,  yet  fear'd 
T' entrust  the  rude  air  with  their  dainty  <i)lds, 
A  fresh  green  sparkled  where  the  snow  had  been. 
And  here  and  there  a  bird  on  the  bare  spray 
Warbled  a  timorous  welcome,  and  the  stream 
Of  Eamont,  as  rejoicing  to  be  free. 
Went  laughing  down  its  sunny  silvering  course. 

The  only  wint'ry  thing  on  Eamont's  shore 
Is  human  ;  powerless  are  the  airs  that  touch 
To  breathing  and  to  kindling  the  drad  earth, 
Powerless  the  dewy  trembling  of  the  sun, 

313 


SAMOR. 


309 


To  melt  around  the  heart  of  \'ortimer 

The  snow  that  flakes  and  curdles  there — that  bank, 

That  little  bank  of  fair  and  cherish'd  turf, 

Whereon  his  head  reclines,  ah,  doth  not  rest! 

By  its  round  swelling:,  likest  were  a  grave. 

Save  that  "t  were  brief  and  narrow  for  all  else 

But  fair}',  or  those  slender  watery  shajies 

That  dance  beneath  the  stream.    Yet  there  the  spring 

Ilalh  dropp'd  her  first,  her  tenderest  bloom  ;  the  airs 

Find  the  first  flowery  odours  on  that  spot  ; 

Cowslip  is  there  and  primrose  faint  and  pale, 

The  daisy  and  the  violet's  blpe  eyes. 

Peeping  from  out  the  shaking  grass.     The  step 

Of  Samor  wakens  the  pale  slumberer  there. 

He  lifts  his  lean  hands  up,  and  pans  away 

The  matting  hair  from  o'er  his  eyes,  which  look 

As  though  the  painful  sunlight  wilder'd  them. 

With  stony  siare  that  saw  not.     Save  that  lay 

A  shepherd's  wallet  by  his  side,  had  seem'd 

That  foot  of  man  ne'er  ventured  here  ;  all  sounds 

Were  strange  and  foreign,  save  the  pendent  arms 

Swuigiiig  above  with  heavy  knelling  sound. 

But  Samor's  presence  made  a  sudden  break 

Upon  his  miserable  flow  of  thought  ; 

He  motion'd  first  with  bony  arm,  then  spake. 

"  Away,  away,  thou  'rt  fearful,  thou  'It  disturb. 

Away  with  thy  arm'd  head  and  iron  heel. 

She  will  not  venture,  while  thy  aspect  fierce 

Haunts  hereabout,  she  cannot  brook  a  sound, 

Kor  any  thing  that's  rude,  and  dark,  and  harsh, 

Nor  any  voice,  nor  any  look  but  mine ; 

She  will  not  come  up,  if  thou  linger'st  here; 

Hard  and  discourteous  man,  why  seek  to  keep 

My  own,  my  buried  from  me!  why  prevent 

The  smiling  intercourse  of  those  that  love!" — 

"  Sad  man,  what  raean'st  thou  ?" — "  Speak  not,  but 

begone, 
I  tell  thee,  she  's  beneath,  I  laid  her  there. 
And  she  'II  come  up  to  me,  I  know  she  will. 
Trembling  and  slender,  soft  and  rosy  pale. 
I  know  It,  all  things  sound,  and  all  things  smile. 
As  when  she  wont  to  meet  me." — "  Woeful  youth, 
The  dead  shall  never  rise  but  once." — "  And  why? 
The  primrose  that  vias  dead,  I  saw  it  shed 
Its  leaves,  and  now  again  't  is  fresh  and  fair ; 
Tlie  swallow,  fled  on  gliding  wing  away, 
Like  a  departing  spirit,  see  it  skims 
The  waters  ;  the  white  dormouse,  that  went  down 
Into  its  cave,  hath  been  abroad  ;  the  stream. 
That  was  so  silent,  hark  !  its  murmuring  voice 
Is  round  ahotit  us.     Lilian  too,  to  meet 
The  voice.s  an<l  the  breathing  things  she  loved, 
Amid  the  sunshine  and  the  springing  joy 
Will  rise  again." — "Kind  Heaven,  I  should  have 

known. 
Though  rust-cmbrown'd,  yon  breast-plate,  and  yon 

helm, 
I  should  have  known,  though  furrowy,  sunk  and  wan. 
That  iace,  though  wreck'd  and  broken  that  tall  form ; 
Prince  V'ortimer!  in  maiden  or  in  child. 
Fancies  so  sick  and  wild  had  been  most  sad. 
But  in  a  martial  and  renowned  chief. 
Might  teach  a  trick  of  pity  to  a  fiend. 


Oh,  much  abused  !  much  injured,  well,  too  well 

Ilalh  that  fell  man  the  deed  of  evil  wjought." — 

•'  Man,  man!  then  there  is  man,  whose  blood  will  flow. 

Whose  ficsh  will  quiver  under  the  keen  steel, 

Samor!" — And  up  he  leap'd,  us  though  he  flung 

Like  a  dead  load  the  dreamy  madness  off. 

".'*amor!  thou  tranquil  soul!  that  walk'si  abroad 

With  thy  (aim  reason,  and  thy  floudles.s  face 

Unchangeable,  as  a  cold  midnight  slar: 

Thou  scarce  wilt  credit,  I  have  found  a  joy 

In  hurling  stones  down  on  that  glassy  tide. 

And  with  an  angry  and  quick-dashing  foot. 

Breaking  the  senseless  smoothness,  that  methought 

Smiled  wickedly  upon  me,  and  rejoiced 

At  its  own  guilt  and  my  calamity. 

But  oh,  upon  a  thing  that  feels  and  bleeds. 

And  shrieks  and  shudders,  with  avenging  arm 

To  spring!  Where  is't  and  who?  good  Samor,  tell." — 

And  Samor  told  the  tale,  and  thus — "Brave  youth, 

Not  only  from  yon  narrow  turf,  come  up 

From  Britain's  every  hill,  and  glen,  and  plain. 

Deep  voices  that  invoke  thee,  \'ortimer. 

To  v*'aken  from  thy  woeful  rest.     Thy  arm 

No  selfish,  close,  and  singular  revenge 

Must  nerve  and  freshen ;  in  thy  country's  cause, 

Not  in  thy  own,  that  fury  must  be  wreak'd." 

His  answer  was  the  brandishing  his  sword, 
Which  he  had  rent  down  from  th'  o'erhanging  bough. 
And  the  infuriate  riot  of  his  eye. 

"  Oh,  perilous  your  hazard,"  still  went  on 
Samor,  "ye  foes  of  freedom,  ye  take  off 
Heaven's  bonds  from  all  our  fiercer  part  of  man. 
Ye  legalize  forbidden  thoughts,  the  thirst 
Of  blood  ye  make  a  glory,  give  the  hue 
Of  honour  and  self-admiration  proud 
To  passions  murky,  dark,  unreconciled  : 
The  stern  and  Pagan  vengeance  sanctify 
To  a  Christian  virtue,  and  our  prayers,  that  mount  • 
Unto  the  throne  of  God,  though  harshly  toned 
With  imprecations,  take  their  fhght  uncheck'd." 

But  Vortimer  upon  the  grassy  bank 
Had  fallen  :  "  Not  long,  sweet  spirit,  oh  not  long. 
Shall  violets  be  wanting  on  thy  grave !" — 

Yet  unaccompanied  the  Avenger  past, — 
As  though  the  wonted  dark  and  solemn  words, 
"Vengeance  and  Vigilance,"  had  fix'd  him  there. 
Prince  Vortimer  remains  by  Kamoiit  side. 

Samor !  the  cities  hear  thy  lonely  voice 
Thy  lonely  tread  is  in  the  quiet  vale, 
Thv  lonely  arm,  amid  his  deep  irench'd  camp. 
The  Saxon  hears  upon  some  crashing  helm 
Breaking  in  thunder  and  in  death.     But  thee. 
Why  see  I  thee  by  Severn  side !  what  soft 
And  indolent  attraction  wiles  thee  on. 
Even  on  this  cold  and  gusty  .^pril  day. 
To  the  sad  desert  of  thy  ancient  home! 
Why  mingle  for  thyself  the  wormwood  eup? 
Why  plunge  into  the  fount  of  bitterness? 
Or  why,  with  sad  indulgence,  pamper  up, 

319 


310 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wilful  the  moody  sorrow,  and  relax 

Thy  high-strung  spirit  ?    Oh,  so  near,  no  power 

Hath  he  to  pass  from  those  old  scenes  away. 

He  must  go  visit  every  spot  beloved. 

And  think  on  joys,  no  more  to  be  enjoy'd. 

Ruin  is  there,  but  ruin  slow  and  mild. 
The  spider's  wandering  web  is  thm  and  grey 
On  roof  and  wall,  here  clings  the  dusky  bat. 
And,  where  his  infants'  voices  used  to  sound. 
The  owlet's  sullen  flutter  and  dull  chirp 
Come  o'er  him  ;  on  his  hospitable  hearth 
The  blind  worm  and  slow  beetle  crawl  their  round. 
Yet  is  no  little,  light,  and  trivial  thing. 
Without  its  tender  memory ;  first  with  kiss, 
Long  and  apparent  sweet,  the  primrose  bed 
He  visits,  where  that  graceful  girl  is  laid. 
Then  roves  he  every  chamber ;  eye,  and  ear. 
And  soul,  all  full  of  her,  that  is  not  there : 
Emeric  haunts  everywhere,  there 's  not  a  door 
Her  thin  form  hath  not  glided  through,  no  stone 
Upon  the  chequer'd  marble  where  her  foot 
Hath  never  glanced,  no  window  whence  her  eyes 
Have  never  gazed  for  him  ;  the  walls  have  heard 
Her  voice ;  her  touch,  now  deathly  cold,  hath  been 
Warm  on  so  many  things  ;  there  hangs,  even  now, 
The  lute,  from  whence  those  harmonies  she  drew, 
So  sphere-like  sweet,  theyseem'd  to  drop  from  heaven. 
There,  where  the  fox  came  starting  out  but  now, 
There,  circled  with  her  infants,  did  she  sit  ; 
And  here  the  bridal  couch,  the  couch  of  love, 
A  little  while,  and  then  the  bed  of  death. 
And  lo  that  holy  scroll  of  parchment,  stamp'd 
With  many  a  sentence  of  the  word  of  God, 
Still  open,  Samor  could  not  choose  but  read 
In  large  and  brilliant  characters  emblazed, 
The  Preacher's  "  Vanity  of  vanities." 

How  like  is  grief  to  pleasure !  here  to  stay 
One  day,  one  night,  to  see  the  eve  sink  down 
Into  the  water,  with  its  wonted  fall, 
'T  is  strange  temptation — and  to  gather  up 
Sad  relics.     And  the  visionary  night! 
How  will  its  airy  forms  come  sliding  down. 
Here,  where  is  old  familiar  footing  all, 
'Tis  strange  temptation. — But  the  White-horse  flag 
Past  waving  o'er  his  sight,  at  once  he  thought 
Of  that  seal'd  day  of  destiny,  when  his  foot 
Should  trample  on  its  neck,  and  burst  away. 

Oh  secret  traveller  o'er  a  ruin'd  land. 
Yet  once  more  must  I  seek  ihce  'mid  the  drear. 
The  desolate,  the  dead.     On  Ambri  plain, 
On  Murder's  blasted  place  of  pride.     Might  seem 
At  distance  'twas  a  favour'd  meadow,  bright 
With  richer  herbage  than  the  moorland  brown 
Around  it,  the  luxurious  weeds  look'd  boon, 
And  glanced  their  many-colours  fleck'd  with  dew. 
Seen  nearer,  scatter'd  all  around  appear'd 
Few  relics  of  that  sumptuous  feast,  the  wrecks 
Of  lifeless  things,  that  gaily  glitter'd  still. 
While  all  the  living  had  been  dark  so  long. 
Fragments  of  banners,  and  pavilion  shreds. 


Or  broken  goblet  here  and  there,  or  ring. 
Or  collar  on  that  day  how  proudly  worn ! 

-  A  stolen  and  hurried  burying  had  there  been ; 

Here  had  the  pious  workman,  as  disturb'd 

At  his  imperfect  toil,  left  struggling  out 

A  hand,  whose  bleach'd  bones  seem'd  even  yet  to 

grasp 
The  earth,  so  early,  so  untimely  left. 
And  here  the  grey  flix  of  the  wolf,  here  black 
Lay  feathers  of  the  obscene  raven's  wing. 
Showing,  where  they  had  marr'd  the  fruitless  toil. 
And  uncouth  stones  bore  here  and  there  a  name, 
Haply  the  vaunted  heritage  of  kings. 

It  was  a  .'!ad  and  stricken  place ;  though  day 
Was  in  the  heaven,  and  the  fresh  grass  look'd  green, 
The  light  was  wither'd,  nor  was  silence  there 
A  soothing  quiet;  busy  'twas,  and  chill 
And  piercing,  rather  absence  of  strong  sound, 
Than  stillness,  like  the  shivering  interval 
Between  the  pauses  of  a  passing  bell. 

Oh  Britain  !  what  a  narrow  place  confines 
Thy  powerful  and  thy  princely !  that  grey  earth 
Was  what  adorn 'd  and  made  thee  proud  :  the  fair. 
Whose  beauty  was  the  rapture  of  thy  maids. 
The  treasure  of  thy  mothers :  and  the  brave. 
Whose  constant  valour  was  thy  wall  of  strength : 
The  wealthy,  whose  air-gilding  palace  towers 
Made  thee  a  realm  of  glory  to  detain 
The  noon-day  sun  in  his  career;  thy  wise. 
Whose  grave  and  solemn  argument  controll'd 
Thy  councils,  and  thy  mighty,  whose  command 
Was  law  in  thy  strong  cities.     Beauty,  wealth. 
Might,  valour,  wisdom,  mingled  and  absorb'd 
In  one  cold  similarity  of  dust. 
One  layer  of  white  and  silent  ashes  all. 
The  air  breathes  of  mortality  ;  abroad 
A  spirit  seems  to  hover,  pouring  in 
Dim  thoughts  of  Doomsday  to  the  soul ;  steal  up 
Voiceless  sensations  of  eternity 
From  the  blank  earth.     Oh,  is  it  there  beneath 
Th' invisible  everlasting?  or  dispersed 
Among  its  immaterial  kindred  free. 
The  elements?    Oh  man!  man  !  fit  compeer 
Of  worms  and  angels,  trodden  under  foot. 
Yet  boundless  by  the  infinite  expanse 
Of  ether!  mouldering  and  immutable! 

But  thou.  Avenger,  in  that  quiet  glebe. 
How  many  things  are  hid,  once  link'd  to  thee 
By  ties  more  gentle  than  the  coupling  silk, 
That  pairs  two  snowy  doves !  hands  used  to  meet 
In  brotherly  embrace  with  thine,  and  hearts 
Wherein  thy  image  dwelt,  clear,  changeless,  full 
As  the  Spring  moon  upon  a  crystal  lake : 
Faces  in  least,  in  council,  and  in  fight. 
That  took  their  colouring  from  thine.     And  thou 
Alone  art  breathing,  moving,  speaking  here, 
Amid  the  cold,  the  motionless,  the  mute! 

Among  that  solemn  multitude  of  graves 
One  woman  hath  her  dwelline,  round  and  round 

320 


SAMOR. 


811 


She  wanders  with  a  foot  that  seems  to  fear 

That  it  is  trending  over  one  beloved. 

She  seems  to  seek  what  she  des|>airs  to  find. 

There's  in  her  eye  a  wild  inquiring  roll, 

Yet  th"  eye  is  stony.    Oil  she  stops  to  hear, 

Then,  as  in  hitter  disap|«>intment,  shakes 

Iler  loose  hair,  and  again  goes  wandering  on. 

She  shriek'd  at  .Samor's  presence,  and  lliing  up 

Her  arms,  ant!  in  her  shriek  v\a.s  laughter.     "Thou! 

What  dost  thou  with  that  face  above  the  earth, 

Thou  shoiildst  be  with  the  rest!" — "My  friend's  soft 

bride 
The  dainty  Evelene!" — "That's  it,  the  name 
Wherewith  the  winds  have  mock'd  me  every  morn, 
And  every  du.sky  eve — or  was  it  then  ? 
Ay  then  it  was,  when  I  was  wont  to  sleep 
On  a  soft  bed,  and  when  no  rough  winds  blew 
About  me,  when  I  ever  saw  myself 
Drest  glitt'ringly,  and  there  was  something  else 
Then,  which  there  is  not  now." — "Thy  Elidure, 
Sad  houseless  widow!" — "Hah!  thou  cunning  man, 
*T  was  that,  'I  was  that!  and  thou  canst  tell  me  ttx) 
Where  they  have  laid  him — well  thou  canst,  I  know 
There  's  deep  connexion  'twixt  my  grief  and  thee. 
Thou,  thou  art  he  that  wakest  sleepers  up. 
And  send'st  them  forth  along  the  cold  bare  heath, 
To  seek  the  dark  and  disappearing.    There 
Sound  bowlings  at  the  midnight  bleak,  and  blasts 
Shivering  and  fierce.     And  there  come  peasant  boors 
That  bring  the  mourner  bread,  and  weave  the  roof 
Above  her.  of  the  brown  and  rustling  fern; 
But  never  sounds  the  voice,  or  comes  the  shape 
She  sought  for.    Oh,  my  wakings  and  my  sleeps 
How  exquisite  they  were!  upon  his  breast 
I  slept,  and  when  I  woke  there  smiled  his  face." 

Even  as  the  female  pigeon  to  her  ncsl, 
All  ruffled  by  rude  winds  and  discomposed. 
Returning,  with  full  breast  siis  brooding  down. 
And  all  sinks  smooth  around  her  and  beneath: 
So  when  the  image  of  departed  joy 
Revisited  the  heart  of  that  sad  wife, 
Settled  to  peace  its  wayward  and  distraught, 
Sweetly  she  spake,  and  unconfiiscdly  heard. 
Of  him  the  low,  the  undislinguish'd  laid. 
Of  Samor's  friend,  her  bridegroom,  Elidure. 
And  somewhat  of  her  pale  ami  tender  bloom 
With  a  faint  (lourishina  enliven'd  u[) 
The  wither'd  and  the  sunken  Iti  her  cheek; 
But  when  again  alone,  o'er  heart  and  brain 
Flash'd  back  the  wanderine,  recommenced  the  search 
Ever  with  broken  questionings,  and  mute 
Lip-parted  listenings,  pauses  at  each  grave, 
As  though  it  were  her  right,  where  lay  her  lord, 
That  some  inherent  consciousness  should  start 
Within  her;  though  't  is  nature's  law,  that  one 
''old  undislinguish'd  silence  palls  the  dead. 
Yet,  yet  'tis  hard  and  cruel  not  to  grant 
One  low  sound,  even  the  likeness  of  a  sound. 
To  tell  her  where  to  lav  her  down  and  die. 
Siire  there  are  spirits  round  her,  yet  all  leagued 
To  abuse  and  lead  astray,  and  his,  even  his. 
Pitiless  a-s  the  rest,  with  jealous  care 


Concealing  its  felt  presence.    Ghostly  night 
Wafts  her  no  dusk  intelligence  ;  the  day 
Shows  nothing  with  its  broad  and  glaring  rays. 


BOOK  X. 


But  thou  from  North  to  South  hast  ranged  the  isle, 
From  Skiddaw  to  the  Cornwall  sea-beat  rocks. 
One  icy  lace  of  desolation  cold. 
One  level  sheet  of  sorrow  and  dismay. 
Avenger!  thou  hast  traversed,  hast  but  held 
Companionship  with  mourners  and  wnh  slaves. 

Upon  the  northern  rooks  of  Cornwall  meet 
Th'  Avenger  and  the  Warrior;  thus  spake  he  : — 
"  How  name  ye  yon  strong  castle  on  the  rock  ?" 
"Tintngel,  the  prince  Gorlois'  towers." — "  And  whose 
Yon  soldiers  cresting  with  their  camp  the  shore, 
And  yon  embattled  navy  on  the  sea, 
Rounding   their  moony   circle?"    "Mine!"  —  "And 

Ihou?" 
"  Methinks,  most  solemn  questioner,  the  helm 
Might  well  proclaim  Pendragon." — "  !Vo,  the  front, 
Whereon  that  scaly  blazon  used  to  glow, 
Had  ne'er  been  girding  with  unnatural  siege 
A  British  castle,  while  all  Britain  lay 
In  chains  beneath  the  Stranger." — "  What  art  thou, 
That  beardest  in  thy  high  and  taunting  vein 
The  Princes  of  the  land?" — "A  Prince!" — "Thus 

arm'd 
And  thus  attired!" — "Misjudging!  must  thou  learn 
The  actions  are  the  raiment  of  the  man  ? 
Belter  to  serve  my  country  in  worn  weeds 
And  dinted  arms  like  mine,  than  'gainst  her  sons 
To  lace  a  golden  panoply.    This  rust, 
'Tis  Saxon  blood,  for  thine,  its  only  praise 
Is  its  bright  stninlessness.     Look  not,  fierce  Prince, 
As  from  tny  veins  its  earliest  spots  should  fall, 
'Tis  Britain  barbs  the  arrows  that  I  speak. 
And  makes  thy  heart  its  mark." — "  What  man  or  more 
'I'hus  fires  and  freezes,  angers  and  controls 
With  the  majestic  valour  of  his  tongue. 
The  never  yet  conlroU'd,  and  bears  the  name 
Of  Britain,  like  a  shield  before  him,  broad 
And  firm  against  my  ripe  and  bursting  wrath? 
Samor!  come,  honour'd  warrior,  to  my  arms; 
Oh  shame  to  see,  and  seeing  not  to  know 
The  noblest  of  our  isle." — "'  No  arms  may  fold 
Samor  vviihin  them,  but  a  Briton's;  thou 
By  this  apostate  war  disownst  the  name. 
And  leaguest  dark  alliance  with  her  foes." 

"  Ah,  then  Ihou  knowst  not,  in  yon  rock  is  mew'd 
The  crafty  kite  that  hath  my  dove  in  thrall. 
My  dove,  my  bride,  my  sweet  Igerna ;  her 
That  CJorlois  with  his  privy  talon  swoop'd. 
The  ceiillc,  the  defenceless,  and  looks  down 
I'njm  his  air-swinging  eyrie  on  my  wrath, 
'i'hat  like  the  sea  against  that  rooted  rock. 
Lashes  and   roars  in  vain." — "Thy  bride!" — "My 
bride, 

321 


312 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


By  holy  words  in  saintly  chajjel  spoke, 

And  all  before,  the  twilight  meetings  stolen, 

Upon  the  shelly  beach,  when  came  my  bark 

Sliding  with  smooth  oar  through  the  soundless  spray 

From  the  Armoric  shore,  and  vows  so  fond 

The  unfelt  waters  crept  up  round  our  feet; 

All  after,  rapturous  union  undisturb'd, 

Her  father's  blessing  on  our  bridal  couch. 

Promise  of  infant  pledges,  all  o'erthrown, 

All  wither'd  by  that  Gorlois,  that  low  worm 

I  were  too  proud  to  tread  on  heretofore ; 

He  with  some  cold  and  antiquated  plea 

Of  broken  compact  by  the  sire,  away 

Reft  with  a  villain  stealth  th'  ill-guarded  gem, 

And  hoards  it  in  his  lone  and  trackless  cave." 

"  A  darker  and  more  precious  theft  has  been  : 
This  Britain  hath  been  s'olen,  this  fair  isle. 
This  land  of  free-born  Christian  men  become 
The  rapine  of  fierce  Heathens.     Uther,  hear, 
Hear,  son  of  Constantine  I  most  dear  the  ties 
of  wedlock  earthly  woven,  yet  seal'd  by  Gwl; 
But  those  that  link  us  to  our  native  land 
Are  wrought  out  from  th'  eternal  adamant 
By  the  Almighty.    Oh  I  thy  country's  call 
Loud  with  a  thousand  voices  drowns  the  tone 
Of  sweet  complaining  even  from  wife  beloved — 
Forego  the  weaker,  Uther,  and  obey 
The  stronger  duty." — "  Bloodless  man  and  cold, 
Or  wrong  I  thee  ;  perchance  the  Saxon  holds 
Thy  Emeric,  and  my  claims  must  cede  to  thine, 
Even  as  all  beauties  to  that  peerless  star." — 

"  Spare,  Uther,  spare  thy  taunting,  she  is  safe  ; 
Briton  or  Saxon  harm  not  her." — "  'Tis  well, 
Fair  tidings ! — but  thy  shuddering  brow  looks  white." 
*'  There 's  a  cold  safety,  Uther,  with  the  dead, 
There  is  where  foes  disturb  no  more,  the  grave." 
"  Pardon  me,  friend — oh  pardon — but  my  wife, 
She  too  will  seek  that  undisturbed  place, 
Ere  yield  to  that  pale  craven's  love  ;  if  false 
She  dare  not  live,  and  yet,  oh  yet  she  lives!" 

Uprose  the  Avenger,  and  his  way  he  took 
To  where  the  rock  broke  off  abrupt  and  sheer. 
Before  him  yawn'd  the  chasm,  whose  depth  of  gloom 
Sever'd  the  island  Castle  from  the  shore : 
The  ocean  waves,  as  though  but  newly  rent 
That  narrow  channel,  tumbled  to  and  fro, 
Rush'd  and  recoil'd,  and  sullenly  sent  up 
An  everlasting  roar,  deep  echoed  out 
From  th'  underworking  caverns  ;  the  white  gulls 
Were  wandering  in  the  dusk  abyss,  and  shone 
Faint  sunlight  here  and  there  on  the  moist  slate. 
The  Castle  drawbridge  hung  aloof,  arm'd  men 
Paced  the  stem  ramparts,  javelins  look'd  out, 
From  embrasure  and  loop-hole  arbalist 
And  bowstring  loaded  lay  with  weight  of  shaft 
Menacing.    On  the  dizzy  brink  stood  up 
Th' Avenger,  like  a  Seraph  when  absolved 
His  earthly  mission,  on  some  sunny  peak 
He  waits  the  gathering  cloud,  whereon  he  wont 
To  charioteer  along  the  azure  space  ; 


In  vain  he  waits  not,  under  his  plumed  feet, 

And  round  his  spreading  wings  it  floats. 

And  sails  off  proudly  with  its  heavenly  freight. 

Even  thus  at  Samor's  call  down  heavy  ieW 

The  drawbridge,  o'er  the  abyss  th'  Avenger  springs; 

Tintagel's  huge  portcullis  groaning  up 

Its  grooves  gives  way;  then  up  the  jealous  bridge 

Behind  him  leaps,  the  gate  falls  clashing  down. 

Half  wonder,  and  half  fear,  Pendragon  shook 
The  terrors  of  his  crest,  and  gasping  stood, 
As  when  a  hunter  is  gone  in  to  brave 
The  bear  within  his  shaggy  den,  down  peers 
His  fellow  through  the  dusk,  and  fears  to  see 
What  his  keen  eyes  strain  after.     But  elate 
Appear'd  upon  the  rampart  that  tall  Chief, 
Seeming  on  th'  outpour'd  garrison  to  cast 
Words  potent  as  the  fabled  Wizard's  oils, 
With  the  terrific  smoothness  of  their  fire 
Wide  sheeting  the  hush'd  ocean;  th' arbalist 
Discharged  its  unaim'd  bolt,  the  arrow  fell 
From  the  slack  bowstring ;  careless  of  his  charge, 
The  watchman  from  his  turret  lean'd,  o'er  all 
Bright'ning  and  stilling  the  high  language  spread. 
Giving  a  cast  of  pride  to  vulgar  brows. 
Shedding  o'er  stupor  and  thick-breathing  awe 
A  solemn  hue  of  glory :    Far  it  spread 
Beyond  the  sphere  of  sound,  th  'indignant  brow, 
The  stately  waving  of  the  arm  discoursed, 
Flow'd  argument  from  every  comely  limb 
And  the  whole  man  was  eloquence.    From  clifli 
From  bark  gazed  Uther's  soldiery,  one  voice 
Held  in  suspense  the  wild  and  busy  war, 
And  on  the  motion  of  his  lips  the  fate 
Of  two  strong  armies  hung.    Anon  the  gate 
Flew  up,  the  bridge  lay  shuddering  o'er  the  chasm. 

Forth  Samor  comes,  a  Lady  by  his  side, 
And  Gorlois  in  the  garb  of  peace  behind. 
Tremblingly  she  came  gliding  on,  and  smooth. 
As  the  west  wind  o'er  beds  of  flowers,  a  child 
Was  with  her .-  the  cool  freshness  of  the  air 
Seem'd  o'er  her  marble  cheek  to  flush  unused 
To  breathe,  and  human  faces  o'er  her  threw 
A  modest,  faint  disturbance.     Uther  rush'd 
To  meet  her,  ere  he  came  her  failing  frame 
Seem'd  as  it  sought  some  breast  to  sink  upon, 
Though  feebly  resolute,  that  none  but  his 
Should  be  the  chosen  resting-place.     But  he 
Severe  withheld  her. — "Can  the  snowdrop  bloom 
Untainted  on  the  hemlock  bank?  near  thee, 
Igerna,  long  hath  trail 'd  a  venomous  plant. 
Hast  thou  the  sullying  influence  "scaped  ?" — She  strove 
To  work  displeasure  to  her  brow,  the  joy. 
The  fondness  would  not  give  it  place ;  she  held 
Her  boy  on  high,  she  pointed  from  the  lines 
Of  his  soft  face  to  Uther's,  with  appeal 
Half  rapture,  half  reproach,  and  cast  herself 
With  timid  boldness  on  her  rightful  couch, 
Her  husband's  bosom,  that  received  her  in. 
Even  as  the  opening  clouds  an  angel  home 
Returning.     But  the  joyous  boy  relax'd 
His  features  to  a  beautiful  delight; 

322 


SAMOR. 


313 


To  the  fierce  Dragon  on  his  father's  helm 
Lining  his  sportive  hand,  and  smoothing  down 
The  horrent  scales,  and  looiiing  with  glad  eye 
Into  the  fiery  hollow  of"  liis  jaws. 

Mute  lay  the  armies,  the  pale  Gorlois  wrought 
His  features  to  a  politic  joy.  alone 
Stood  Samor  and  aloof,  he  stood  in  tears. 
Samor,  amid  the  plain  of  buried  men 
Tearless,  and  in  his  own  deserted  home, 
In  tears  unveii'd  before  th' assembled  camp; 
It  was  so  like  a  meeting  after  death, 
That  union  of  the  husband  and  the  wife, 
So  ghostly,  so  unearthly.    Thus  shall  meet 
The  disembodied,  Emeric  and  himself. 
Not  with  rude  rocks  their  Exiting,  the  cold  airs 
And  cloudy  sunshine  of  tiiis  world  around. 
But  all  of  life  must  intervene,  and  all 
The  long  dark  grave  mysterious  :  yet  even  here 
It  was  a  sweet  impossibility. 
Wherewith  at  times  his  soul  mad  dalliance  held, 
An  earthly,  bodily,  sensible  caress, 
Even  long  and  rapturous,  as  that  hanging  now 
On  Uther's  neck  from  soft  Igernu's  arms. 

Upon  the  silence  burst  a  voice  that  cried 
"Arthur,"  whereat  the  child  his  sport  broke  off 
With  that  embossed  serpent,  and  stretch'd  out 
His  arms,  where,  on  the  fragment  of  a  rock, 
Stood  Merlin.     "  Arthur,  hail!  hail,  fatal  Boy, 
Bright  arrow  from  the  bow  of  Destiny, 
Go  forth  upon  thy  fiery  course  I  the  steeds 
Are  in  the  meadows  that  shall  bear  thee  forth, 
Thee  and  thy  barbed  chivalry  !  the  spears 
Are  forged  wherewith  in  tourney  and  in  fight 
Ye  shall  o'erbear  the  vaunting  Saxon  !  shields 

1  Are  stamping  with  your  bright  devices  bold  ; 

.  And  Bards  are  leaning  on  their  high-strung  harps, 

I  Awaiting  thee,  to  (iower  out  in  their  boon 
And  ripe  fertility  of  song.     Go  forth, 

I  Strong  reaper  in  the  harvest  of  renown, 

'  Arthur !  the  everlasting  Lord  of  Fate 
Hath  sumraon'd  thee  to  thy  immortal  race !" 

j      The  infant  clapp'd  his  hands,  Pendragon  flung 
,  Aloft  his  scaly  bickering  crest,  her  child 
Igerna  folded  to  her  heart,  and  wept. 
And  forward  leap'd  the  Avenger  to  salute 
Snowdon's  dark  Prophet,  Merlin  was  not  there. 

Good  fortune  on  good  fortune  followeth  fast; 
Tidings  come  rapid  of  a  Breton  fleet 
Seen  on  the  southern  shore ;  the  chiefs  are  past 
To  where  th'  Archangel's  Mount  o'erlooks  the  sea. 

Oh  go  not  to  thy  couch,  thou  bright-hair'd  Sun ! 
Though  Ocean  spread  its  welcoming  breast,  yet  pause 
'Mid  that  etherial  architecture  wrought 
Around  thee  by  thine  own  creative  light. 
How  broad  the  over-vaulting  palace  arch 
Spreads  up  the  heavens  with  amethyst  ceil'd, and  hung 
With  an  enwoven  tapestry  of  flame. 
Waved  over  by  long  banner,  and  emblazed. 
Like  hall  of  old  barbaric  Potentate, 
With  scutcheon  and  with  shield,  that  now  unfold, 


Now  in  their  cloudy  texture  shift;  and  paved 
With  watery  mosaic  rich,  the  waves 
Quick  glancing,  like  a  floating  surface,  laid 
With  porphyry  and  crystal  interwrought. 
There's  yet  a  sight,  O  Sun!  1o  cheek  awhile 
Thy  setting;  lo,  the  failing  breezes  lift 
The  white  wings  of  that  fair  Armoric  fleet 
To  catch  the  level  lines  of  light;  the  oars 
Flash  up  the  spray,  that  purples  as  it  falls: 
While,  wearing  one  by  one,  their  armed  freight 
They  cast  out  on  the  surfy  beach.     The  Kmgs, 
King  Emrys  and  Armoric  Hoel  meet 
Pendragon,  Samor,  and  their  band  of  chiefs. 

There  meet  they  on  the  land's  extremest  verge 
To  conquer,  to  deliver,  few,  but  strong. 
Strong  in  the  sinews  of  the  soul ;  as  rose 
The  giant  wrestler  from  his  mother's  breast, 
F.arth-born  Anteus,  his  huge  limbs  refresh'd 
For  the  Herculean  combat,  so  shall  ye, 
Kings,  Chiefs,  and  Warriors,  from  your  native  soil 
Draw  to  the  immortal  faculties  of  mind 
A  springtide  everlasting  and  unchanged. 
The  armour  of  a  holy  cause  outshines 
The  iron  or  the  knosped  brass,  and  hopes 
And  memories  to  the  home-returning  brave 
Crowding  from  every  speck  of  sacred  earth 
Outplead  the  trumpet's  wakening  blast,  till  leaps 
Vengeance  to  Glory's  vanguard  post,  and  leads 
The  onset,  and  looks  proudly  down  to  see 
The  red  blood  deepening  round  her  laving  feet. 

Alas,  that  in  your  harvest  of  high  thoughts, 
Thick  set  with  golden  promise  of  renown, 
The  poppy  seeds  of  envy  and  distrust 
Should  take  their  baleful  root.     Slow  winds  along 
Gorlois,  the  sower  of  that  noxious  crop. 
Scattering  it  in  with  careless  toil ;  now  stands 
By  royal  Kmrys'  side,  now  mines  beneath 
Pendragon's  towery  soul,  now  sadly  warns 
With  cautious  words  and  dark  speech  broken  off. 
Hoel,  the  crown'd  Armorican;  his  looks 
Belying  his  feign'd  confidence  of  speech. 
But  half  surmising  fear,  and  killing  hope 
By  his  cold  care  of  keeping  it  alive. 

"  Not  that  I  love  not,  whom  all  love,  admire 
On  whom  the  admiration  of  all  hearts 
Falls  with  such  free  profusion,  't  is  no  shame 
For  us  mean  lamps  bef()re  great  Samor's  light 
To  wane  and  glimmer  in  our  faint  eclipse. 
Yet  whence  this  fettering  of  all  eyes  and  hearts? 
This  stern  unsocial  solitude  of  fame? 
True,  from  that  fatal  banquet  'scaped  he,  true, 
Undaunted  hath  he  roved  the  isle,  nor  doubt 
For  some  high  purpose,  that  't  were  rash  for  us 
To  search  out  with  our  dim  and  misty  sight; 
Nor  think,  King  Fmrys,  I  thy  crown  assert 
Unstably  set  upon  thy  royal  brow, 
But  there  's  a  dazzling  in  its  jewel'd  round 
Might  tempt  a  less  self-mastering  grasp.     Who  holds 
The  souls  of  men  in  thraldom  with  his  tongue. 
Makes  bridges  grow  before  him,  stony  walls 
Break  up  to  give  him  way, — I  speak  not  now 

323 


314 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  vengeance  of  Tintagel,  't  was  a  deed 

Most  worth  my  richest  praise,  that  made  me  friend 

To  brave  Pendragon.     But  ambition  wreck'd 

The  angels,  and  the  climbing  soul  of  man 

Hath  sinn'd  for  meaner  gain  than  Britain's  throne." — 

So  one  by  one  he  wound  his  serpent  coil 
Around  the  Chieftains'  souls;  and  inly  breathed 
The  creeping  venom.     But  Pendragon's  heart, 
Too  fiery  or  too  noble  to  suspect, 
In  Samor's  teeth  flung  fierce  th'  oppressive  doubt. 
Th'  Avenger's  tranquil  smile  was  like  the  change 
Of  aspect  in  a  green  and  lofiy  tree 
Touch'd  by  the  wings  of  some  faint  breeze,  nor  shakes 
The  massy  foliage,  nor  is  quite  at  rest, 
While  languidly  the  undislurbing  air 
Falls  away  and  expires.     "  Will  Emrys  hold 
At  midnight  on  St.  Michael's  Mount  his  pomp 
Of  Coronation  ?    Samor  will  be  there." 
"  At  midnight !" — "  Ay,  the  fires  will  gaily  blaze, 
The  silent  air  is  meet  for  solemn  oaths." — 
The  night  is  starless,  soft  and  still,  the  heavens 
O'erwoven  with  a  thin  and  rayless  mist; 
A  long  low  heavy  sound  of  breaking  surge 
Roams  down  the  shore,  and  now  and  then  the  woods 
Flutter  and  bend  with  one  short  rush  of  wind.   ■ 
The  tide  halh  risen  o'er  the  stony  belt, 
That  to  the  mainland  links  the  Mount :  where  meet 
Even  now  the  Chieftains,  ocean  all  around, 
On  every  side  the  white  and  moaning  waves. 
On  the  bare  summit,  'neath  the  cope  of  heaven, 
The  conclave  stands,  bare,  save  a  lofty  pile 
Of  wood  compacted  like  funereal  pyre 
Of  a  departed  hero  in  old  time 
On  some  ^gean  promontory  rear'd, 
Or  by  the  Black  inhospitable  Sea. 

The  crown  is  on  king  Emrys'  head,  his  hair 
Is  redolent  with  the  anointing  oil. 
"  Hail,  King  of  Britain  .'" — Samor  cried,  and  "  Hail !" 
Replied  that  band  of  heroes  ;  Hail.'  the  shores 
Echoed,  from  bark  and  tent  came  pealing  up 
The  universal  Hail,  the  ocean  waves 
Broke  in  with  their  hoarse  murmur  of  applause. 

"  Air,  earth,  and  waters,  ye  have  play'd  your  part, , 
There's  yet  another  element," — cried  aloud 
Samor,  and  in  the  pyre  he  cast  a  brand. 
A  moment,  and  uprush'd  the  giant  fire. 
Piercing  the  dim  heavens  with  its  blazing  brow, 
And  on  the  still  air  shaking  its  red  locks. 
There  by  its  side  the  Vassals  and  their  King, 
Motionless  on  their  shadows  huge  and  dun, 
Show'd  like  destroying  Angels,  round  enwrapp'd 
In  their  careering  pomp  of  flame ;  fir  flash'd 
The  yellow  midnight  day  o'er  shore  and  sea: 
The  waves  now  ruddy  heaved,  now  darkly  plunged, 
Upon  the  rocks,  within  the  wavering  light 
Strong  featured  faces  fierce,  and  hard-lined  forms 
Broke  out  and  disappear'd  ;  the  anchor'd  fleet 
Were  laving  their  brown  sides  in  rainbow  spray. 
No  sound  was  heard,  but  the  devouring  flame, 
And  the  thick  plashing  waters. — "  Keep  your  faith, 
(Cried  Samor)  ye  eternal  hills,  and  ye 


Heaven-neighbouring    mountains!"  —  Eastward   far 

anon 
Another  fire  rose  furious  up,  behind 
Another  and  another:  all  the  hills 
Each  behind  each  held  up  its  crest  of  flame  ; 
Along  the  heavens  the  bright  and  crimson  hue 
Widening  and  deepening  travels  on :  the  range 
O'erleaps  black  Tamar,  by  whose  ebon  tide 
Cornwall  is  bounded,  and  on  Heytor  rock. 
Above  the  stony  moorish  source  of  Dart, 
It  waves  a  sanguine  standard  ;  Haldon  burns, 
And  the  red  City*  glows  a  deeper  hue ; 
And  all  the  southern  rocks,  the  moorland  downs 
In  those  portentous  characters  of  flame 
Discourse,  and  bear  the  glaring  legend  on. 
Even  to  the  graves  on  Ambri  plain,  where  woke 
That  pallid  woman,  and  rejoiced,  and  deem'd 
'T  was  sent  to  guide  her  to  the  tomb  she  sought. 
Fast  flash  they  up,  those  altars  of  revenge, 
As  the  snake-tress'd  Sister  torch-bearers, 
Th'  Eumenides,  from  the  Tartarian  depths 
Were  leaping  on  from  hill  to  hill,  on  each 
Leaving  the  tracks  of  their  flame-dropping  feet. 
Or  as  the  souls  of  the  dead  fathers,  wrapt 
In  bright  meteorous  grave-clothes,  had  arisen, 
And  each  sate  crowning  his  accustom'd  hill, 
Silent  or  radiant:  or  as  th'  isle  devote 
Had  wrought  down  by  her  bold  and  frequent  guilt 
Th'  Almighty's  lightning  shafts,  now  numberless 
Forth  raining  from  the  lurid  reeking  clouds, 
.\nd  smiting  all  the  heights.    On  spreads  the  train. 
Northward  it  breaks  upon  the  Quantock  ridge. 
It  reddens  on  the  Mendip  forests  dark, 
It  looks  into  the  cavern'd  Cheddar  cliffs. 
The  boatman  on  the  Severn  mouth  awakes 
And  sees  the  waters  rippling  round  his  keel 
In  spots  and  streaks  of  purple  light,  each  shore 
Ablaze  with  all  its  answering  hills  ;  the  streams 
Run  glittering  down  Plinlimmon's  side,  though  thick 
And  moonless  the  wan  night:  and  Idris  stands 
Like  Stromboli  or  jEtna,  where  't  was  feign'd 
E'er  at  their  flashing  furnace  wrought  the  Sons 
Of  Vulcan,  forging  with  eternal  toil 
Jove's  never  idle  thunderbolts.     And  thou, 
Snowdon,  the  king  of  mountains,  art  not  dark 
Amid  thy  vassal  brethren  gleaming  bright. 
Is  it  to  welcome  thy  returning  Seer, 
That  thus  above  thy  clouds,  above  thy  snows 
Thou  wear'st  that  wreathed  diadem  of  fire. 
As  to  outshine  the  pale  and  winking  stars  ? 
O'er  Menai's  waters  blue  the  gleaming  spreads. 
The  Bard  in  Mona's  secret  grove  beholds 
A  glitter  on  his  harp-strings,  and  looks  out 
Upon  the  kindling  cliffs  of  Penmanmavvr. 
Is  it  a  pile  of  martyrdom  above 
Clwyd's  green  vale?  beside  the  embers  bright 
Stands  holy  Germain,  as  a  saint  new  come 
From  the  pure  mansions  of  beatitude, 
The  centre  of  a  glory,  that  spreads  round 
Its  film  of  thin  pellucid  gold.    Nor  there 
Pauses  the  restless  Messenger,  still  on 


'  Caer  ruth,  E.TCter. 


324 


SAMOR. 


315 


Vaults  it  from  rock  to  rock,  from  peak  to  peak. 
Far  seen  it  shimmer'd  on  Caer  Kbninc  wall, 
And  -MaKvyn  blew  a  bugle  blast  (or  joy. 
The  sun  nprising  sees  ihe  dusk  night  fled 
Already  from  tall  I'endle,  and  the  height 
Of  Ingleborongh,  sees  llelvellyn  cast 
A  meteor  splendour  on  the  mountain  lakes, 
Like  mirrors  of  the  licjuid  molten  brass. 
The  brightest  and  the  broadest  and  the  last, 
There  flakes  the  beacon  glare,  and  ni  the  midst 
Dashing  the  ruddy  sparkles  to  and  fro 
\Vith  the  black  remnant  of  a  pine-tree  stem, 
Stands  arm'd  from  head  to  foot  Prince  Vortimer. 


BOOK  XI. 


NfiGiiTT  in  thy  endurance,  in  revenge 

Mightier!  thou  siiakest  thy  dusky  patience  oflT, 

0  Britain .'  as  a  snake  its  wither'd  skin. 

That  boastful  to  the  sunshine  coils  and  spreads 

In  bright  and  cruel  beauty.     J\ot  in  vain 

Have   those  wild   beacons  rear'd   their  fires,  thou 

vvakest. 
The  slumber  falls  from  thee,  as  dewdrops  shed 
From  the  morn-kindling  falcon's  wing.     On  hill. 
In  vale,  in  forest  and  in  moor,  in  field 
And  city,  like  the  free  and  common  air, 
Like  the  wide-spreading  golden  hue  of  dawn, 
Ranges  the  boundless  passion  unconlroll'd. 
The  "Vigilance,"  hath  dropp'd  absorb'd  away 
Fforri  the  fierce  war-cry,  one  portending  wfird 
"  Vengeance,"  rides  lonely  upon  all  the  winds. 

Alas,  delicious  Spring!  God  sends  thee  down 
To  breathe  upon  his  cold  and  perisli'd  works 
Beauteous  revival;  earth  should  welcome  thee, 
Thee  and  the  West  wind,  thy  smooth  paramour. 
With  the  solt  laughter  of  her  flowery  meads. 
Her  joys,  her  melodies.     The  prancing  slag 
Flutters  the  shivering  fern,  the  steed  shakes  out 
His  mane,  the  dewy  herbage  silver-webb'd 
With  frank  step  trampling  ;  the  wild  goat  looks  down 
From  his  empurpling  bed  of  heath,  where  break 
The  waters  deep  and  blue  with  crystal  gleams 
Of  their  quick-leaping  people  :  the  fresh  lark 
Is  in  the  morning  sky,  the  nightingale 
Tunes  evesong  to  the  dropping  waterfall. 
Creation  lives  with  loveliness,  all  melts 
And  trembles  into  one  mild  harmony. 
Man,  only  harsh  and  inharmonious  Man, 
Strews  for  ihy  delicate  feet  the  battle  field. 
Makes  all  thy  smooth  and  flowing  airs  to  jar 
With  his  hoarse  trumpeiings,  scares  thy  sweet  light 
With  gleams  of  violent  and  angry  brass. 

Away!  it  is  a  yearly  common  joy, 
A  rapture  that  ne'er  fails  the  solemn  Sun 
In  his  eternal  round,  the  blossoming 
And  fragrance  of  the  green  resolving  earth. 
But  a  fresh  sprinstide  in  the  human  soul, 
27  "  2  P 


A  nation  from  its  wintry  trance  set  loose, 
The  bursting  ice  of  servitude,  the  bloom 
Of  freedom  in  the  wither'd  mind  obscure. 
The  bleakness  of  the  heart  discomfited, 
And  over  the  bow'd  shape  and  darkling  brow 
The  flowering  out  of  faded  glories,  sounds 
Of  cheering  and  of  comfort  to  the  rent 
And  broken  by  the  tyrannous  northern  blast. 
These  are  earth's  rich  adornings,  tliese  the  choice 
Of  nature's  bounteous  and  inspiring  shows. 
Therefore  the  young  Sun  with  his  prime  of  light 
Shall  beam  on  ensigns;  the  blithe  airs  shall  waft 
Jocund  the  lofty  pealing  battle,  words  ; 
And  not  unwelcome,  fierce  crests  intercept 
The  spring-dews  from  the  thirsty  soil ;  the  brass 
For  vestment  the  admiring  earth  shall  wear 
More  proud  than  all  her  flowery  robe  of  green. 

In  all  the  isle  was  flat  subjection  tame, 
In  all  the  isle,  hath  Freedom  rear'd  her,  plumed 
With  terror,  sandal'd  with  relentlessness; 
Her  march  like  brazen  chariots,  or  the  tramp 
Of  horsemen  in  a  rocky  glen  ;  and  clouds 
Of  javelins  in  her  front,  and  in  her  rear 
Dead  men  in  grisly  heaps,  dead  Saxons  strewn 
Upon  their  trampled  White  Horse  banners:  them 
Her  fury  hath  no  time  to  scorn,  no  pause 
To  look  back  on  her  deathful  deeds  achieved, 
While  aught  remains  before  her  to  achieve. 
Distract  amid  the  wide  spread  feast  of  blood. 
The  wandering  raven  knows  not  where  to  feed. 
And  the  gorged  vulture  droops  his  wing  and  sleeps. 

War  hath  the  garb  of  holiness,  bear  proof. 
Thou  vale  of  Clvvyd,  to  our  cold  late  days. 
By  the  embalming  of  tradition  named, 
Maes  Garmon,  of  that  saintly  Bishop.     lie 
His  grey  thin  locks  unshaken,  his  slow  port 
Calm  as  he  trod  a  chapel's  rush-strewn  floor, 
Comes  foremost  of  his  Christian  mountaineers. 
Against  th'  embattled  Pagans'  fierce  array. 
By  the  green  margin  of  the  stream,  the  band 
Of  Arngrim  glitter  in  the  morning  light. 
Their  shadowy  lances  line  the  marble  stream 
With  long  and  level  rules  of  trembling  shade; 
The  sunshine  falling  in  between  in  streaks 
Of  brightness.    They  th'  unwonted  show  of  war 
Behold  slow  winding  down  the  wooded  hill. 

"  Now  by  our  Gods,"  cried  Arngrim,  "  discontent 
To  scare  our  midnight  with  their  insolent  fires. 
They  break  upon  our  calm  and  peaceful  day." 
But  silent  as  the  travel  of  the  clouds 
At  breathless  twilight,  or  a  flock  that  winds, 
Dappling  the  brown  cliff  with  its  snowy  specks, 
Foldward  along  the  evening  dews,  a  bell 
Now  and  then  tinkling,  faintly  shrill,  come  on 
Outspreading  on  the  meadow  the  stern  band 
Of  Britons  with  their  mitred  Captain  ;  front 
Opposed  to  front  they  stand,  and  spear  to  spear. 
Then  Germain  clasp'd  his  hands  and  look'd  to  heaven. 
Then  Germain  in  a  deep  and  solemn  lone 
Cried  "Alleluia!"  answer  was  flung  back: 

325 


316 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


From  cliff  and  cavern,  "Alleluia,"  burst; 

It  seem'd  strong  voices  broke  I  he  bosom'd  earth, 

Dropt  voices  from  the  clouds,  and  in  the  rush 

Of  waters  was  a  human  clamour,*  far 

Swept  over  all  things  in  its  boundless  range 

The  scattering  and  discomfiting  appeal : 

'T  was  shaken  from  the  shivering  forest  leaves, 

Ceaseless  and  countless,  lifeless  living  things 

Multiplied,  "Alleluia,"  all  the  air; 

Was  that  one  word,  all  sounds  became  that  sound, 

As  the  broad  lighlniiig  swallows  up  all  lights, 

All  quench'd  in  one  blue  universal  glare. 

On  rush'd  the  Britons,  but  'gainst  flying  foes, 
Quick  smote  the  Britons,  but  no  breast-plale  clove 
Before  them,  then  the  ignominious  death 
First  through  the  back  found  way  to  Saxon  hearts. 

Oh,  Suevian  forests!  Clvvyd's  vale  beholds 
What  ye  have  never  witness'd,  Arngrim's  flight — 
Fleet  huntsman,  thou  art  now  the  deer,  the  herd, 
Whereof  thou  wert  the  prime  and  lofty  horn'd, 
Are  falling  fast  around  thee,  th'  unleash'd  dogs 
Of  havoc  on  their  reeking  flanks  and  thee. 
The  herdsman  of  the  meek  and  peaceful  goats, 
Thee,  the  soft  tuner  of  the  reedy  flute 
Beside  Nantfrangon's  stony  cataract, 
Mordrin  pursues.     So  strong  that  battle  word 
Its  holy  transmutation  and  austere 
Works  in  the  soul  of  man,  the  spirit  sheathes 
In  the  thrice  folding  brass  of  valour,  swells 
The  thin  and  lazy  blood  t'  a  current  fierce 
And  torrent  like,  and  in  the  breast  erevvhile 
But  open  to  the  tremulous  melting  airs 
Of  passions  gentle  and  affections  smooth. 
Plants  armed  hopes  and  eagle-wing'd  desires. 
Therefore  that  youth  his  downy  hand  hath  wreathed 
In  the  strong  Suevian's  knotted  locks,  drawn  up 
Like  a  wrought  helm  of  ebon  ;  therefiire  fix 
His  eyes,  more  used  to  swim  in  languid  light, 
With  an  implacable  and  constant  stare 
Down  on  the  face  of  Arngrim,  backward  drawn. 
As  he  its  wrilhitig  agony  enjoy 'd; 
And  therefore  he,  whose  wont  it  was  to  bear 
The  many  sparkling  cn.-stal,  or  the  cup 
Of  dripping  water  lily  from  the  spring 
To  the  blithe  maiden  of  his  love,  now  shakes 
A  gory  and  dissever'd  head  aloft. 
And  bounds  in  wild  ovation  down  the  vale. 

But  in  that  dire  and  beacon-haunted  night 
King  V'ortigorn  his  wonted  scat  had  ta'en 
Upon  Caermerddhyn's  topmost  palace  tower. 
There,  the  best  privilege  of  greatness  iiiirn. 
He  saw  not,  nor  was  seen  :  there  wrapt  in  gloom, 
'Twas  his  soul's  treasured  luxury  and  choice  joy 
To  frame  out  of  liimsclf  and  his  drear  state, 
Dark  comfortable  likenesses,  and  full 
And  frequent  throng'il  they  this  wild  midnight. 
All  cloudy  and  indistinct  lay  round  ;  the  sole 
Dull  glimmering  like  to  light  was  what  remain'd 


♦Hollinshed,  Book  5,  Chap.  G. 


Of  day,  just  not  so  utterly  extinct 

And  (juench'd  as  yet  to  show  splendour  had  been, 

And  was  not ;  the  dusk  simile  of  himself 

Delighted,  royal  once,  now  with  a  mock 

And  mimic  of  his  lustre  haunted.    Why, 

Why  should  not  human  glory  wane,  since  clouds 

Put  out  the  immortal  planets  in  the  sky? 

Why  should  not  crowns  have  seasons,  since  the  moon     j 

Hath  but  her  hour  to  queen  it  in  the  heavens  ? 

Why  should  not  high  and  climbing  souls  be  lost  \ 

In  the  benighting  shroud  of  the  world's  gloom  ?  I 

Lo,  one  inglorious,  undistinguish'd  night  i 

Gathers  the  ancient  mountains  in  its  train,  ' 

While  e'er  the  dunnest  and  most  turbulent  clouds 

Thicken  upon  the  stateliest ;  but  beneath 

The  lowly  and  contented  waters  lie 

Asleep  upon  their  weedy  banks,  yet  they 

Have  all  the  faint  blue  brightness  that  remains. 

Then  moodier  the  fantastic  humour  grown, 

Stoop'd  upon  mean  and  trivial  things,  them  too 

Wrought  to  his  wayward  misanthropic  scope. 

Amid  the  swaying  and  disturbed  air 

The  rooks  hung  murmuring  on  the  oak-tree  tops. 

As  plaining  their  uneasy  loftiness. 

While,  solitary  as  himself,  the  owl 

Sate  calling  on  its  deaf  and  wandering  mate. 

Him  at  that  sound  seized  merriment,  that  made 

The  lip  drop,  the  brow  writhe.  "  Howl  on,"  he  cried, 

"  Howl  for  thy  dusky  paramour," — and  tum'd 

To  where  Rowena's  chamber  casements  stood, 

V'oid,  silent,  dark  of  their  once-brilliant  lights. 

Sudden  around  'gan  spire  the  mountain  tops 
Each  with  its  intertwisted  sheaf  of  flame. 
South,  North  and  East  and  West,  fire  everyw'here. 
Everywhere  flashing  and  tumultuous  light. 
Then  gazed  the  unking'd,  then  cried  out  the  fallen, 
"  Now,  by  my  soul,  when  comets  gaze  on  kings 
Even  from  the  far  and  vaulting  heavens,  'tis  faith 
There's  hollowness  beneath  their  loitering  thrones; 
But  when  they  flash  upon  our  earth,  and  stare 
Close  in  our  faces,  'tis  ripe  time  and  full 
For  palaces  to  quake  and  royal  tombs 
To  ope  their  wide  and  all-receiving  jaws. 
What  is  't  to  me  ?  ye  menace  at  the  great  I 
Ye  stoop  not  to  be  dangerous  and  dread. 
Oh  haughty  and  mysterious  lights!  lo  thrones 
Low  and  despised  like  mine;  in  earlier  daj-s 
Vortigern  would  have  quail'd,  he  mocks  you  now 
Ye  are  not  of  the  heavens,  I  know,  I  see. 
Discomfitures  of  darkness.  Conquerors 
Of  midnight,  ye  are  of  the  earth.    Why  stands 
Caermerddhyn  and  the  realm  of  Dyfed  black 
Amid  this  restless  multitude  of  flames  ? 
'Tis  not  for  idle  or  for  fruitless  show 
That  with  such  splendid  violation,  Man 
Infringeth  on  stern  nature's  laws,  and  rends 
From  night  her  consecrate  and  ancient  pall ! 
Samor,  thy  hand  is  there  !  and  Vortigern 
Hath  not  yet  learnt  the  patience  cold  and  tame 
To  be  outblazed  and  stifled  thus." — Down  past 
The  Monarch  from  his  scat ;  few  minutes  fled, 

326 


SAMOR. 


817 


And  lo,  within  that  Palace  all  look'd  red, 

And  hurried  with  a  deep  contusing  glare: 

And  over  it  a  vaulting  dome  of  smoke 

Surging  arose  and  vast,  till  roaring  out 

Columns  of  mounting  fire  sprung  up,  and  all 

Whelm'd  in  one  broad  enveloperaent  of  llame, 

Stood  ;  as  when  in  heroic  Pagan  song 

Apollo  to  his  Clarian  temple  came; 

At  once  the  present  Godhead  kindled  all 

Th"elalx)rate  architecture,  glory-wreathed 

The  pillars  rose,  the  sculptured  architrave 

Swam  in  the  liquid  gold,  the  worshipper 

Within  the  vestibule  of  marble  pure, 

Held  up  his  hand  before  his  blinded  eyes, 

And  so  adored  :  but  th'  unconsuming  fire 

Innoxious  ranged  th'  unparching  edifice. 

But  ne'er  was  Palace  or  was  Monarch  seen 

More  in  that  City,  one  a  smouldering  heap 

Lay  in  its  ashes  white  ;  how  went  the  King 

And  whither,  no  one  knew,  but  He  w  ho  knows 

All  things.     'T  was  frequent  in  the  vulgar  tale, 

None  saw  it,  yet  all  knew  them  well  that  saw,* 

At  midnight  manifest  a  huge  arm  came 

Forth  irom  the  welkin  ;  once  it  waved  and  twice, 

And  then  it  was  not :  but  a  bolt  thrice  fork'd. 

Each  fork  a  spike  of  flame,  burst  on  the  roof, 

And  all  became  a  fire,  and  all  fell  down 

And  smoulder'd,  even  as  now  the  shapeless  walls 

Lie  in  scorch  d  heaps  and  black.     At  that  same  hour 

A  dark  steed  and  a  darker  rider  past 

With  speed  bemocking  mortal  steed,  or  man, 

Down  the  steep  hill  precipitous  :  'twas  like 

In  shape  and  hue  black  Favorin,  on  whose  back 

King  Vortigern  was  wont  to  ride  abroad  ; 

Like,  surely  not  the  same,  for  fire  came  out 

From  under  his  quick  hoofs,  and  in  his  breath, 

And  sulphurous  the  blasted  foot-tracks  smelt. 

Some  dinted  deep  in  the  hard  rock,  some  sear'd 

On  meadow  grass,  where  never  since  have  dews 

Lain  glittering,  never  the  fresh  verdure  sprung. 

Now  is  the  whole  Isle  war.    But  I  must  crave 
Pardon  from  those  in  meaner  conflict  slain. 
Or  conquerors;  Poesy's  fair  treasure-house 
Contains  not  all  the  bright  and  rich,  that  gem 
The  course  of  humankind  ;  in  heaven  alone 
Preserves  enroU'd  th'  imperishable  brass. 
In  letters  deep  of  amaranthine  light. 
All  martyrs  to  their  country  and  their  God. 

Oh  that  my  spirit,  holding  the  broad  glass 
Of  its  invention,  might  at  once  condense 
All  rays  of  glory  from  the  kindling  Isle 
Full  emanating,  as  of  old  'tis  famed 
The  philosophic  Syracusan  caught 
The  wide  diverging  sunbeams,  by  the  force 
Of  mind  creating  to  himself  a  right 
And  property  in  nature's  common  gifts. 
And  domineering  the  free  elements. 
He  that  heaven-seized  artillery  pour'd  forth 
To  sear  the  high  beaks  of  the  'sieging  fleet, 
That  burnt,  unknowing  whence,  'mid  the  wet  waves. 

*  Henry  HTlntingdoD,  (list. 


So  I  the  fine  immortal  light  would  pour 
Abroad,  in  the  long  alier-time  lo  beam 
A  consecrate  ai;d  vestal  fire,  to  guide 
Through  danger's  precipices  wild,  the  slopes 
Sleepy  and  smooth  of  luxury  and  false  bliss. 
All  lovers  of  their  couniry.    They  my  song 
Embosoming  within  their  heart  of  heart. 
Like  mine  own  Samor  should  hear  on,  too  strong 
To  perish,  and  too  haughty  to  despair. 
They  happier,  he  uprearing  on  the  sand 
A  Pharos,  steady  for  a  while  to  stem 
The  fierce  assaulting  waves,  in  after  times 
To  fall ;  they  building  for  eternily 
Britain's  rock-ibunded  temple  of  renown. 

In  the  Isle's  centre  is  a  champain  broad. 
Now  broken  into  corn-field  and  smooth  mead. 
Near  which  a  hill,  now  with  the  ruin'd  towers 
Of  Coningsborough  (from  that  fight  of  Kings 
Named  in  old  Saxon  phrase),  soars  crested,  Dune 
Skirts  with  her  azure  belt  the  level  plain. 

Morn  davvn'd  with  all  her  attributes,  the  slow 
Impearling  of  the  heavens,  the  sparkling  white 
On  the  vvebb'd  grass,  the  (i-agrant  mistiness. 
The  fresh  airs  with  the  twinkling  leaves  at  sport. 
And  all  the  gradual  and  emerging  light. 
The  crystalline  distinctness  settling  clear. 
And  all  the  wakening  and  strengthening  sound. 

There  davvn'd  she  on  a  battle-field  superb. 
The  beauty  that  is  war's  embellishment. 
The  splendour  under  whose  quick-glancing  pall 
Man  proudly  moves  to  slay  and  to  be  slain, 
How  wonderful  I    In  semicircle  huge, 
Round  that  hill  foot,  the  Saxon  camps  his  strength, 
A  many-colour'd  dazzling  cirque,  more  rich 
Than  the  autumnal  woods,  when  the  quick  winds 
Shake  on  them  broken  sunlight,  than  the  skies 
When  thunder  clouds  are  bursting  into  light. 
And  rainbow-skirled  hangs  each  fold,  or  fringed 
With  liquid  gold,  so  waved  that  crescent  broad 
With  moving  fire,  bloom'd  r-11  the  field  with  brass: 
Making  of  dread  voluptuousness,  the  sense 
Of  danger  in  deep  admiration  lost — 
Oh  beauteous  if  that  morning  had  no  eve! 

The  Eastern  horn,  his  tall  steeds  to  his  car 
Haniess'd,  whose  scythes  shone  newly  burnish'd,  held 
Caswallon;  he  his  painted  soldiery, 
Their  naked  breasts  blue-gleaming  with  uncouth 
And  savage  portraitures  of  hideous  things, 
Human  and  monstrous  terribly  combined, 
Array'd  ;  himself  no  armour  of  defence 
Cumber'd,  as  he  were  one  Death  dare  not  slay, 
A  being  from  man's  vulgar  lot  exempt, 
Comraission'd  lo  destrov,  yet  dangcrle.ss 
Amid  destruction,  against  whom  war  shower'd 
All  its  stored  terrors,  but  still  bafflod  hack 
Recoil'd  from  his  unwounded  front  serene. 

The  centre  were  the  blue-eyed  Germans,  loose 
Their  fierce  hair,  various  each  strong  nation's  arms, 
A  wild  and  terrible  diversity 
In  the  fell  skill  of  slaughter,  in  the  art 

327 


318 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  doing  sacrifice  to  death.     Some  helm'd, 

Whose  visors  like  distended  jaws  appear'd 

Of  sylvan  monster,  some  in  brinded  furs 

Wrapt  shaggy,  on  whose  shoulders  seem'd  to  ramp 

Yet  living  the  fix'd  claws;  with  cross-bows  some, 

Some  with  long  lances,  some  with  falchions  curved. 

The  Arian,  wont  to  make  the  sable  night 

A  pander  to  Ins  terrors,*  in  swarih  arms 

He  bursting  from  the  forest,  when  the  shades 

Were  deepest,  like  embodied  gloom  advanced. 

Shaped  for  some  dreadful  purjxjse,  now  he  moved 

Unnatural  'mid  the  clear  and  golden  day. 

Here  Hengist,  Ilorsa  there  amid  the  troop 

Wound  their  war-horses;  he  his  weapon  fell 

Shook,  a  round  ball  of  iron  spikes  chain'd  loose 

To  a  huge  pike-stave,  like  a  baleful  star. 

Aye  gleaming  devastation  in  its  sweep; 

Hengist  begirt  with  that  famed  falchion  call'd 

The  "  Widower  of  Women ;"  over  all 

The  fatal  White  Horse  in  the  banner  shone. 

Round  to  tlie  left  Arganiyr  with  the  Jutes 

And  Anglians;  these  for  OfTa's  slaughter  wild 

T' exact  the  usurious  payment  of  revenge; 

He  sternly  mindful  of  that  broken  fight 

By  Wye's  clear  stream,  and  his  defrauded  sword 

Of  its  hope-promised  banquet,  Samor's  blood, 

Above  the  multitude  of  brass  the  heights 

Were  crowded  with  the  wives  and  mothers.t  they 

With  their  known  presence  working  shame  of  (light, 

And  the  high  fear  of  being  thought  to  fear. 

With  them  the  spoils  of  Britain,  vessels  carved, 

Statues,  and  vestments  of  the  Tyrian  dye, 

Standards  with  antique  legend  scroll'd  of  deeds 

Done  in  old  times,  and  gorgeous  arms,  and  cups 

And  lamps,  and  plate,  or  by  fantastic  art 

Minister'd  to  fond  luxury's  wayward  choice, 

Or  consecrate  to  th'  altar  use  of  God. 

And  there  the  Saxon  Gods,  the  wood  and  stone 
Whereto  that  people  knelt  and  deified 
Their  own  hands'  work ;  the  Father  of  the  race, 
Woden,  all  arm'd  and  crown'd  ;  the  tempest  Lord, 
The  thunder-shaking  Thor,t  twelve  radiant  stars 
His  coronet,  and  sceptred  his  right  hand  ; 
He  on  his  stately  couch  reclining;  fierce 
In  his  mysterious  multitude  of  signs, 
Arminsul ;  and  th'  UnnameabIe,s^  he  fix'd 
On  his  flint  pedestal,  his  skeleton  shape 
fiarmented  scantly  in  a  winding-sheet. 
And  in  his  hand  a  torch-blaze,  meet  to  search 
Earth's  utmost,  while  in  act  to  spring,  one  hand 
Upon  his  head,  upon  his  shoulder  one, 

*Cet6rum  Arii  super  vires,  quibus  eniimeratos  pautio  ante 
populos  antereHiinl,  truces,  insila>  ferilHli  arte  ac  tempore 
lenocivantur  :  niera  sruta.  tinclii  corpora  :  atras  ad  picBJia 
noctcs  iHKunt:  ipsii()iio  formidine  atqiie  umbra  feralis  exercitus 
lerrorem  infeninl,  nullo  hostinm  siislinente  novum  ac  velutin- 
fernum  aspoc-lum  :  nam  primi  in  omnibus  prccliis  oculi  vincun- 
tur.— TACIT.   Oerm.  c.  43. 

t — et  in  proximo  pignora'.  unile  fominarum  ulnlatus  auriiri, 
imd«  vaeitiis  iiifanlium;  hi  cuique  sanctissimi  testes,  hi  maxi- 
mi  lauilatores.  Ad  matres.  ad  conjures  vulnera  ferunf,  ncc 
illsB  nnmeraro.  ani  exiaere  plaeas  pavtnt.  Cibosque  et  horta- 
inina  pnznanlibus  gestant.— TACIT.  Germ. 

tVeratesan.  ^Verslegan. 


His  faithful  Lion  ramp'd  in  sculptured  ire. 

Southward,  with  crescent  its  out-strelching  horns 

Circling  the  foe,  lay  stretch'd  the  British  camp; 

The  centre  held  Kmg  Emrys,  on  the  right 

Pendragon,  on  the  left  th'  Armoric  King, 

With  all  his  tall  steeds  and  brave  riders;  they 

The  fathers  of  that  famed  chivalric  race 

Of  knights  and  tallies,  glorious  in  old  song. 

White-handed  Iseult,  Launcelot  of  the  Lake, 

Chaste  Perceval,  that  won  the  Sangreal  quest. 

But  evervwhere  and  in  all  parts  alike 

The  Avenger  held  his  fwjst ;  all  heard  his  voice, 

All  felt  his  presence,  all  ohey'd  his  sway. 

As  western  hurricane  whirls  up  from  earth. 

And  bears  where'er  it  will,  the  loose-sheaf'd  corn, 

The  fluttering  leaves,  the  shatter'd  fiirest  boughs, 

Even  so  his  spirit  seized  and  bore  along. 

And  swept  with  it  those  proud  brigades.     Nor  there 

Was  not  young  Malwyn,  he  his  helmet  wore 

Light  shadow'd  bv  an  eagle  plume,  so  sued 

His  sire,  lest  in  the  wildering  battle  met 

Their  cars  should  clash  in  impious  strife,  nor  sough^ 

The  father  more  obedience  from  the  son. 

For  Britain  and  with  Samor  fix'd  to  war. 

And  in  his  brown  and  weather-beaten  arms 

Came  Vortimer,  a  pine-tree  stem  his  mace 

That  clove  the  air  with  desultory  sweep. 

But  by  the  river  browsed  a  single  steed, 

Sable  as  one  of  that  poetic  pair. 

On  the  fair  plain  of  Enna,  in  the  yoke 

Of  Pluto,  when  Proserpina  let  fall 

From  her  soft  lap  her  flowers,  and  mourn'd  their  loss 

Lavish,  not  for  herself  reserved  her  tears. 

The  horseman,  not  unlike  that  ravisher, 

Wore  kingly  aspect,  and  his  step  and  mien 

Were  as  his  realm  were  in  a  gloomier  clime, 

Amid  a  drearier  atmosphere,  'mid  things 

Sluggish  and  melancholy,  slow  and  dead. 

As  though  disclaim'd  by  each,  and  claiming  none, 

He  lay  with  cold  impartial  apathy 

Eyeing  both  armies,  as  their  fiites  to  him 

Were  equal,  and  not  worth  the  toil  of  hope. 

But  over  either  airoy  silence  hung. 
Silence  long,  heavy,  deep,  as  every  heart 
Were  busied  with  eternity  ;  all  thoughts 
Were  biddin?  flirewell  to  the  Sun,  whose  rise 
They  saw,  whose  setting  they  might  never  see. 
And  all  the  heavens  were  thinly  overdrawn 
With  light  and  golden  clouds,  as  thorigh  to  couch 
The  angels  and  the  spirits  floating  there. 
While  heaven  the  IucmI  hierarchy  poiir'd  forth 
To  view  that  solemn  spectacle  beneath, 
A  Battle  waged  for  freedom  and  for  fiiith. 

First  rose  a  clamour  and  a  crowding  rush 
On  the  hill  side,  and  a  half-siifled  cry, 
"The  Prophetess!  the  Prophetess!  was  heard. 
Upon  a  wagon,  'mid  her  idol  Gods, 
She  of  the  seal'd  lip  and  the  haunted  heart, 
The  aged  Virginll  sate;  her  thin  grey  hair 


II  Vetere  apud  Germanos  more,   quo  pterasque  reminanini 
falidicHs,  rt  augescenle  superstitione,  arbilranturdeas.— TAC. 


SAM  OR. 


319 


And  hollow  eyes  in  a  strange  sparkling  steep'd  : 

Twice  in  the  memory  of  tlie  oldest  simke 

Her  voice,  when  Gothic  Alaric  had  set 

His  northern  ensign  on  Koine's  shatter'd  walls, 

That  day  along  the  linden-shadow'd  Elbe 

She  went,  with  bitter  smile  and  broken  song 

That  mock'd  at  grandeur  fall'n  and  pride  in  dust. 

Once  more,  when  Vortigern  in  that  famed  feast 

Crown'd  the  fierce  Hengist ;  in  the  Cierman  woods 

She  roani'd  with  lofty  and  triumphal  tone, 

Shrieking  of  sceptres  dancing  in  her  sight, 

And  Wixlen's  sons  endiadem'd  that  rose 

And  swept  and  glitter'd  past  her.     Now  with  eye 

Restless,  and  churning  lip,  she  sate,  and  thrice 

She mutter'd— "Flight!  Flight!  Flight!"  Then  look'd 

she  out 
Upon  the  orient  Sun,  and  cried,  "  Down  !  down !" — 
Then  westward  turii'd  she,  and  withdrew  her  hand, 
From  dallying  with  her  loose  and  hanging  chin. 
And  beckon'd  to  the  faint  remaining  haze 
Of  twilight.     "  Back,  fair  darkness,  beauteous  gloom. 
Back!"  Still  the  Sun  came  on,  the  shades  dispell'd. 
Then  rose  she  up.  then  on  the  vacant  space 
Between  both  armies  fix'd  her  eye ;  half  laugh, 
Half  agony  her  cheek  relax'd. — "  I  see, 
I  see  ye,  ye  Invisible  !   1  hear 
Soundless,  I  hear  ye!    Choosers  of  the  slain! 
Ye  of  the  white  forms  horsed  on  thunder  clouds ! 
Ye  of  Valhalla  !  colourless  as  air. 
As  air  impalpable  !  wind  on  and  urge 
Your  sable  and  self-govern'd  steeds  :  They  come. 
They  whom  your  mantling  hydromel  awaits, 
Whose  cups  are  crown'd,  the  guests  of  this  night's  feast. 
They  come,  they  come,  for  whom  the  Gods  shall  leap 
From  their  cloud  thrones,  and  ask  ye  whom  ye  bring 
In  stern  troops  crowding  to  their  secret  joy." 
She  shook  her  low  dropt  lip,  and  thus  went  on: 
"The  bow  is  broken,  and  the  shafts  are  snapt: 
The  lance  is  shiver'd,  and  the  buckler  rent; 
The  helm  is  cloven,  and  the  plumes  are  shed; 

!    The  horse  hath  founder'd,  and  the  rider  fallen ; 
The  Crown'd  are  crownless,  kingdomless  the  Kings ; 
The  Conquerors  conquer'd,  and  the  Slayers  slain  ; 

I     One  falls  not,  but  he  shall  not  siand,  the  axe 
Shall  glean  th'  imperfect  harvest  of  the  sword; 
The  scaffold  drinks  the  lees  of  battle's  cup; 
And  one  is  woundless  amid  myriad  wounds, 
And  one  is  wounded  ^w  here  there  is  but  one. 
Ho,  for  the  broad-horn'd  Elk  that  leads  the  herd. 
Ho,  for  the  Pine  that  tops  the  shattering  wood ! 
Ho,  for  the  Bark  that  admirals  all  the  fleet! 
The  herd  is  scatter'd,  and  the  Elk  unscathed, 
The  wood  is  levell'd,  upright  is  the  Pine, 
The  fleet  is  wreck'd,  the  Admiral  on  the  waves. 
That  Elk  is  in  himself  a  sacrifice. 
That  Pine  shall  have  a  storm  its  own,  that  Bark 
Shall  perish  in  a  solitary  wreck, 

'     A  sacrifice  of  shame  !  a  storm  of  dread ! 

iA  bitter  ignominious  solitude  I" — 
She  had  not  ended,  when  a  single  steed 
I    Burst  furious  from  the  British  line,  with  flight 
,    That  had  a  tread  of  air,  and  not  of  earth. 
27* 


Fierce  and  direct  he  whirl'd  to  the  hot  charge 

His.youthful  Rider.     Upright  sate  the  Boy 

Arthur,  at  first  with  half  reverted  look, 

As  to  his  mother  to  impart  his  joy. 

His  transport.     Early,  oh  fame-destined  Child, 

Pulst  tliou  thy  sickle  in  the  field  of  fiinie. 

Over  his  head  a  dome  of  fiery  darts 

And  cross-lx)w  bolts  vault  o'er  th' encumher'd  air. 

Yet  forward  swept  the  child  his  rapid  charge. 

And  all  at  once  to  rescue  all  the  Chiefs 

Rush'd  onward  :  Uther's  dragon  seem'd  to  sear 

The  winds  with  its  hot  waving,  Emrys  struck 

His  courser's  reeking  flanks,  his  weapon  huge 

Rear'd  Vortimer,  and  Malwyn's  wheels  'gan  whirl. 

And  on  the  other  side  Argantyr  tall, 

Hengist  and  Horsa,  all  the  titled  brave. 

Burst  from  their  tardy  lines,  that  vast  behind 

Came  rolling  in  tumultuous  order  on; 

As  when  at  spring-time  under  the  cold  pole 

Two  islands  high  of  ice  warp  heavy  and  huge 

Upon  the  contrary  currents,  first  th' assault 

The  promontories  break,  till  meet  the  whole 

With  one  long  crash,  that  wakes  the  silence,  there 

Seated  since  time  was  born,  far  off  and  wide 

Rock'd  by  the  conflict  fierce  old  ocean  boils. 

Still  th' upright  Child  seem'd  only  to  rejoice 
In  the  curvetings  of  his  wanton  steed, 
And  in  the  mingled  dazzling  of  bright  arms. 
But  over  him  a  shield  is  spread,  before 
A  sword  is  waved,  on  every  side  the  shield 
Dashes  rude  death  aside,  whirls  everywhere 
The  rapid  and  unwearied  sword ;  the  rein 
Of  the  fleet  steed  hath  Samor  grasp'd,  and  guides 
Amid  the  turmoil.     As  when  the  eagle  sire 
Up  in  the  sunshine  leads  his  daring  young, 
Sometimes  the  dusk  shade  of  his  wing  spreads  o'er. 
And  soft  and  broken  in  through  the  thick  plumes 
Gleams  the  unblinding  splendour.     So  secure 
Waged  that  fair  Child  his  early  war.     But  wild 
The  wavering  fray  rock'd  to  and  fro,  and  burnt 
Like  one  huge  furnace  the  quick-flashing  plain. 
Ever  as  't  were  the  same  the  .'Xpostle  saw- 
In  the  Ap<jcalypse,  Death's  own  pale  steed. 
Over  the  broad  fight  shfK)k  the  White  Horse,  spread 
Where'er  its  gleaming  lighten'd  the  dun  gloom, 
Steamy  and  vast  the  curdling  slaughter  jwols. 
And  such  confusion  burst  around  of  lines 
Mingling  and  interchanging.  Valour  found 
No  space  for  proud  selection,  forced  to  strike 
What  cumber'd  and  obstructed  its  free  path, 
To  hew  out  through  a  mass  of  vulgar  life 
A  passage  to  some  princely  foe;  twice  met 
Horsa  and  Vortimer,  Argantyr  twice 
Smote  at  Pendragon,  but  the  whirlpool  fierce 
Asunder  swept  them,  and  the  deep  of  war 
Swallow'd  them ;  many  a  broad  and  shapeless  chasm 
Was  rent  in  either  battle,  but  new  fronts 
Rush'd  in,  and  made  the  shiver'd  surface  whole. 
The  sun  was  shut  out  by  a  sphere  of  dust 
That  wrapt  the  tumult,  'twas  no  sight  for  Heaven 
That  rending  and  defacing  its  prime  work. 
That  waste  of  man,  its  masterpiece.    But  fiir 

329 


320 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Th'  Avenger  had  borne  oH'  the  Child,  his  sieeil 
First  drew  his  breath  before  Igerna's  tent. 
With  her  soft  lace  upon  the  dust  she  lay, 
Struggling  to  hush  her  own  lament,  in  hope 
From  the  fierce  din  of  war  might  haply  come 
Some  sound  of  cheer  and  comfort;  but  when  full 
It  rush'd  upon  her  hearing,  loud  she  shriek'd 
To  drown  the  very  noise  she  strove  to  hear. 
But  when  her  Child's  voice  sounded,  she  look'd  up 
With  a  cold  glance  which  said,  "That  sound  I've 

heard 
Every  sad  moment  since  he  went,  my  soul 
Is  sick  of  self-doception,  will  not  trust 
Again,  to  be  again  beguiled."     She  saw. 
And  forced  a  sportive  look  to  her  sad  face 
To  lure  him  to  her  snowy  arms.     While  he 
Rack  to  the  battle,  as  a  scene  of  joy, 
Look'd  waywardly,  she  clasp'd  him  to  her  breast 
With  a  fond  anger,  and  both  smiled  and  wept. 
A  moment  Samor  gazed  on  her,  and — "  All, 
All  have  their  hopes,  and  all  those  hopes  fulfitl'd, 
But  I,  this  side  the  grave,  no  hope  for  me 
And  no  fulfilment." — Fast  as  sight  could  track 
The  battle  felt  him  in  its  thousand  folds. 

But  the  undistinguish'd  and  chance-mingled  fight 
Brook'd  not  young  MaKvyn ;  he  his  virgin  shield 
Disdain'd  mean  blood  should  stain :   where  Ilengist 

fought 
He  swept,  the  Saxon  saw  the  eagle  plume 
And  turn'd  aloof,  and  on  some  other  head 
Discharged  the  blow  for  him  uprear'd.     But  he 
Next  plunged  where  llorsa's  star-like  weapon  shone, 
Disastrous,  shaking  ruin,  yet  even  that 
Glanced  aside  from  the  eagle  plume.     The  Boy 
Utter'd  a  wrathful  disappointed  cry. 
And  'gainst  Argantyr  drove  his  car.     He  paused. 
And  cried  aloud,  "The  eagle  plume,"  and  plunged 
Elsewhere  for  victims.     That  Pendragon  heard, 
Even  as  he  toil'd  the  third  time  to  make  way 
Amid  the  circling  slain  to  the  Anglian  crest. 
And  taunting  thus, — "Methiidis  the  eagle  plume 
Hath  some  lew  feathers  of  the  dove,  so  soft 
Spreads  i Is  peace-breathing  influence."  But  the  Youth, 
"Ha,  Father!  thus,  thus  guilesl  thou  to  a  faint 
And  infamous  security  thy  son  ? 
Thus  enviest  thou  a  noble  foe  ?  thus  guardst 
With  a  base  privilege  from  peril  ?    Off, 
Coward  distinction!  off,  faint-hearted  sign!" 
And  helm  and  plume  away  he  rent,  his  hair 
Curl'd  down  his  shoulders,  radiant  on  his  brow 
The  beauty  of  his  anger  shone,  the  pride 
Of  wiuninc  thus  a  right  to  glorious  death. 
Then  set  he  fmlh  on  his  bold  quest  again 
Impatient.     Him  Prince  Vorlimor  beheld 
Sweeping  between  himself  and  Horsa,  met 
Their  sea-shore  fight  by  Thanet  to  renew  ; 
But  something  of  his  sister  in  his  face, 
Something  of  Lilian  harden'd  and  grown  fierce, 
As  that  ungodly  creed  were  true,  and  she 
Familiar  to  rude  deeds  of  blood,  had  come 
One  of  Valhalla's  airy  sisters  hence 
To  summon  him  she  loved.    That  gleam  of  her, 


That  though  ungentle  and  unfeminine  touch, 
Exquisite,  in  mid-air  his  rugged  mace 
Suspended  ;  but  fierce  Horsa  on  the  Boy, 
Just  on  his  neck  let  fall  the  fatal  spikes. 
And  him  the  afTrighted  steeds  bore  off     But  then 
Began  a  combat  over  which  Death  seem'd 
To  hover,  as  of  one  assured,  in  hope 
Of  both  for  victims  at  hi.s  godless  shrine. 

Then  wounded  and  bareheaded  Malwyn  urged 
On  Hengist  his  remasler'd  steeds  the  scythe, 
Rased  his  majestic  war-horse.     But  aside 
He  sprung,  and  fiank'd  the  chariot ;  long  the  strife, 
Long  though  unequal,  like  a  serpent's  tongue 
Vibrated  Malwyn's  battle  axe,  twice  bow'd 
The  Monarch  to  his  saddle-bow. — 'T  was  fame 
More  splendid,  thus  with  Hengist  to  have  fought 
Than  to  have  conquer'd  hosts  of  meaner  men. 
Heavy  at  length  and  fatal  glided  in 
The  wily  Chief's  eluding  falchion  stroke; 
Fast  flew  the  steeds,  the  Master  lay  behind. 
Dragging  with  his  face  downward,  still  the  reins 
Cling  in  his  cold  and  failing  fingers,  trail 
His  neck  and  spread  locks  in  the  humid  dust, 
His  sharp  arms  character  the  yielding  sand. 
On  fly  they,  him  at  length  deserting  mute 
And  gasping  on  the  bank,  their  hot  hoofs  plunge 
Into  the  limpid  Dune,  and  to  the  wood 
Rove  on.     It  chanced  erewhile  that  thither  came 
To  freshen  with  the  water  his  spent  steeds. 
And  lave  the  clogging  carnage  from  his  wheels, 
Caswallon,  he  his  huge  and  weary  length 
Cast  for  brief  rest  upon  the  bank ;  a  groan 
Came  from  a  helmless  head  that  in  the  gra.es 
Lay  undistinguish'd.     "'Tis  a  Briton,"  cried 
Caswallon,  "  cast  the  carrion  off  to  feed 
The  dogs  and  kites,  that  thus  irreverent  breaks 
I'pon  its  monarch's  rest."     Even  as  a  flower, 
Poppy  or  hyacinth,  on  its  broken  stem, 
Languidly  raises  its  encumber'd  head. 
And  turns  it  to  the  gentle  evening  sun. 
So  feebly  rose,  so  turn'd  that  Boy  his  face 
Fnio  the  well-known  voice;  twice  raised  his  head. 
Twice  it  fell  back  in  powerless  heaviness; 
Even  at  that  moment  from  the  dark  wood  came, 
Lured  by  their  partners  in  the  stall  and  field. 
His  chariot  coursers,  heavily  behind 
Dragging  the  vacant  car,  loose  hung  the  reins, 
And  mournfulness,  and  dull  disorder  slark'd 
The  spirit  of  their  tread.     Caswallon  knew. 
And  he  leap'd  up;  the  Boy  his  bloodless  lips 
With  a  long  efl^jrt  opened.     "Was  it  well, 
Father,  at  this  my  first,  my  earliest  fiirht 
To  mock  me  with  a  baffled  hope  of  i'nme  ? 
Well  was  it  to  defraud  me  of  my  right 
To  noble  death?" — and  speaking  thus  he  died. 

Above  him  his  convulsed  unconscious  hands 
Horribly  with  his  rough  black  beard  at  plav. 
Wrenching  and  twisting  off  the  rooted  locks. 
Yet  senseless  of  the  pain,  the  Father  lean'd. 
Then  leap'd  he  up,  with  cool  and  jealous  care 
Within  his  chariot  placed  the  lifeless  corpse. 
And  with  his  lash  fierce  rent  tlie  half-unyoked 

330 


SAMOR. 


321 


Half-harness'd  steeds;  disorderly  and  swift 

As  with  their  master's  ire  instinct  they  flew. 

Making  a  wide  road  through  the  hiirlhng  fray. 

Briton  or  Saxon,  friend  or  foe  alike, 

Kinsman  or  stranger,  one  wide  enmity 

'Gainst  general  humankind,  one  infinite 

And  undistingiiishing  lust  of  carnage  fill'd 

The  Master  and  the  Horses;  so  wild  groans 

Follow'd  where'er  he  moved,  'twas  all  to  him, 

So  slaughter  dripp'd  and   reek'd  from  the  choked 

scythes. 
The  low  lay  mow'd  like  the  spring  grass,  down  swept 
On  th'  eminent,  like  lightning  on  the  oaks. 
His  battle-axe,  each  time  it  fell,  each  time 
A  life  was  gone,  each  time  a  hideous  laugh 
Shone  on  the  Slayer's  cheek  and  writhing  lip; 
As  in  the  Oriental  wars  where  meet 
Sultan  and  Omrah,  under  his  broad  tower 
Maves  stately  the  huge  Elephant,  a  shaft 
Haply  casts  down  his  friendly  rider,  wont 
To  lead  him  to  the  tank,  whose  children  shared 
With  him  their  (east  oi'  fruits  :  awhile  he  droops 
Affectionate  his  loose  and  moaning  trunk  ; 
Then  in  his  grief  and  vengeance  bursts,  and  bears 
In  his  feet's  trampling  rout  and  disarray 
To  either  army,  ranks  give  way,  and  troops 
Scatter,  while,  swaying  on  his  heaving  back 
His  tottering  tower,  he  shakes  the  sandy  plain. 
Meanwhile  had  risen  a  conflict  high  and  fierce 
For  Britain's  royal  banner;  Ilengist  here, 
Argantyr,  the  V'ikinger,  Hermingard, 
And  other  Chiefs.     But  there  th'  Armoric  King, 
Emrys  and  I'ther,  with  the  Avenger  stood, 
An  iron  wall  against  their  inroad;  turn'd 
Samor  'gainst  him  at  distance  heard  and  seen. 
The  car-borne  Mountaineer,  then  Uther  met 
Argantyr,  Hengist  and  King  Emrj's  fought. 
The  rest  o'erbore  King  Hoel;  one  had  slain 
The  standard-bearer,  and  all  arms  at  once 
Seized  as  it  fell,  all  foreign  and  all  foes. 
When  lo,  that  sable  Warrior,  that  retired 
And  careless  had  look'd  on,  upon  his  steed 
And  in  the  battle,  like  a  thundercloud 
He  came,  and  like  a  thundercloud  he  burst. 
Black,  cold  and  sullen,  conquering  without  pride 
And  slaying  without  triumph  ;  three  that  grasp'd 
The  standard  came  at  once  to  earth,  while  he 
Over  his  head  with  kingly  motion  sv\ay'd 
The  bright  redeemed  ensign,  and  as  fell 
The  shaken  sunlight  radiant  o'er  his  brow. 
Pride  came  about  him,  and  with  voice  like  joy 
He  cried  aloud,  "Aries!  Aries  !" — and  shook  his  sword, 
"  Thou  'st  won  me  once  a  royal  crown,  and  now 
Shalt  win  a  royal  sepulchre." — The  sword 
Perforra'd  its  fatal  duty,  down  they  fell 
Before  him.  Jute  and  Saxon,  nameless  men 
And  Chieftains ;  what  though  wounds  he  scom'd  to 

ward. 
Nor  seem 'd  to  feel,  shower'd  on  him,  and  his  blond 
Oozed  manifest,  still  he  slew,  still  cried,  ".Aries!  Aries!" 
Still  in  the  splendour  the  waved  standard  spread 
Stood  glorying  the  arm'd  darkness  of  his  form  ; 


Stood  from  his  wounded  steed  dismounted,  stood 

Amid  an  area  of  dead  men,  himself 

About  to  die,  none  daring  an  assault. 

He  powerless  of  assailing.     But  the  crown 

That  on  the  flag-staff  gleam'd,  he  wrench'd  away, 

And  on  his  crest  with  calm  solicitude 

Placed  it,  then  planting  'mid  the  high-heap'd  slain 

The  standard,  to  o'ercannpy  his  sleep. 

As  one  upon  his  nightly  couch  of  down 

Composes  quietly  his  weary  head. 

So  royally  he  laid  him  down  to  die. — 

But  now  was  every  fight  broke  off,  a  pause 
Seized  all  the  battle,  one  vast  silence  quench'd 
All  tumult;  slain  and  slayer,  life  and  death 
Possess'd  one  swoon  of  torpor,  droop'd  and  fail'd 
All  passions,  pride,  wrath,  vengeance,  hate,  dismay, 
All  was  one  wide  astonishment:  alone 
Two  uiidistracted  on  each  other  gazed. 
Where  helpless  in  their  death-blood  they  lay  steep'd. 
The  ebbing  of  each  other's  life,  the  stiff 
Damp  growing  on  of  death  ;  till  in  a  groan 
Horsa  exhausted  his  fierce  soul ;  then  came 
A  momentary  tinge,  soft  and  subdued 
As  of  affections  busy  at  his  heart. 
On  Vortimer's  expiring  brow,  his  lip 
Wore  something  of  the  curl  men's  use,  when  names 
Beloved  are  floating  o'er  the  thought,  the  flowers 
On  that  lone  grave  made  fragrant  his  sick  sense, 
And  Eamont  murmur'd  on  his  closing  ear. 

But  he,  w  hose  coming  cast  this  silence  on 
Before  it,  as  the  night  its  widening  shade, 
CuHaining  nature  in  its  soundless  pall. 
An  atmosphere  of  dying  breath  where'er 
He  moved,  his  drear  envelopment,  his  path 
An  element  of  blood:  so  fleet,  so  fast 
The  power  to  fly  seem'd  wither'd,  ere  he  came, 
Men  laid  them  down  and  said  their  prayers  and  look'd 
For  the  quick  plunging  hoofs  aiiolj rushing  scythes; 
As  when  the  palsied  Universe  aghast 
Lay,  all  its  tenants,  even  Man,  restless  Man, 
In  all  his  busy  workings  mute  and  siill. 
When  drove,  so  poets  sing,  the  Sun-born  youth 
Devious  through  heaven's  affrighted  signs,  his  Sire's 
Ill-granted  chariot,  him  the  'J'hunderer  hurl'd 
From  th'  empyrean  headlong  to  the  gulf 
Of  the  half-parch'd  Eridanus,  where  weep 
Even  now  the  Sister  Trees  their  amber  tears 
O'er  Phaeton  untimely  dead.    Aixl  now 
Had  the  Avenger  reach'd  the  path  of  deaih, 
And  stood  in  arms  before  the  steeds,  they  came 
Rearing  their  ireful  hoofs  to  dash  him  down ; 
But  with  both  hands  he  seized  their  foaming  curbs. 
Holding  them  in  their  spring  with  outsiretch'd  arm 
Aloft,  and  made  their  lifted  crests  a  shield 
Against  their  driver.     He  with  baffled  lash 
Goaded  their  quivering  flanks,  but  that  strong  arm 
Held  them  above  avoiding,  their  fore-hoofs 
Beat  th'  unhurt  air,  and  overspread  his  breast. 
Like  a  thick  snow-shower,  the  fa-sl  falling  foam. 
Then  leap'd  Caswallon  down,  back  Samor  hurl'd 
Coursers  and  chariot,  and,  "  Now,"  cried  aloud, 

331 


322 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  Now,  King  of  Britain,  in  the  name  of  God 
I  tender  thee  a  throne,  two  yards  of  earth 
To  rot  on,  and  a  diadem,  a  wreath 
Of  death-drops  for  thy  haught  aspiring  brow." 

"There,  there,  look  there,"  Caswallon  cried,  his  hand 
Stretch'd  tow'rd  his  son,  and  in  a  frantic  laugh 
Broke  out,  and  echoed, — "  Diadems  and  thrones!" 
With  rigid  finger  pointing  at  the  dead. 

A  moment,  and  the  fury  burst  again ; 
Down  came  the  ponderous  battle-axe,  from  edge 
To  edge  it  rived  the  temper'd  brass,  as  swift 
As  shot-stars  the  thin  ether;  but  the  glaive 
Of  Samor  right  into  his  bosom  smote. 
Like  some  old  turret,  under  whose  broad  shade 
At  summer  noon  the  shepherd  oft  his  flock 
Hath  driven,  and  in  the  friendly  cool  rejoiced, 
Suddenly,  violently,  from  its  base 
Push'd  by  the  winter  floods,  he  fell ;  his  look 
Yet  had  its  savage  blasphemy :  he  felt 
More  than  the  blow,  the   deadly  blow,  the  cries 
Of  joy  and  triumph  from  each  army  sent, 
Vaunting  and  loud  ;  to  him  to  die  was  nought, 
He  could  not  brook  the  shame  of  being  slain. 
But  other  thoughts  arose  ;  hardly  he  crept 
To  where  dead  Malwyn  from  the  car  hung  down, 
Felt  on  his  face  the  cold  depending  hand, 
And  with  a  smile,  half  joy  half  anguish,  died. 

Th'  Avenger  knelt,  his  heart  too  full  for  prayer. 
Knelt,  and  held  up  his  conquering  sword  to  heaven, 
Yet  spake  not.     But  the  battle,  as  set  free, 
Its  rugged  game  renevv'd,  nor  equal  now 
Nor  now  unbroken.  Flight  and  shameful  Rout 
Here  scatter'd,  Victory  there  and  Pride  array'd, 
And  mass'd  in  comely  files  and  liill  square  troops 
Bore  onward.    Mountaineer  and  German  break 
Around  the  hill  foot,  and  like  ebbing  waves 
Disperse  away.    Ai]jantyr,  Hengist  move 
In  the  recoiling  flood  reluctant.    Them 
Nought  more  resembled,  than  two  mountain  bulls 
Driven  by  the  horse  and  dog  and  hunter's  spear, 
Still  turning  with  huge  brow  and  tearing  up 
The  deep  earth  with  their  wrathful  stooping  horns. 

But  as  the  hill  was  open'd,  from  the  top 
Even  to  the  base  arose  a  shriek  and  scream, 
As  when  some  populous  Capital  besieged. 
Sees  yawning  her  wide-breach'd  wall,  and  all 
Her  shatter'd  bulwarks  on  the  earth,  so  wild, 
So  dissonant  the  female  rout  appear'd 
Hanging  with  fierce  disturbance  the  hill  side. 
Some  with  rent  hair  ran  to  and  fro,  some  stood 
With  silent  mocking  lip,  some  softly  prest 
Their  infants  to  their  heart,  some  held  them  forth 
As  to  invite  the  foe,  and  for  them  sued 
The  mercy  of  immediate  slaughter.     Some 
Spake  fiercely  of  past  deeds  of  fame,  some  sang 
In  taunting  tone  old  songs  of  victory.    Wives, 
With  eye  imploring  and  quick-heaving  breast, 
Lf)ok'd  sad  allusions  to  endearments  past; 
Mothers,  all  bashfuliiess  cast  down,  rent  down 
Their  garments,  to  their  sons  displaying  bare 


The  fountains  of  their  infant  nourishment. 

Now  ready  to  be  plough'd  with  murtherous  swords. 

Some  knelt  before  their  cold  deaf  Gods,  some  scoflTd 

With  imprecation  blasphemous  and  shrill 

Their  stony  and  unwakening  thunders.     Noise 

Not  fiercer  on  Citha^ron  side,  Ih'  affright 

Not  drearier,  when  tJie  Theban  Bacchic  rout. 

Their  dashing  cymbals  white  with  moonshine,  loose 

Their  tresses  bursting  from  their  ivy  crowns,  ' 

And  purple  with  enwoven  vine-leaves,  led 

Their  orgies  dangerous.     In  the  midst  the  Queen 

Agave  shook  the  misdegm'd  Lion's  head 

Aloft,  and  laugh'd  and  danced  and  sung,  nor  knew 

That  lion  suckled  at  her  own  white  breast. 

But  Elfelin  the  Prophetess  her  seat 
Changed  not,  nor  the  near  horror  could  recall 
Her  eye  from  its  strange  commerce  with  th'  unseen; 
There  had  she  been,  there  had  she  been  in  srailea 
All  the  long  battle ;  just  before  the  spear 
Or  falchion  drank  a  warrior's  life-blood,  she 
Audible,  as  a  high-tribunal'd  judge. 
Spake  out  his  name,  and  aye  her  speech  was  doom. 

Nor  long  the  o'erbearing  flight  enwrapt  thy  strength, 
Argantyr!  thou  amid  the  shattering  wreck 
Didst  rise  as  in  some  ruinous  city  old, 
Babylon  or  Palmyra,  magic  built, 
A  single  pillar  yet  with  upright  shaft 
Stands,  'mid  the  wide  prostration  mossy  and  flat, 
Showing  more  eminent.     Past  the  Saxon  by. 
And  look'd  and  wonder'd,  even  that  he  delay'd  ; 
Cried  his  own  Anglians — "  King,  away,  away!" 
First  came  King  Hoel  on,  whose  falchion  clove 
His  buckler,  with  a  wrest  he  burst  in  twain 
The  shivering  steel;  came  Emrys  next,  aside 
His  misaim'd  blow  he  shook ;  last  Uther,  hira 
His  war-horse,  by  Argantyr's  beam-like  spear 
Then  first  appall'd,  bore  in  vain  anger  past. 

From  his  late  victory  in  proud  breathlessness 
Slow  came  the  Avenger,  but  Argantyr  raised 
A  cry  of  furious  joy:  "  Long  sought,  late  found, 
I  charge  thee,  by  our  last  impeded  fight, 
I  charge  thee,  give  me  back  mine  own,  my  sword 
Is  weary  of  its  bathes  of  vulgar  blood, 
And  longs  in  nobler  streams  to  plunge;  with  thine 
I  '11  gild  and  hang  it  on  my  Father's  grave. 
And  his  helm'd  ghost  in  Woden's  hall  shall  vaunt 
The  glories  of  his  son."     "  Generous  and  brave, 
When  last  v^e  met,  I  shrunk  to  see  my  sword 
Bright  with  God's  sunlight,  now  with  dauntless  hand    i 
I  lift  it,  and  cry  On,  in  the  name  of  God." 

They  met,  they  strove,  as  with  a  cloud  enwrapt 
In  their  own  majesty  ;  their  motions  gave 
Terror  even  to  their  shadows :  round  them  spread 
Attention  like  a  slee|i.     F'light  paused.  Pursuit 
Caught  up  its  loose  rein.  Death  his  furious  work 
Ceased,  and  a  dreary  respite  gave  to  souls 
Half  parted  ;  on  their  elbows  rear'd  thera  up 
The  dying,  with  faint  effort  holding  ope 
Their  droppin;;  eyelids,  homage  of  delight 
War  from  its  victims  thus  exacting.    Mind 


SAMOR. 


323 


And  body  enc;ross'd  the  conflict.     Men  were  seen 

At  distance,  for  in  tlioir  peculiar  spliere, 

Within  the  wind  and  rush  of  their  quick  arms 

None  ventured,  (ollowins  with  nncoiiscious  limbs 

Their  blows,  and  shrinking  as  themselvt's  were  struck. 

Like  scalter'd  shiverinss  of  a  scathed  oak,  lay 

Kragmenis  of  armour  mund  them,  the  hard  brass 

Gave  way,  and  broke  the  fiery  temper'd  steel, 

The  stronger  metal  of  the  human  soul, 

Valour,  endured,  and  power  thrice  purified 

In  danger's  furnace  faii'd  not.    Victory,  tired 

Of  waverinir.  to  those  passive  instruments, 

Look'd  to  decide  her  long  suspense.     Behold 

Argantyr's  falchion,  magic-wrought,  his  sires 

So  fabled,  l)y  the  .Asjard  dwarfs,  nor  hewn 

From  earthly  mines,  nor  dipp"d  in  earthly  fires, 

Broke  short.    Th'  ancestral  steel  the  Anglians  saw, 

Sign  of  their  Kin^s.  and  worship  of  their  race, 

Give  way.  and  vvail'd  and  shriek'd  aloud.    The  King 

Collected  all  his  glory  as  a  pall 

To  perish  in.  and  scorn'd  his  sworded  foe 

To  mock  with  vain  defence  of  unarm'd  hand. 

The  exultation  and  fierce  throb  of  hope 

Yet  had  not  pass'd  awav,  but  look'd  to  death 

As  it  had  look'd  to  conquest,  death  so  well, 

So  bravely  earn'd  to  warrior  fair  as  life  : 

Stem  welcoming,  bold  invitation  lured 

To  its  last  work  the  Conqueror's  sword.    Him  flush'd 

The  pride  of  Conquest,  vengeance  long  delay 'd, 

Th'  exalted  shame  of  victory  won  so  slow, 

So  toilsomely  ;  all  fiery  passions,  all 

Tumultuous  sense-inloxicaling  powers 

Conspired  with  their  wild  anarchy  beset 

His  despot  soul.     But  he — "Ah,  faithless  sword, 

To  me  as  to  thy  master  faithless,  him 

Naked  at  his  extreme  to  leave,  and  me 

To  guile  of  this  occasion  fair  to  win 

Honour  or  death  from  great  Argantyr's  arm." 

"  Christian,  thy  God  is  mightiest,  scorn  not  thou 
His  bounty,  nor  with  dalliance  mock  thy  hour — 
Strike  and  consummate  .'" — ".•Xnglian,  yes  ;  my  God, 
Th'  Almighty,  is  the  mightiest  now  and  ever, 
Because  I  scorn  him  not.  I  will  not  strike." — 
So  saying,  he  his  sword  cast  down.     "Thus,  thus 
Warr'st  thou  ?"  the  Anglian  cried,  "then  thou  hast  won. 
I,  I  Argantyr  yield  me,  other  hand 
Had  tempted  me  in  vain  with  that  base  boon 
Which  peasants  prize  and  women  weep  for,  life: 
To  lord  o'er  dead  Argantyr  fate  might  grant, 
He  only  grants  to  vanquish  him  alive, 
Only  to  thee,  well  named  Avenger!"    Then 
The  Captive  and  the  Conqueror  th'  armies  saw 
Gazing  upon  each  other  with  the  brow 
Of  high  arch'd  admiration  ;  o'er  the  field 
From  that  example  flow'd  a  noble  scorn 
Of  slaughtering  the  defenceless,  mercy  slaked 
The  ardour  of  the  fight.    .As  the  speck'd  birch 
After  a  shower,  with  th'  odour  of  its  bark 
Freshens  the  circuit  of  the  rain-bright  grove ; 
Or  as  the  tender  argent  of  Love's  star 
Smdes  to  a  lucid  quiet  the  wild  sky  : 
2Q 


So  those  illustrious  rivals  with  the  light 

Of  their  high  language  and  heroic  act 

Cast  a  nobility  o'er  all  the  war. 

That  capture  U>ok  a  host,  none  scorn'd  to  yield. 

So  loftily  Argantyr  wore  the  garb 

Of  stern  surrender,  none  inclined  to  slay. 

When  Samor  held  the  signal  up  to  spare. 

But  where  the  Lord  of  that  dire  falchion  named 
The  Widower  of  Women  ?  lie,  the  Chief 
Whose  arms  were  squadrons,  whose  assault  the  shock 
Of  hosts  advancing?  Ilalh  the  cream-blanched  steed. 
Whom  the  oulstripp'd  vvinds  pant  after,  borne  away 
His  master,  yet  with  hope  uncheck'd,  and  craft 
UnbafHed,  th'  equal  conflict  to  renew  ? 
Fast  Hew  the  horse,  and  fierce  the  rider  spurr'd. 
That  horse  that  all  the  day  remorseless  went 
O'er  dead  and  dying,  all  that  Hengist  slew 
All  he  cast  down  before  him.     Lo.  he  cheeks 
Suddenly,  startingly,  with  ears  erect. 
Thick  tremor  oozing  out  from  every  pore. 
His  broad  chest  palpitating,  the  thick  foam 
Lazily  gathering  on  his  dropping  lip: 
The  pawing  of  his  uplift  forefimt  chill'd 
To  a  loose  hanging  quiver.     Nor  his  Lord 
Less  horror  seized  ;  slack  trembled  in  his  left 
The  bridle,  with  his  right  hand  dropt  his  sword, 
Dripp'd  slowly  from  its  point  the  flaking  blood 
Of  hundreds,  this  day  fiill'n  beneath  its  edge. 

For  lo,  descended  the  hill  side,  stood  up 
Right  in  his  path  the  Prophetess,  and  held 
With  a  severe  compassion  both  her  arms 
Over  her  head,  and  thus — "  It  cannot  be, 
I  've  cried  unto  the  eagle,  air  hath  none  ; 
I  've  sued  unto  the  fleet  and  bounding  deer, 
I  've  sought  unto  the  sly  and  mining  snake  ; 
There's  none  above  the  earth,  beneath  the  earth. 
No  flight,  no  way,  no  narrow  obscure  way. 
I've  call'd  unto  the  lightning,  as  it  leap'd 
.Along  heaven's  verge,  it  cannot  guide  thee  forth; 
I  've  beckon'd  to  the  dun  and  pitchy  gloom. 
It  cannot  shroud  thee;  to  the  caves  of  earih 
I  've  wail'd  and  shriek'd,  they  cannot  chamber  thee." 

He  spoke  not,  moved  not,  strove  not :  man  and  steed, 
Like  some  equestrian  marble  in  the  courts 
Of  F.mperors:  that  fierce  eye  whose  w'lsdom  keen 
Pierced  the  dark  depths  of  counsel,  hawk-like  roved, 
Seizins  the  unutter'd  thoughts  from  out  men's  souls. 
Wrought  order  in  the  bailie's  turbulent  fray 
By  its  command,  on  the  aged  Woman's  face 
Fix'd  like  a  moonstruck  idiot.     She  upright 
With  strength  beyond  her  bow'd  and  shrivell'd  limbs 
Still  stood,  and  murmur'd  low.  "  Why  comest  ihou  not. 
Thou  of  the  Vale?  thou  fated,  come!  come  I  cornel" 

The  foes  o'ertook,  he  look'd  not  round,  their  tramp 
Was  round  him,  still  he  moved  not;  violent  hands 
Seized  on  him.  still  the  enchanted  falchion  hung 
Innocent  as  a  feather  by  his  side. 
They  tore  him  from  his  sleed,  still  clone  his  eyes 
On  her  disastrous  face;  she  fiercely  shriek'd 

333 


324 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Half  priJe  at  her  accomplish'd  prophecy. 
Half  sorrow  at  Erie  Hengisl's  fall,  then  down 
Upon  the  stone  that  bore  her,  she  fell  dead. 


BOOK  XH. 


On  Freedom,  of  our  social  Universe 
The  Sun,  that  feedest  from  thy  urn  of  light 
The  starry  commonwealth,  from  those  mean  lamps 
Modestly  glimmering  in  their  sphere  retired 
Even  to  the  plenar  and  patrician  orbs, 
That  in  their  rich  nobilily  of  light, 
Or  golden  royalty  endindem'd. 
Their  mystic  circle  uiidistnrb'd  round  thee 
Move  musical ;  but  thou  thy  central  state 
Preserving,  equably  the  fair-rank'd  whole 
In  dutiful  magnificence  mainlain'st. 
And  stately  splendour  of  obedience.     Earth 
Wonders,  ih'  approval  of  th'  Almighty  beams 
Manifest  in  the  glory  of  the  work. 
Though  sometimes  drovvn'd  within  the  red  eclipse 
Of  tyranny,  or  brief  while  by  the  base 
And  marshy  exhalations  of  low  vice 
And  popular  license  madden'd  thou  hast  flash'd 
Disastrous  and  intolerable  fire ; 
Yet  ever  mounting  hast  thou  still  march'd  on 
To  thy  meridian  throne.     My  waxen  wing 
Oh,  quenchless  luminary  !  may  not  soar 
To  that  thy  dazzling  antl  o'erpowering  noon; 
Rather  the  broken  glimpses  of  thy  dawn 
Visiteth,  when  thy  orient  overcast 
A  promise  and  faint  foretaste  of  its  light 
Beam'd  forth,  then  plunged  its  cloud-slaked  front  in 
gloom. 

Even  with  such  promise  dost  thou  now  adorn 
Thy  chosen  city  by  the  Thames,  where  holds 
Victorious  Emrys  his  high  Judgment  court. 
Thither  the  long  ovation  hath  he  led. 
Amid  the  solemn  music  of  rent  chains, 
The  rapture  of  deliverance;  where  he  past 
Earth  brightening,  and  the  face  of  man  but  now 
Brow-sear'd  with  the  deep  brand  of  servitude, 
To  its  old  upright  privilege  restored 
Of  gazing  on  its  kindred  heaven.    The  towns 
Gladden'd  amid  their  ruins,  churches  shook 
With  throngs  of  thankful  votaries,*  till 't  was  fear 
Transport  might  finish  Desolation's  work. 
And  bliss  precipitate  the  half  moukler'd  walls. 
'Tis  famed,  men  died  for  joy,  untimely  births 
Were  frequent,  as  the  eaijer  mothers  prest 
To  show  their  infants  to  the  brightening  world. 
They  that  l)ut  now  belicM  the  bier-borne  dead 
With  miserable  envy,  past  ihem  by 
Contemptuously  pitying,  as  loo  soim 
Departed  from  this  highly  gifted  earth. 
So  they  the  Trinobantiiie  City  reach'd. 


*Then  diil  Aiirnlins  Anil)rosiiis  put  the  Saxons  out  of  all 
other  parts  of  the  land,  ami  ropaired  such  citips.  towne,  and 
also  churrhia,  as  by  Ihem  had  heen  destroyed  or  defaced,  etc. 
Hull.  Book  6,  Chap.  8. 


Without  the  walls,  close  by  the  marge  of  Thames, 
The  synod  of  the  Conquerors  met;  a  place 
Solemn  and  to  the  soul  discoursing  high. 
Here  broad  the  bridgeless  Thames,  even  like  them- 
selves 
Thus  at  their  flush  and  high  tide  of  renown, 
Swell'd  his  exulting  waters.    There  all  waste 
The  royal  cemetery  of  Britain  lay, 
The  monuments,  like  their  cold  tenantry. 
Mouldering,  above  all  ruin  as  beneath, 
A  wide  profi)und,  drear  sameness  of  decay. 
Upon  the  Church  of  Christ  had  heavily  fallen 
The  Pagan  desolation,  hung  the  doors 
Loose  on  their  broken  and  disused  hinge. 
And  grass  amid  the  chequer'd  pavement  squares 
Was  springing,  and  along  the  vacant  choir 
The  shrill  wind  was  God's  only  worshipper. 

Even  where  they  met,  through  the  long  years  have 
sate 
In  Parliament  our  nation's  high  and  wise. 
There  have  deep  thoughts  been  ponder'd,  strong  de- 
signs 
On  which  the  fate  of  the  round  world  hath  hung. 
Thence  have  the  emanating  rays  of  truth, 
Freedom,  and  constancy,  and  holiness 
Flovv'd  in  their  broad  beneficence,  no  bound 
Owning  but  that  which  limits  this  brief  earth. 
Brightening  this  misty  state  of  man ;  the  winds 
That  thence  bear  mandates  to  th'  inconstant  thrones 
Of  Europe,  to  the  realms  of  th'  orient  Sun, 
Or  to  the  new  and  ocean-sever'd  earth. 
Or  to  the  Southern  cocoa-feat her'd  isles. 
Are  welcome,  as  pure  gales  of  health  and  joy. 
Still  that  deep  dwelling  underneath  the  earth 
Its  high  and  ancient  privilege  maintains. 
Dark  palace  of  our  island's  parted  Kings. 
Earth-ceil'd  pavilion  of  our  brave  and  wise,  , 

Whose  glory  ere  it  sv^ept  them  off,  hath  cast 
A  radiance  on  the  scythe  of  Death.     Disused 
For  two  long  heathen  ages,  it  became 
The  pavement  of  our  sumptuous  minster  fair, 
That  ever  and  anon  yet  gathers  in 
King,  Conqu'ror,  Poet,  Orator,  or  Sage 
To  her  stone  chambers,  there  to  sleep  the  sleep 
That  wakens  only  at  the  Archangel's  trump. 

First  in  the  synod  rose  King  Emrj's;  he 
The  royal  sword  of  justice  from  his  side 
Ungirding,  placed  it  in  tlie. Avenger's  hand. 
And  led  him  to  the  judgment-seat.     He  shrunk. 
And  ofler'd  back  the  solemn  steel—"  Oh  !  King, 
Judge  and  .Avenger!  who  shall  reconcile 
The  discord  of  those  titles,  private  wrongs 
Will  load  my  partial  arm,  and  drag  to  earth 
The  unsteady  balance.    Only  God  can  join 
And  blend  in  one  the  Injured  and  the  Judge." 
But  as  a  wave  lifis  up  and  hears  along 
A  stately  bark,  so  the  acclamation  swell 
Floated  into  the  high  Tribunal  throne 
Reluctant  Samor:  on  his  right  the  King 
Sate  sceptred,  royal  Uiher  on  the  left. 
While  all  around  the  assembled  Nation  bask'd 

334 


SAMOR. 


325 


In  his  efTulgenf  presence.     'T  was  a  boast 
In  after  ages  this  day  to  have  seen 
Him  whom  all  ihrong'il  to  see ;  memory  of  him, 
Every  brief  nolice  of  his  mien  anil  height 
Become  an  lieir-loom;  mothers  at  the  (imt 
Gave  to  their  babes  his  name,  and  e'er  that  child 
Was  held  the  staff  and  honour  of  the  race. 

So  met  the  Nation  in  their  judgment  Mall, 
Its  pavement  was  the  sacred  mother  earth, 
Its  roof  the  crystal  and  immortal  heavens. 

Then  forth  the  captives  came,  Argantyr  first. 
Even  with  his  wonted  loftiness  of  tread  : 
Nature's  rich  heraldry  upon  his  brow 
Emblazing  him  of  those  whose  scorn  the  world 
Bears  unashamed,  by  whom  to  be  despised 
Is  no  abasement.     Men's  eyes  ranged  (rom  him 
To  Samor,  back  to  him — in  wonder  now 
Of  conquest  o'er  such  mighty  foe,  now  lost 
The  wonder  in  their  kindred  Conqueror's  pride. 
Then  said  the  Anglian — "  Wiiercfore  lead  ye  here?" 
The  sternness  of  his  questioning  appall'd 
All  save  the  Judge. — "What  Briton, "  he  replied, 
"Witnesseth  aught  against  the  Anglian  Chief?" — 
Thereat  was  proclamation,  East  and  West 
And  Xorth  and  South:  the  silent  winds  came  back 
With  wings  unloaded :  so  that  noble  mien 
Wrought  conquest  o'er  man's  darkest  passions,  hate, 
And  doubt,  and  terror,  so  the  Captive  cast 
'  His  yoke  on  every  soul,  and  harriess'd  it 
Unto  his  valiant  spirit's  chariot  wheels. 

Then  spake  the  stately  and  tribunal'd  Judge — 
"  Anglian  Argantyr  !    Britain  is  not  wont 

,  T' inflict  upon  a  fair  and  open  foe 

;  Aught  penal  but  defeat ;  her  warfare  bow-s 

'  Beneath  her  feet,  but  tramples  not;  her  throne 
Hath  borne  the  stormy  brimt  of  thy  assault, 

'   And  dash'd  it  off  and  thus  she  saith,  "  Return, 
Return  iinio  thy  German  woods,  nor  more, 

]  Once  baffled,  vex  oiy  coasts  with  fruitless  war. 
And  thy  return  shall  be  to  years  remote 

'   Our  bond  and  charter  of  security; 

j   A  shudder  and  cold  trembling  at  our  name 
Shall  pass  with  thee,  the  land  that  hath  spurn'd  back 
Argantyr's  march  of  victory,  shall  be  known 
T' eternal  freedom  consecrate.     Your  ships 
Shall  plough  our  seas,  but  turn  their  timorous  prows 
Aloof,  while  on  the  deck  the  .Sea  King  points 
To  our  white  cli3s,  and  saith — "The  .'\nglian  thence 
Retreated,  shun  the  unconquerable  shore." — 
"So  never  more  shall  my  hot  war-horse  bathe 
In  British  waters,  nor  my  falchion  meet 

■   The  bold  resistance  of  a  British  steel. 
So  wills  the  Conqueror,  thus  the  Conquer'd  swears." 

Thus  spake  Argantj-r;  sudden  then  and  swift, 
Loftier  shot  up  his  brow,  prophetic  hues 
Swam  o'er  his  agitated  features,  words 
Came  with  a  rush  and  instantaneous  flow. — 

"I  tell  thee,  Briton,  that  thy  sons  and  mine 
Shall  be  two  meeting  and  conflicting  tides. 
Whose  fierce  relentless  enmity  shall  lash 


I  This  land  into  a  whirlpool  deep  and  wide, 
To  swallow  in  its  vast  insatiate  gulf 
Her  peace  and  smooth  felicity,  lilt  flow 
Their  waters  reconciled  in  one  broad  bed, 

I  Briton  and  Anglian  one  in  race  and  name. 

j  'Tis  written  in  the  ancient  solemn  Runes, 
'T  is  s|X)ken  by  prophetic  virgin  lips. 
Avenger,  thou  and  1  our  earthly  wars 
Have  ended,  but  my  siiirit  yet  shall  hold 
Noble,  inexorable  strife  with  thine. 
It  shall  heave  off  its  barrow,  burst  its  tomb, 
And  to  my  sons  discourse  of  glorious  foes 
In  this  rich  Island  to  be  met :  my  shade 
Shall  cross  them  in  their  huntings,  it  shall  walk 
The  ocean  paths,  and  on  the  winds,  and  seize 
Their  prows,  and  (ill  their  sails,  and  all  ils  voice 
And  all  its  secret  influences  urge 
To  the  WHiite  Isle ;  ♦  their  slumbers  shall  not  rest, 
Their  quiet  shall  be  weariness,  till  luU'd 
Upon  the  pillow  of  success  repose 
The  high,  the  long  hereditary  feud." 
So  saying,  he  the  bark  that  lay  prepared 
With  sail  unfurl'd,  ascended.     She  went  forth 
Momently  with  quick  shadow  the  blue  Thames 
Darkening,  then  leaving  on  its  breast  a  light 
Like  silver.     The  fix'd  eyes  of  wondering  men 
Track'd  his  departure,  while  with  farewell  gleam 
The  bright  Sun  shone  upon  his  brow,  and  seem'd 
A  triumph  in  the  motion  of  the  stream; 
So  loflilv  upon  its  long  slow  ebb 
It  bore  that  honour-laden  bark. — Nor  pause, 
Lo  in  the  presence  of  the  Judgment  Court 
The  second  criminal :  pride  had  not  pass'd 
Nor  majesty  from  his  hoar  brow  ;  he  stood 
With  all  except  the  terror  of  despair. 
Consciously  in  fatality's  strong  bonds 
Manacled,  of  the  coming  death  assured, 
Yet  fronting  the  black  future  with  a  look 
Obdurate  even  to  scornfulness.     lie  seem'd 
-As  he  heard  nought,  as  though  his  occupied  ears 
Were  pervious  to  no  sound,  since  that  dim  voice 
Of  her  wlio  speaking  died,  the  silver  hair'd. 
The  Prophetess,  that  never  spake  untrue : 
As  ever  with  a  long  unbroken  flow 
Her  song  was  ranging  through  his  brain,  and  struck 
Its  death-knoll  on  his  soul.     Nor  change  had  come 
Sirjce  that  drear  hour  to  eye  or  cheek;  the  craft, 
The  wisdom  that  vva.s  wont  to  make  him  lord 
Over  the  shifting  pageant  of  events, 

I  Had  given  its  trust  up  lo  o'er-ruling  fiite. 
And  that  stern  Paramount,  Necessity, 
Had  seal'd  him  for  her  own.    Amid  them  all 
He  tower'd,  as  when  the  summer  thunderbolt 
'Mid  a  rich  fleet  some  storm-accustom'd  bark 
Hath  stricken,  round  her  the  glad  waters  dance. 
Her  sails  are  full,  her  strong  prow  fronts  the  waves  ; 
But  works  within  the  irrevocable  doom, 
Wells  up  her  secret  hold  th'  inundant  surge. 
And  the  heavy  waters  weigh  her  slowly  down. 

»  The  Welsh  called  it  Inis  Wen,  the  While  Island.  Speed, 
B.  5.  c.  2.  Some  derive  Britain  from  Pryd  Cain— Beauly  and 
Wliile.  -  Ibid 

335 


326 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  the  arraignment  made  the  Judge  a  sign, 
And  the  first  witness  was  a  mighty  cry, 
As  't  were  the  voice  of  the  whole  Isle,  hills 
And  plains  and  waters  their  abhorrence  spake; 
Hoarse  harmony  of  imprecation  seem'd 
To  break  the  ashy  sleep  of  ruin'd  towns, 
And  th'  untomb'd  slumbers  of  far  battle  vales. 
As  if  the  crowd  about  the  Judgment  Court 
Did  only  with  articulate  voice  repeat 
What  indistinct  came  down  on  every  wind. 
Then  all  the  near,  the  distant,  sank  away, 
Only  a  low  and  melancholy  lone, 
Like  a  fiir  music  down  a  summer  stream 
Remain'd  ;  upon  the  lull'd,  nor  panting  air 
Fell  that  smooth  snow  of  sound,  till  nearer  now 
It  swell'd,  as  clearer  water-falls  are  heard 
When  midniglit  grows  more  still.    A  funeral  hymn. 
It  pour'd  the  rapture  of  its  sadness  out, 
Even  like  a  sparkling  soporific  wine. 
But  now  and  then  broke  from  its  low  long  fall, 
Something  of  martial  and  majestic  swell. 
That  spake  its  mourning  o'er  no  vulgar  dead. 

Lo  to  the  royal  burying-place,  chance  borne 
Even  at  this  solemn  lime,  or  so  ordain'd 
From  their  bright-scutcheon'd  biers  their  part  to  bear 
In  this  arraignment,  came  King  Vorligern, 
And  th'  honour'd  ashes  of  his  Son.     But  still 
And  voiceless  these  cold  witnesses  past  on, 
Unto  the  place  of  tombs.    Along  the  Thames 
Far  floated  into  silence  the  spent  hymn  : 
And  one  accusing  sound  arose  from  them. 
The  heavy  falling  of  their  earth  to  earth. 

One  female  mourner  came  behind  the  King, 
Half  of  her  face  the  veil  conceal'd,  her  eyes 
Were  visible,  and  though  a  deadly  haze 
Film'd  their  sunk  balls,  she  sent  into  the  grave 
Following  the  heavy  and  descending  corpse, 
A  look  of  such  imploring  loveliness, 
A  glance  so  sad,  so  self-condemning,  all 
(So  softly,  tremulously  it  appeal'd) 
Might  wonder  that  the  spirit  came  not  back 
To  animate  for  the  utterance  that  she  wish'd 
Those  bloodless  lips:  fi)rgiveness  it  was  plain 
She  sought,  and  one  so  beauteous  to  forgive. 
The  dead  might  almost  wake.    And  she  sate  down. 
Leaning  her  cheek  upon  a  broken  stone 
(Once  a  King's  monument)  as  listening  yet 
Th'  acceptance  of  her  prayers  :  nor  cloister'd  Nun 
Hath  ever  since  mourning  her  broken  vows. 
And  his  neglect  for  whom  those  vows  she  broke, 
Come  to  the  image  of  her  \'irgin  Saint 
With  such  a  faded  cheek  and  contrite  mien. 
As  her  who  by  those  royal  ashes  sate. 

But  lo,  new  witnesses :  a  matron  train 
In  flowing  robes  of  grief  came  f()rlh,  the  wives 
And  mothers  of  those  nobles  foully  slain 
At  the  Peace  banquet,  them  the  memory  yet 
Seem'd  haunting  of  delicious  days  broke  ofT 
On  Hengist,  even  a  captive,  dared  not  they 
Look  firmly,  as  their  helpless  loneliness 


Spake  for  them,  they  their  solitary  breasts 

Beat,  wrung  their  destitute  cold  hands,  and  paes'd. 

Arose  the  mitred  Germain,  glanced  his  hand 
From  that  majestic  criminal,  where  lay 
The  ruins  of  God's  church,  and  so  sate  down. 

But  Samor  look'd  upon  the  mourner  train. 
As  though  he  sought  a  face  that  was  not  there, 
That  could  not  be,  soft  Eraeric's. — "  I  have  none, 
I  only  none  to  witness  of  my  wrongs." — 
So  said  he,  but  he  shook  the  softness  off, 
On  the  tribunal  rose  severe,  and  stood 
Erect  before  the  multitude.     "  Thou  King, 
And  ye,  assembled  People  of  the  Isle, 
If  that  I  speak  your  sentence  right,  give  in 
Your  sanction  of  Amen.     Here  stands  the  man, 
Who  two  long  years  laid  waste  with  fire  and  sword 
Your  native  cities  and  your  altar  shrines: 
Here  stands  the  man,  who  by  slow  fraud  and  guile 
Discrown'd  your  stately  Monarch,  Vortigern  : 
Here  stands  the  man,  hath  water'd  with  your  blood 
The  red  and  sickening  herbage  of  your  land : 
Here  stands  the  man,  that  to  your  peaceful  feast 
Brought  Murther,  that  grim  seneschal,  and  drugg'd 
With  your  most  noble  blood  your  friendly  cups." 

And  at  each  charge  came  in  the  deep  Amen, 
Even  like  the  sounds  men  hear  on  stormy  nights. 
When  many  thunders  are  abroad.     Nought  moved. 
Stood  Hengist,  if  emotion  o'er  him  pass'd, 
'T  was  likest  an  elate  contemptuous  joy 
And  glorying  in  those  lofty  worded  crimes. 
Then,  "  Saxon  Hengist,  as  thy  sword  hath  made 
Our  children  fatherless,  so  fatherless 
Must  be  thy  children!"*    And  Amen  knoH'd  back, 
As  a  plague-visited  Metropolis 
Mourning  the  wide  and  general  funeral,  tolls 
From  all  her  lowers  and  spires  the  bell  of  death. 

"Thy  children  fatherless!  not  so — not  so" — 
Rose  with  a  shriek  that  Woman  by  the  grave. 
And  she  sprang  forth,  as  from  beneath  the  earth. 
As  a  partaker  of,  no  mourner  near 
That  kingly  coflin.    \'eil  fell  ofT^  and  band 
Started,  through  her  bright  tresses  her  pale  face 
Glitter'd,  like  purest  ivory  chased  in  gold. 
Between  the  Criminal  and  Judge  her  stand 
Rowena  took  ;  him  as  she  saw  and  knew 
Flush'd  a  sick  rapture  o'er  her  face  and  neck, 
A  fading  rose-hue,  like  eve's  parting  light 
On  a  snow  bank;  but  from  her  marble  brow 
She  the  bright-clustering  hair  wiped  back,  and  thus: 
"Samor,  the  last  time  thou  this  brow  beheld'st 
The  moonlight  was  upon  it,  since  that  hour 
The  water  hath  flow'd  o'er  it,  holy  sign 
Hath  there  been  left  by  Christian  hand,  and  I 
Thy  creed  have  learnt,  and  one  word  breathes  it  all 
Mercy." — "  But  Justice  is  God's  attribute, 
Lady,  as  well  as  mercy,  Man  on  earth 
Must  be  Vicegerent  of  both  stern  and  mild. 
Lest  over-ramping  Evil  set  its  foot 


*Tlie  words  used  to  Agag  were  applied  on  this  occaBlon. 
according  to  Ihe  Welsh  tradition.  — Robert's  Tranelalion  of 
the  Brut  of  Tysilio. 

336 


SAMOR. 


327 


Upon  the  prostrate  world.    The  doom  is  said, 
,  The  doom  must  be."—"  Ila  !  Man  with  heart  of  clay, 
To  answer  with  that  cold  and  sleadlhst  mien ; 
Oh,  I'll  go  back  and  sue  the  dead  again. 
There's  more  forgiveness  in  the  cold  deaf  corpse 
Than  the  warm  keen-ear'd  livuig.     From  that  vault 
I  felt  sweet  reconcilement  stealing  up. 
That  turn'd  my  tears  to  honey  dew:  here,  all. 
All  sullen  and  relentless  on  me  glares. 
I  ask  not  for  myself,  not  for  myself. 
The  ice  of  death  is  round  my  heart,  there  long 
I  've  felt  the  slow  consuming  prey,  I  feel 
The  trembling  ebb  of  my  departnig  life. 
That  hoary  head,  though  granted  to  my  prayers, 
Shall  never  rest  upon  my  failing  knee, 
The  father  that  ye  give  me  back  (I  feel 
I  Ye  give  hira,  thou  that  bear'st  the  Avenger's  name, 
I  know  thee  by  a  milder  character,) 
That  father  cannot  long  be  mine  ;  his  hands 
May  lay  me  in  the  grave,  his  eyes  may  weep 
For  they  can  weep,  although  ye  think  it  not; 
Those  hands  ye  deem  for  ever  blood-embrued, 
I  've  felt  them  fondling  with  my  golden  hair. 
When  with  gay  childish  fool  I  danced  to  meet 
His  far-resounding  horn.    That  horn  shall  sound, 
But  on  ray  deaf  and  earth-closed  ears  no  more, 
No  more." — "  Rowena,  when  a  Nation  speaks, 
The  irrevocable  sentence  cannot  change." 

Then  up  her  fair  round  arm  she  raised,  and  wrapt 
Like  a  rich  mantle  round  her;  her  old  pride 
As  the  poetic  Juno  in  the  clouds 
Walking  in  her  majestic  ire,  while  slow 
Before  her  th'  azure-breasted  peacocks  draw 
Iler  chariot. — "Tell  me,  thou  that  sitt'st  elate. 
And  ye,  who  call  yourself  this  British  realm, 

i    By  what  new  right  ye  judge  a  German  King? 

'    Where  are  your  charters,  where  your  scrolls  of  law 

'    Whose  bright  and  blazon'd  titles  give  ye  power 
To  pass  a  doom  on  crowned  head  ?     Down,  down, 

i    Ye  bold  Usurpers  of  the  Judgment  seat. 
Insolent  doomers  of  a  sacred  life, 

I    Beyond  your  sphere  to  touch,  your  grasp  to  seize." 

I        "  Lady,  we  judge  by  the  adamantine  law, 
'     That  lives  within  the  eternal  soul  of  man. 
That  God -enacted  charier,  '  Blood  for  blood.'" 
28 


Exhausted  she  sank  down  upon  her  knees, 
Her  knees  that  faulted  under  her. — "  Ye  can, 
Ye  will  not  show  unio  a  woman's  eyes 
That  bloody  consummation,  not  to  mine. 
Oh,  thou  that  speakest  in  that  brazen  tone 
Implacable,  the  last  time  thou  and  I 
Discoursed,  ihy  voice  was  broken,  tender,  soft, 
Remember'st  thou  ?  't  was  then  as  it  had  caught 
The  trembling  of  the  moonlight,  that  lay  round 
With  rapturous  disquiet  bathing  us. 
Remember'st  thou?"—  Almost  the  Judgment  sword 
Fell  from  ihe  Avenger's  failing  hand,  but  firm 
He  grasp'd  it,  and  with  eyes  to  heaven  upturn'd, 
"  Oh,  duty,  duty,  why  art  thou  so  stern  ?" 
Then,  "  Lady,  lo,  the  headsman  with  his  steel ; 
To  that  dark  Priest  't  is  given  to  sacrifice 
The  victim  of  to-day— depart!  depart! 
Colours  may  flow  too  deep  for  woman's  sight. 
And  sounds  may  burst  too  drear  for  woman's  ear." 

Stately  as  lily  on  a  sunshine  bank. 
Shaken  from  its  curl'd  leaves  the  o'ercharging  dew. 
Freshens  and  strengthens  its  bow"d  stem,  so  white 
So  brightening  lo  a  pale  cold  pride,  a  faint 
And  trembling  majesty,  Rowena  sate. 
On  Hengist's  dropping  lip  and  knitted  brow- 
Was  mockery  at  her  fate-opposing  prayer. 
And  that  was  all.     But  she—"  Proud-hearted  Men, 
Ye  vainly  deem  your  privilege,  your  right, 
Prerogative  of  your  high-minded  race. 
The  glory  of  endurance,  and  the  state 
Of  strong  resolving  fortitude.     Here  I, 
A  woman  born  to  melt  and  faint  and  fail, 
A  frail,  a  delicate,  dying  woman,  sit 
To  shame  ye."    She  endured  the  flashing  stroke 
Of  th'  axe  athwart  her  eyesight,  and  the  blood 
That  sprung  around  her  she  endured  :  still  kept 
The  lily  its  unbroken  siatelines.s. 
And  its  pellucid  beauty  sparkled,  still. 
But  all  its  odours  were  exhaled— the  breath 
Of  life,  the  tremulous  motion  was  at  rest; 
A  flower  of  marble  on  a  temple  wall, 
'T  was  fair  but  lived  not,  glitler'd  but  was  cold. 
While  from  the  headless  corpse  t'  its  great  account 
Went  fiercely  forth  the  Pagan's  haughty  soul. 

337 


328 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


^%xm  JJolegn; 

A    DRAMATIC    POEM. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  subject  of  the  following  Drama  had  long  ap- 
peared to  me  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  purposes  of 
Poetry.  I  had,  some  time  ago,  imagined  a  sketch,  in 
a  great  degree  similar  to  that  which  I  have  now  filled 
up.  The  course  of  professional  Study,  which  led  me 
to  the  early  Annals  of  our  Church,  recalled  it  to  my 
remembrance,  and,  as  it  w'ere,  forced  it  on  my  atten- 
tion. In  the  outline  of  the  Plot,  and  the  development 
of  the  characters,  especially  that  of  Anne  Boleyn,  I 
have  endeavoured  to  preserve  historical  truth:  where 
History  is  silent,  I  have  given  free  scope  to  poetic 
license,  and  introduced  a  character  entirely  imaginary. 
In  endeavouring  to  embody  that  awful  spirit  of  fana- 
ticism— the  more  awful,  because  strictly  conscientious 
— which  was  arrayed  against  our  early  Reformers,  I 
hope  to  be  considered  as  writing  of  those  times  alone. 
The  representation  of  the  manner  in  which  bigotry 
hardens  into  intolerance,  intolerance  into  cruelty  and 
an  infringement  on  the  great  eternal  principles  of 
morality,  can  never  be  an  unprofitable  lesson.  The 
Annals  of  all  Nations,  in  which  Reformation  was  be- 
gun or  completed  ;  those  of  the  League  in  France,  of 
the  Low  Countries  and  Spain,  as  well  as  of  England, 
will  fully  bear  me  out  in  the  picture  which  I  have 
drawn ;  but  I  have  no  hesitation  in  asserting  that 
even  in  those  times  the  wise  and  good  among  the 
Roman  Catholics  reprobated,  as  strongly  as  ourselves, 
the  sanguinary  and  unprincipled  means  by  which  the 
Power  of  the  Papacy  was  maintained.  I  should  ob- 
serve, that  I  have,  I  trust  with  no  unpardonable  ana- 
chronism, anticipated  the  perfect  organization  of  that 
Society,  from  which,  as  Robertson  has  with  justice 
stated,  "  mankind  have  derived  more  advantages,  and 
received  greater  injuries,  than  from  any  other  of  the 
religious  fraternities."  Though  its  Foimder  had  al- 
ready made  many  proselytes,  the  Society  was  not 
formally  incorjiorated  till  about  five  years  after  the 
death  of  Anne  Roleyn. 

It  may  appear  almost  superfluous  to  add,  that  the 
manner  in  which  the  Poem  is  written,  as  well  as  the 
religious  nature  of  the  interest,  must  for  ever  pre- 
clude it  from  public  representation. 


CHARACTERS. 


The  .i^uthor  of  a  Tragedy,  recently  published  under 
the  same  name,  having  pointed  out  some  coincidences 
of  expression  between  his  Drama  and  mine,  I  beg  to 
state,  most  explicitly,  that  previous  to  the  publication 
of  Anne  Boleyn,  I  had  never  seen,  either  in  MS.  or 
print,  any  contemporary  Poem  on  the  same  subject. 


MEN. 
King  Henry  VIII. 
Archbishop  Cranmer. 
Stephen'  Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester. 
Lord  Rochford,  Brother  of  Queen  Anne. 
Duke  of  Norfolk. 
Sir  Henry  Norreys,       •\ 

Sir  Francis  Weston,      y- Attendants onQueen Anne. 
Sir  William  Brereton,  j 

Sir  William  Kingston,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 
Angelo  Caraffa,  a  follower  of  Ignatius  Loyola. 
Mark  Sjieaton. 

W  O  M  E  N. 
Queen  Anne. 
Countess  of  Rochford. 
Countess  of  Wiltshire,  Mother  of  Queen  Anne. 
Magdalene  S.meaton. 


ANNE   BOLEYN. 


SCENE. 
A  small  Garden  near  Westminster. 
Mark  S.meaton,  Magdalene  Smeaton. 
magdalene. 
Oh  welcome,  welcome — though  I  scarcely  hoped 
That  he  who  long  hath  dwelt  in  foreign  climes, 
And  now  comes  wearing  the  proud  garb  of  Courts, 
Would  waste  the  precious  treasure  of  a  thought 
On  poor  forgotten  sister  Magdalene. 

MARK. 

Still  the  same  humble  tender  Magdalene, 
Who  deems,  that  none  can  rate  her  modest  worth 
More  high  than  her  retiring  self     Sweet  sister, 
I  would  not  wound  thy  heaven-devoted  ears 
With  the  unwonted  sounds  of  worldly  flattery; 
But  in  far  distant  climes,  'mid  strangers'  faces, 
That  night  was  sweetest  when  I  dream'd  of  thee, 
Our  native  garden  here,  our  little  world 
Of  common  joys  and  sorrows. 

MAGDALENE. 

Dearest  Mark, 
The  heart  deems  truth  whate'er  it  wishes  true. 
And  wilt  thou  now  and  then  steal  hither  to  me. 
When  thou  'rt  not  call'd  for  at  the  Court  ?  wilt  bring 

338 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


329 


Thy  music,  such  as  in  the  roynl  Chapel 

Thou  'rt  wont  to  sing  >.  Rude  though  mine  ear,  it  loves 

Thy  music,  brother. 

MARK. 

Dearest,  yes,  I  'II  bring 
All  these,  ami  hymns  (iirbiilden  there  ;  there's  one 
Was  taiisht  me  by  a  simple  (Isher-boy, 
That  sail'il  the  azure  tide  of  that  bright  bay 
That  laves  the  walls  of  \aples:  as  he  sung — 
What  time  the  midnight  waves  were  slarr'd  with  barks, 
Each  with  its  single  glow-wnrm  lamp,  that  tipt 
The  waters  round  with  rippling  lines  of  light — 
You  would  have  thought  Heaven's  queen  had  strew'd 

around 
Silence,  like  that  among  the  stars,  when  pause 
The  Angels  in  ecstatic  adoration. 

.MA(il)ALENE. 

Speak  on,  speak  on ! — Were  it  a  stranger's  voii^e 
That  thus  discoursed,  I  could  lose  days  in  listening; 
But  thine 

MARK. 

O!  Magdalene,  thou  know'st  not  here 
Incur  chill,  damp,  and  heavy  atmosphere. 
The  power,  might,  magic,  mystery  of  sweet  sounds ! 
Oh!  on  some  rock  to  sit,  the  twilight  winds 
Breathing  all  odour  by — at  intervals 
To  hear  the  hymnines  of  some  virgin  choir, 
With  pauses  musical  as  music's  self, 
Come  swelling  up  from  deep  and  unseen  distance  : 
Or  under  some  vast  dome,  like  Eieaven's  blue  cope, 
All  fidl  anil  living  with  the  liquid  deluge 
Of  harmnnv,  till  pillars,  walls,  and  aisles, 
The  altar  paintinas  and  cold  images. 
Catch  life  and  motion,  and  the  weight  of  feeling 
Lies  like  a  load  upon  the  breathless  bosom ! 
But  speaking  thus,  hours  will  seem  minutes,  sister, 
And 

MAGDALENE. 

Thou  wouldst  sav  farewell.    Yet  ere  we  part 
I  long  to  speak  one  word — I  dare  not  say 
Of  counsel — but  the  love,  whose  only  study 
Is  one  heart's  book,  gains  deeper  knowledge,  Mark, 
Of  its  dark  leaves,  than  schools  can  teach,  or  man 
Learn  from  his  fellow  men. 

MARK. 

Sage  monitress ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh!  Mark,  Mark — in  one  cradle  were  we  laid. 

Our  souls  were  born  together,  bred  together; 

In  all  thy  thoushis.  emotions,  my  fond  love 

Anticipated  thine  own  consciousness; 

I  felt  them,  ere  thyself  knew  thine  own  feelings: 

And  never  vet  impetuous  wish  was  born 

In  that  warm  heart,  but,  till  fulfilment  crown'd  it, 

Thou  vvert  its  slave — its  bf)unden,  fetler'd  slave. 

Oh !  watch  thyself,  mistrust,  fear 

MARK. 

What  ? 

M.\GDALENE. 

W'hy  all  things. — 
In  that  loi«e  Court,  thev  say,  each  hard  observance, 
Fast,  penance,  all  the  rites  of  holy  Church, 


Are  scofTd  ;  the  dainty  limbs  are  all  loo  proud 
T'  endure  the  chastening  sackcloth.     Sin  is  still 
Contagious:  like  herself  are  those  that  wait 
On  that  heretical  and  wicked  Queen. 

MARK. 

The  wicked  Queen! — oh!  sister,  dearest  sister, 
For  the  first  time  I  'd  see  thy  pure  check  burn 
With  penitent  tears;    go  kneel,  and   ask  Heaven's 

pardon — 
Scourge  thv  misjudging  heart — the  wicked  Queen! 
Heaven's  livins  miracle  of  all  its  graces! 
There  's  not  a  breathing  being  in  her  presence 
Rut  watches  the  least  motion  of  a  look, 
Th'  nnutter'd  intimation  of  desire. 
And  lives  upon  the  hope  of  doing  service. 
That  done,  is  like  the  joy  blest  .Angels  feel 
In  minist'ring  to  prayers  of  holiest  Saints. 
Authority  she  wears  as  't  were  her  birthright; 
And  when  our  rooted  knees  would  grow  to  earth 
In  adoration,  rea.ssuring  gaiety 
Makes  the  soul  smile  at  its  own  fears. 

MAGDALENE. 

But,  Mark, 
Believes  she  as  the  Church  believes  ? 

MARK. 

I  know-  not 
\Vhat  she  believes — I  see  but  what  she  does. 
Loose  Court,  and  shameless  Queen! — her  audience 
Is  of  the  wretched,  destitute,  f()rlorn  : 
The  usher  to  that  Court  is  Beggary, 
And  Want  the  chamberlain ;  her  flatterers,  those 
W^hose  eloquence  is  full  and  bursting  hearts; 
Her  parasites,  wan  troops  of  starving  men 
Round    the    full    furnish'd   board  —  pale  dowerless 
I  maids — 

Nuns,  like  thyself,  cast  forth  from  their  chaste  cloisters 
To  meet  the  bitter  usage  of  the  world  ; 
W'hile  holiest  men  are  ever  in  her  presence: 
Nor  can  their  lavish  charity  exhaust 
The  treasures  of  her  goodness. 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh  I  Mark,  Mark- 
My  only  joy  on  earth — that,  if  my  soul 
E'er  dream'd  of  Heaven,  wert  evermore  a  part, 
Th'  intelligible  part  of  its  full  bliss. 
Thou  art  not  warp'd  by  pride  of  new  opinion? 

MARK. 

Is  't  new  t'  adore  the  mineled  consummation 
Of  beauty,  gentleness,  and  goodness  ? 

MAGDALENE. 

Cease ! 
For  this,  for  hearing  this,  I  must  do  penance — 
Fast,  weep,  and  pray;  and,  oh!  beware,  beware — 
The  holy  Father  comes,  whose  keen  eve  reads 
The  inmost  soul ;  I  've  felt  him  pluck  the  thought, 
I  dared  not  speak,  from  its  dark  sandnnry 
r  the  heart,  and  cast  it  down  before  mine  eves 
Till  my  soul  shudder'd  at  its  own  corruption. 
He  sees  us  not — stand  back — 't  were  ill  t'  intrude 
Upon  his  saintly  privacy,  whose  soul 
Haply  is  prostrate  at  Our  Ladv's  feet, 
I  In  our  behalf,  his  poor  unworthy  flock. 

339 


330 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Half  of  his  life,  our  lady  Abbess  says, 

Is  spent  in  Heaven,  while  the  pale  body  here 

Pines  in  the  absence  of  its  nobler  guest. 

MARK. 

How,  Angelo! 

MAGDALENE. 

Peace,  peace;  seal  lips  and  ears. 

{They  retire. 

Angelo  Caraffa. 

angelo  caraffa. 

They  cross'd  me,  and  I  needs  must  follow — to  the 

Abbey; 
T'  insult  their  fathers'  graves ;  to  mock  the  Saints 
That  from  the  high  empurpled  windows  glare 
On  the  proud  worshippers,  whose  .serret  hearts 
Disdain  their  intercession;  scarce  a  lamb 
Burnt  on  the  prayerless  shrines,  and  here  and  there 
Some  wan  sad  vot'ress,  in  Our  Lady's  chapel, 
Listening  in  vain  for  the  full  anihcm,  told 
Her  beads,  and  shrunk  from  her  own  lonely  voice. 
But  when  I  saw  the  Arch-heretic  enrobed 
Tn  the  cope  and  pall  of  mitred  Canterbury, 
Lift  the  dread  Host  with  misbelieving  hands, 
And  heard  another's  voice  profane  read  out. 
In  their  own  dissonant  and  barbarous  tongue. 
The  living  word  of  God,  the  choking  wrath 
Convulsed  my  throat,  and  hurrying  forth  I  sought 
A  secret  and  unechoing  place,  t'  unload 
My  burthen'd  heart  I 

'T  was  the  first  time — the  last 
That  holy  Indignation  hath  o'erleap'd 
Wisdom's  strong  barriers — the  ill-govern'd  features 
Play'd  traitor  to  the  close-wrapt  heart. 

But  thou 
That  art  a  part  of  God's  dread  majesty. 
In  whose  dusk  robe  his  own  disastrous  purposes 
Th'  Almighty  veils,  twin-born  with  Destiny, 
Inexorable  Secrecy  !  come,  cowl 
This  soul  in  deep  impervious  blackness! — Grant 
I  may  deny  myself  the  pride  and  fame 
Of  bringing  back  this  loose  apostate  land 
To  the  true  Faith.     Be  all  mine  agency 
Secret  as  are  the  springs  of  living  fire 
In  the  world's  centre;  bury  deep  my  name. 
That  mortal  eye  ne'er  read  it,  till  emblazed 
Amid  the  roll  of  Christ's  great  Saints  and  Martyrs 
It  shake  away  the  oblivious  gloom  of  ages. 

Angelo,  Mark,  Magdalene. 

ANGELO. 

Ye  may  approach — the  youth,  or  I  mistake. 
Of  whom  Saavedra  wrote,  whose  dulcet  voice 
And  skilful  handling  the  sweet  lute  were  famed 
Through  Italy — most  fiiir  report,  young  man. 
Hath  been  thy  harbinger. 

■MARK. 

Good  reverend  fither. 
That  men  so  wise,  whose  words  are  treasured  counsels 
To  mightiest  Kmgs,  should  deign  to  note  a  name 
Like  mine,  moves  wonder. 


ANGELO. 

Youth,  thou  hast  a  soul, 
For  which  thy  spiritual  guide  must  answer. 
As  for  a  Monarch's ;  in  her  care,  the  Church 
That  guards  the  loftiest,  ne'er  o'erlooks  the  meanesL 
Thou'rt  new  about  the  Court,  and  our  good  Queen, 
With  gracious  affability,  will  sit 
Listening  to  thy  sweet  languaged  lute ;  thou  'rt  there 
In  high  esteem. 

MARK. 

Her  Highness  hath  been  pleased 
To  hear  me  more  than  once  ;  but  word  of  praise 
From  her  had  been  a  treasure,  that  my  memory 
Had  laid  in  store,  for  my  whole  life  to  brood  on. 
ANGELO  (aside). 

So  warm  ! 1  had  forgot  thy  station,  youth ; 

But  with  the  great  we  rank  far  less  by  birth 
Than  estimation ;  and  the  power  of  ministering 
To  their  delight  becomes  nobility. 

MARK. 

What  ? — says  your  wisdom  so  ? 

ANGELO. 

Good  youth,  I  charge  thee, 
Cherish  that  modesty  that  well  becomes  thee; 
But  yet  if  Fame  belie  thee  not,  thy  (Mwers 
May  bind  high-scoped  Advancement  to  thy  service — 
Thou  mayst  compete  ere  long  with — which  affects 
Her  Majesty  most  of  her  servants  ? 

MARK. 

Each 
Partakes  alike  of  that  all-winning  ease — 
Not  the  proud  condescension,  which  disdains 
Most  manifestly  when  it  stoops  the  lowest — 
All  are  her  slaves,  seeming  almost  her  equals: 
She 's  loved — 

ANGELO. 

Enough  I — Report  speaks  bounteously 
Of  Henry  Norreys :  he  and  William  Brereton 
And  Francis  Weston,  are  about  her  still — 

MARK. 

Not  one,  I  believe,  would  deem  his  life 
111  barter'd  for  her  service — 

ANGELO. 

And  Lord  Rochford, 
Her  noble  brother — as  a  Poet,  youth. 
His  art  is  kindred  to  thine  own,  its  rival 
In  making  the  mute  air  we  breathe  an  element 
Of  purest  intellectual  joy — the  Queen 
To  her  close  privacy  admits. 

MARK.  '. 

I  've  heard 
She  takes  delight  beyond  all  words  to  hear 
Our  harsher  English  tongue,  by  his  smooth  skill. 
And  noble  Surrey's,  and  learn'd  Wyatt's,  flow 
Melodious,  as  the  honey-lipp'd  Italian. 

ANGELO. 

'Tis  well.  Thyorphan'd  youth,  I  learn. Mark Smeaton, 
Wants  that  imperious  curb  Heaven  delegates 
To  parents'  hands;  mine  order,  rank,  and  station 
Give  to  my  councils  th'  impress  of  command  : 
I  charge  thee  then,  by  thine  own  soul — beware — 

340 


ANNE    BOLEYN, 


331 


Should  golden  honours,  as  belike  ihey  may. 

Shower  on  thee,  wear  them  still  with  humbleness. 

Serve  that  bewitching  but  too  easy  Queen 

Assiduously,  but  still  honourably. 

Aspire  not,  by  whatever  voice  thou  'rt  summon'd, 

To  perilous  distinction  ;  youth,  again 

I  say,  lake  heed — one  single  day  omit  not, 

On  forfeiture  of  my  paternal  care. 

To  pour  thy  full  confessing  soul  before  me. 

MARK. 

What  can  your  Wisdom  mean  ? 

MAGDALENE. 

He  means,  dear  brother. 
To  merit  Iiis  poor  servants'  prayers  for  this — 
Prayers  that  shall  mount  before  the  earliest  lark, 
Earth's  first  thanksgiving  voice,  I'  indulgent  Heaven. 
Withdraw,  withdraw,  he  heeds  no  more — away. 

[Exeunt. 

ANGELO. 

That  warning  was  a  master-stroke  :  it  brings 

The  impossible  within  the  scope  of  thought; 

We  do  forbid  but  what  may  come  to  pass  ; 

And  he  will  brood  on  it,  because  forbidden, 

Till  his  whole  soul  is  madness.     All  the  rest 

Are  full  of  their  proud  honour,  and  disdain 

To  torture  with  vain  villanous  misconstruction 

Each  innocent  phrase  to  looseness.     Cursed  woman ! 

'Gainst  whom  remorselessness  is  loftiest  duty. 

And  mercy  sin  beyond  Heaven's  grace — thinkst  thou 

To  be  a  Queen,  and  dare  to  be  a  woman 

Play  fool  upon  thy  dizzy  precipice, 

Nor  smile,  nor  word,  nor  look,  nor  thought  but's  noted 

In  our  dark  registers ;  each  playful  jest 

Is  chronicled,  and  we  are  rich  in  all 

That 's  ocular  proof  and  circumstance  of  guilt 

To  jealousy's  distemper'd  ear. 

And  thou, 
Proud  King!  the  Church's  head ! — each  lustful  thought, 
Each  murttierous  deed,  is  a  new  link  of  the  chain 
By  which  our  slaves  are  trammell'd  :  we  '11  let  slip 
Thy  own  fierce  passions,  ruthless  as  the  dogs 
Of  war,  to  prey  on  thy  obdurate  heart ; 
And  they  shall  drag  thee  down,  base,  suppliant. 
Beneath  our  feet — or  drive  thee  maddening  on, 
A  hideous  monster  of  all  guilt,  to  fright 
The  world  from  its  apostasy,  and  brand 
The  Heretic  cause  with  thy  eternal  shame. 


WhitehJh. 
Queen  Anne,  Attendants,  her  Almoner. 

ALMONER. 

So  please  your  Majesty,  your  pensioners 
Flock  in  such  hungry  and  still  gathering  troops, 
The  table 's  full. 

QUEEN. 

Then,  Sir,  spread  more ;  the  Queen 
Commands  it. 

AL-MONTIR. 

But  the  cost,  your  Grace  ! 

QIJEEN. 

Weigh  that 
When  thou  dost  serve  ourself,  not  our  poor  neighbours. 
28*  2R 


Why  sate  I  down  but  yesterday,  'mid  pomps 
And  luxuries  that  might  have  fed  a  village  ? 
Go  coin  those  wines,  barter  lor  homelier  cafes 
Those  candied  suiierfluities. 

ALMONER. 

It  stands  not 
With  the  King's  honour  thus  to  mulct  and  limit 
Your  Highness'  state. 

QVKE.fi. 

Still  less.  Sir,  to  contract 
And  weigh  with  base  frugality  the  alms 
His  Grace  bestows  through  me,  his  humble  agent. 
The  Bounty  of  the  King,  Heaven's  delegate. 
Should  be  as  Heaven's:  the  Sun,  that  through  the 

grate 
Of  some  barr'd  dungeon  lights  the  pallid  cheek 
Of  the  poor  prisoner,  is  a  gracious  gift ; 
But  that  which  argues  the  great  God  of  Nature 
Is  the  rich  prodigality  of  light. 
That  kindles  the  wide  universal  sky 
And  gladdens  worlds.     But  to  descend  to  truths 
Of  homelier  prudence.    'T  is  not  w  ell  to  feast 
A  lazy  herd  of  sleek  unlabouring  drones. 
Most  true.  Sir ;  but  his  Majesty  hath  pleased 
To  take  some  certain  Convents  and  rich  Abbeys 
Into  his  royal  hands ;  they,  that  were  bred 
To  sun  themselves  in  careless  indolence. 
Are  cast  abroad  to  buffet  the  hard  world 
For  bare  subsistence  ;  even  the  once  mitred  Lords 
Of  manors,  benefices,  lands,  and  palaces, 
111  husbanding  their  limited  maintenance, 
Are  brought  to  beggary  and  painful  want: 
Therefore  our  bounty  must  outrun  awhile 
Our  better  wisdom. 

ALMONER. 

I  obey  your  Highness. 
auEEN. 
And  have  our  best  thanks  for  your  prudent  caution 
As  for  j'our  prompt  compliance. — 

Gracious  Heaven  I 
I  thought  a  throne  would  give  the  power  of  blessing 
Illimitable — to  speak,  were  to  make  glad 
All  hearts.     Alas!  the  higher  we  aspire. 
The  wider  spreads  beneath  us  the  dark  scene 
Of  human  wretchedness,  which  even  to  lighten 
Wants  not  Heaven's  goodness  only,  but  Heaven  s 

wisdom. 
While  easy  mischief  waits  on  meanest  minds. 
The  idiot  with  a  wanton  brand  may  fire 
Th'  imperial  city,  a  base  beggar's  brood 
Infect  a  paradise  with  pestilence. 
While  deep-laid  schemes  of  princeliest  goodness  end 
In  wider  evil,  and  thrice  heavier  ruin. 
Ye  smile  to  hear  these  solemn  arguments 
Upon  these  laughter-loving  lips. 

LADY    ROCHFORD. 

Your  Iliffhness 
Is  ever  thus,  or  gladdening  with  your  mirth 
Or  teaching  with  your  wisdom. 

QUEEN. 

Lady  Rochfiird, 
Might  I  not  add  that  thou  art  ever  flattering? 

341 


332 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  brother's  wife  should  loo  sincerely  love 
To  pamper  a  vain  heart  with  praise. 

LADY  ROCHFORD  (aside). 

Still  shamed 
And  still  rebuked — curse  on  her  proud  humility! 

auEEN. 
Enough  of  this — in  truth  the  board  that  led 
To  this  grave  reasoning  forces  oft  a  smile 
Even  on  Compassion's  tearful  face;  the  strange, 
The  motley  groups!  the  doubts,  the  awe,  the  fears, 
The  pride  of  beggary  !    There  are,  who  patch. 
As  though  in  honour  of  the  royal  feast. 
With  scarlet  and  rich  hues  their  loose-hung  tatters; 
And  some  will  creep,  as  they  were  led  to  justice. 
Along  the  hall,  and  the  next  instant  pledge, 
Like  jovial  courtiers,  the  Queen's  health.     But  those 
Of  the  old  religion  move  me  most.    They  steal 
Reluctant  with  suspicious  steps,  each  instant 
Crossing  themselves,  to  exorcise,  no  doubt, 
The  fiends  beneath  the  board :  each  time  they  touch 
Or  dish  or  flagon,  they  renew  the  charm. 
As  though  the  viands  flavour'd  of  rank  heresy, 
And  't  were  a  deadly  sin  to  taste  the  dole 
Of  wicked  Gospeller.     Last  noon  came  in 
Two  maids,  whose  tatter'd  veils  but  ill  conceal'd 
Their  wan  and  famine-sunken  cheeks,  not  worn 
With  holy  fast,  but  bitter  withering  want; 
Desperate  they  ate,  as  conscious  of  their  sin : 
Anon  a  pattering  sound  of  beads  I  heard, 
A  voice  half  breathless  muttering  broken  Aves; 
Lo,  the  good  lady  Abbess,  come  to  save 
Iler  soul-endanger'd  charge ;  but,  sad  to  tell. 
The  tempting  iumes  o'erpovver'd  her  holy  rigour, 
And  the  grave  mother  to  the  flesh-pots  fell. 

ATTEND.VNT. 

Madam,  the  Countess  Wiltshire. 

Lady  Wiltshire. 

lady  wiltshire. 

Dearest  .Anne ! 
My  child  ! — Your  Highness'  pardon  ;  my  old  lips 
Will  never  learn  th'  unwonted  reverence  ; 
Still  clings  the  old  familiar  fondness  round  me. 

QUEEN. 

Dear  mother,  have  I  ceased  to  be  your  child 
Being  a  Queen  ?  for  your  attendance,  Ladies, 
We  thank  you,  and  ere  long  may  task  your  service; 
But  now — in  truth  I  play  the  Queen  but  ill 
Beside  the  cradle  of  my  child — and  thus 

Within  my  mother's  arms 

[T/ie  Ladies  retire. 

LADY   WILTSHIRE. 

Oh  !  who  had  thought 
Our  little  playful  Anne,  all  mirth  and  frolic. 
The  veriest  madcap  that  ere  made  a  mother 
Tremble,  rejoice,  and  smile,  and  weep  at  once, 
Should  sit  on  England's  throne  ?  Nay,  if  thou  bribe  not 
My  garrulous  age,  I  may  betray  strange  tales 
Not  all  beseeming  the  high  sceptred  state 
Of  the  Queen's  majesty. 


QUirEN. 

I  much  mistrust  you — 
In  truth  I  do. 

LADY  WILTSHIRE. 

Well,  Heaven  be  praised  for  all. 
Chiefly  that  I  and  thy  good  Father,  Anne, 
Have  lived  with  our  own  eyes  to  witness  it. 
And  now,  come  when  it  will,  thou  'It  have  me  buried 
In  royal  state;  my  funeral  pomp  shall  have 
Sceptres  and  royal  scutcheons  in  its  train : 
I  '11  not  endure  that  my  base  epitaph 
Write  me  plain  wife  of  good  Sir  Thomas  Boleyn; 
I  'II  be  emblazed  in  characters  of  gold, 
The  mother  of  Queen  Anne. 

QUEEN. 

Ay,  in  good  time,  i 

Some  twenty  years  or  mere  we  '11  think  of  this  : 
But,  by  my  faith,  best  mother,  there's  no  joy  I 

Of  all  that  wait  like  chain'd  and  harness'd  slaves         j 
Around  the  thrones  of  kings — the  pomp,  the  splendou      j 
Tlie  hearty  voice  of  popular  acclaim. 
The  grave  esteem  of  godly  men,  the  power 
Boundless  of  succouring  the  distress'd,  the  grace  i 

And  favour  of  a  royal  Husband,  worthiest,  j 

Were  he  a  peasant,  of  our  fondest  dotage ;  t 

The  consciousness  of  being  a  humble  means 
To  build  anew  Christ's  desolated  Church —  I 

There 's  nought  more  full,  sincere,  and  rapturous-^  ' 
nought —  I 

Than  thus  repaying  all  the  pains,  the  prayers  ! 

Of  her  that  bore  me,  nursed  me,  train'd  me  up  i 

To  this  high  doom,  making  me  like  herself  | 

Mother,  all  other  joys  make  my  cheek  smile  ; 
But  thy  afl[ectionate  and  blameless  pride 
Makes  gladness  speak  her  truer  language — tears:    ' 
And  here  comes  one  will  not  rebuke  our  weeping, 
My  noble  Rochford. 

Lord  Rochford. 

rochford. 

Does  yoiy  Highness  pardon 
This  bold  intrusion  ? 

QUEEN. 

I  will  pardon  all 
But  this  cold  courteous  ceremony  : 
I  would  not.  Brother,  fiir  my  throne,  fijrego 
My  station  in  thy  heart.    Wert  thou  a  sinuiger, 
Thy  letter'd  fiinie  had  given  thee  entrance  here. 
'Tis  such  as  thou  adorn  a  court,  less  honour'd 
Than  honouring;  (of  "^'ou  Poets  hold  a  court 
Which  whoso  visits  not  hath  lost  all  title 
To  that  nobility  which  lives  (or  ages. 
Where  Kings  are  proud  to  enter.     There's  no  clime 
Nor  age  not  even  the  Heaven  of  Heavens,  but  sends. 
I  Summon'd  by  your  plumed  herald  Fanlaisie, 
Its  embassage  of  noblest  images 
To  do  you  service  ;  and  ye  entertain  them 
Right  royally,  do  make  them  move  to  music 
That  they  forget  the  sounds  of  their  own  spheres. 

ROCHFORD. 

Your  Highness ! 

QUEE.N. 

Nay,  your  Sister  I 

342 


ANNE   BOLEYN. 


333 


ROCHFOBO. 

Sweet  rebuke : 
Dear  Sister,  I  've  been  toiling  in  your  service, 
Or  rather  turning  toil  to  sweet  delight; 
I've  been  enriching  my  rude  verse  with  thoughts 
■    I  stole  from  thee  in  that  religious  converse 
We  held  some  days  ago,  when  we  discuss'd 
The  vain  idolatries  of  Rome,  adoring 
With  dispro|x)rtionaie  and  erring  reverence 
The  Holv  Virgin.     I  've  a  hymn,  methinks 
Will  not  otrend. — Will 't  please  your  Highness  hear  it? 

QUEEN'. 

'    Most  willingly,  it  suits  the  hour — for  eve, 
That  steals  so  softly  on  the  quiet  world. 
Seems  made  for  solemn  music,  even  as  nature 
Breathed  silence  over  all  in  earth  and  Heaven, 

;    Vocal  alone  with  grateful  man's  thanksgiving. 

ROCHFORD. 

Here — call  Mark  Smeaton,  bid  him  bring  his  lute. 
7716  above,  Smeaton. 

ROCHFORD. 

Now,  bov.  that  tune  I  told  thee  of  within ; 
And  look  thou  touch  it  masterly  :  her  Grace 
Hath  that  nice  ear  that  vibrates  to  the  touch 
Of  harmony,  so  tremblingly  alive, 
The  slightest  discord  jars  on  it  like  anguish. 
.    Not  with  that  shaking  hand — 

Look,  the  Queen  smiles! 
Right,  boy,  thou  own'st  that  inspiration. 

The  Protestant's  Hymn  to  the  Virgin. 
1. 
Oh!  Virgin  Mother!  not  with  choral  hymn 
'    Around  the  lamp-deck'd  altar  high  and  dim, 
Where  silver  bells  are  faintly  ringing. 
And  odorous  censers  lightly  swinging; 
Till  blazing  forth  above,  beneath,  around. 
Rolls  the  full  organ's  never-ceasing  sound : 
[     Not  with  the  costly  gift  of  gold  and  gem. 
Where  thy  enshrined  image  stands, 
Loveliest,  though  framed  by  daring  human  hands, 
j     And  halo'd  with  thy  sun-like  diadem: 
1     Not  with  the  deep  devotion  of  the  heart, 
Close  folded  arms  across  the  heaving  breast, 
And  words  that  find  no  breath,  and  sighs  supprest — 
Mary,  w'e  seek  not  thee 
With  suppliant  agony 
Of  burning  tears,  that  all  unbidden  start; 
To  mortal  name  our  jealous  souls  deny 
The  incommunicable  meed  of  Deity. 

2. 
And  thou,  where'er  thy  everla-sting  seat — 
If  ever  human  prayer,  with  noise  unmeet, 
Up  to  thy  radiant  throne  on  high. 
Ascend  through  the  reluctant  sky; 
Or  earthly  music  its  fond  notes  intrude 
Upon  the  silence  of  beatitude: 
Lowliest  as  loveliest  among  mortal  maids! 
With  all  the  grief  that  may  abate 
The  changeless  bliss  of  thy  empyreal  state. 
Ever  thy  sad  dejected  look  upbraids 


The  misdirected  homage,  vain  and  blind; 

Aside  thou  turnest  thy  oflcndcd  cars 

Where  one  Hosanna  fills  th'  acclaiming  spheres; 

Oh!  conscious  child  of  Eve, 

Mary,  thy  soul  doth  grieve 
At  godhead's  sacred  rite  to  thee  a.ssign'd ; 
Mourning  the  rash  unholy  injury  done 
To  the  redeeming  name  of  thy  Almighty  Son! 

3. 
Yet  ne'er  Incarnate  Godhead  might  reside. 
Save  where  his  conscious  presence  glorified; 

Thee,  therefore,  lovelier  far  we  deem 

Than  eye  may  see  or  soul  may  dream. 
Unchanged — unwasted  by  the  pains  of  earth. 
Thou  didst  bring  forth  the  (air  immortal  birth : 
And  Hope  and  Faith,  and  deep  maternal  Joy, 

And  Love,  and  not  unholy  I'ride, 

With  soft  unevanescent  glory  dyed 
Thy  cheeks,  while  gazing  on  the  peerless  boy; 
And  surer  than  prophetic  consciousness. 
That  he  was  born  all  human-kind  to  bless ! 
The  musical  and  peopled  air  was  dim, 
Mary,  where'er  thy  haunt. 
With  angels  visitant. 
Nor  always  did  the  viewless  Seraphim 
Stand  with  their  plumed  glories  unconfest, 
To  see  the  Eternal  Child  while  cradled  on  thy  breast. 

4. 

And  what,  though  in  the  winter,  bleak  and  wild. 
Thou  didst  bring  forth  the  unregarded  child, 
The  summon'd  star  made  haste  to  shine 
Upon  that  new-born  face  divine. 
And  the  low  dwelling  of  the  stabled  beast 
Shone  with  the  homage  of  the  gorgeous  East. 
Though  driven  far  off  to  Nilus'  reedy  shore, 
As  thou  didst  slake  thy  burning  feet, 
Where  o'er  the  desert  fount  the  arching  palm- 
trees  meet : 
Still  its  soft  pillow'd  charge  thy  bosom  bore; 
And  thou  didst  watch  in  rapture  his  sweet  sleep; 
Or  gaze,  while  sportive  he  thy  locks  carest, 
'  Or  drank  the  living  fo\mtain  of  thy  breast. 
Yet,  Mary,  o'er  thy  soul 
A  silent  sadness  stole. 
Nor  could  thy  swelling  eyes  refuse  1o  weep. 
For  Rachel,  desolate,  in  agony, 
And  Bethlehem's  mothers  childless  all  but  thee. 


Nor  fail'd  thy  watchful  spirit  to  behold 
The  secret  inborn  Deity  unfold  : 

Nor  e'er  without  a  painless  awe. 
The  wonderous  youth  the  mother  saw  ; 
For  in  the  Baptist's  playful  love  nppear'd 
The  homage  of  a  heart  that  almost  fear'd  : 
And  though  in  meek  subjection  still  he  dwelt 
Beneath  thy  husband's  lowly  home. 
Oft  from  his  lips  would  words  mysterious  come ; 
The  soul  untaught  the  present  Saviour  felt. 
As  more  than  prophet  rajitnres  o'er  him  broke, 
And  fuller  still  the  inspiration  pour'd, 
Half-bow'd  to  earth  unconscious  knees  adored : 

343 


334 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Mary,  before  thy  sight, 

The  wonder-working  might. 
Prerogative  of  highest  Godhead  woke; 
Unfearful  yet ! — when  instant  at  his  sign, 
The  water  vessels  blush'd  with  generous  wine. 

6. 

Blest  o'er  ail  women  ;  did  thy  heart  repress, 

Humble  as  chaste,  each  thought  of  loftiness, 
When  wonder  after  wonder  burst 
Around  the  child  thy  bosom  nurst; — 

The  dumb  began  to  sing,  the  lame  to  leap ; 

His  unwet  footsteps  trod  the  unyielding  deep; 

Still  at  his  word  disease  and  anguish  ceased, 
And  healthful  blood  began  lo  flow, 
Ruddy,  beneath  the  leper's  skin  of  snow ; 

And  shuddering  fiends  the  tortured  soul  released  ; 

And  from  the  grave  arose  the  summon'd  dead? 

Yet,  ah !  did  ne'er  thy  mother's  heart  repine, 

When  he  set  forth  upon  his  dread  design  ? 
Mary,  did  ne'er  thy  love 
His  piteous  fate  reprove. 

When  on  the  rock  reposed  his  houseless  head  ? 

Seem'd  it  not  strange  to  thy  oflicious  zeal — 

All  pains,  all  sorrows,  save  his  own,  to  heal  ? 

7. 
Yet,  oh!  how  awful.  Desolate!  to  thee. 
Thus  to  have  shrined  the  living  Deity  ! 

When  underneath  the  loaded  Rood, 

Forlorn  the  childless  mother  stood  : 
Then  when  that  voice,  whose  first  articulate  breath 
Thrill'd  her  enraptured  ear,  had  novv'  in  death 
Bequeath'd  her  to  his  care  whom  best  he  loved  ; 

When  the  cold  death-dew  bathed  his  brow. 

And  faint  the  drooping  head  began  to  bow, 
Wert  thou  not,  saddest,  too  severely  proved  ? 
As  in  thy  sight  each  rigid  limb  grew  cold. 
Ana  the  lip  whilen'd  with  the  burning  thirst. 
And  the  last  cry  of  o'erwroiight  anguish  burst, 
Where  then  the  Shiloh's  crown, 
Mary,  the  Christ's  renown, 
By  Prophets  and  Angelic  harps  foretold  ? 
Was  strength  to  thy  undoubting  spirit  given  ? 
Or  did  not  human  love  o'erpower  thy  trust  in  Heaven? 


But  when  Death's  conqtieror  from  the  tomb  return'd. 
Was  thine  the  heart  that  at  his  voice  ne'er  burn'd? 
FoUow'd  him  not  thy  constant  sight. 
Slow  melting  in  Heaven's  purest  white, 
To  take  his  ancient  endless  seat  on  high, 
On  the  right  hand  of  Parent  Deity  ? 
As  when  thine  earthly  pilgrimage  was  ended, 
We  deem  not,  but  that  circled  round. 
With  ringing  harps  of  Heaven's  most  glorious 
sound. 
Thy  spirit,  redeem 'd  through  thy  Son's  blood,  ascended: 
There  evermore  in  lowliest  loftiness. 
Meek  thou  admirest,  how  that  living  God, 
That  fills  the  Heaven  and  Earth,  in  thee  abode. 
Mary,  we  yield  to  thee 
All  but  idolatry  ; 


We  gaze,  admire,  and  wonder — love  and  bless: 
Pure,  blameless,  holy,  every  praise  be  thine, 
AU  honour,  save  thy  Son's,  all  glory  but  divine, 


SCENE. 

The  Palace  of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

ANGELO. 

More  blood !  more  blood ! — three  noble  brethren  more, 
From  the  Carthusian's  decimated  house  (1), 
Doom'd  to  the  block — ay,  pour  it  forth  like  water! 
Make  your  Thames  red,  till  your  proud  galleys  plough 
Their  way,  and  leave  a  sanguine  wake  behind  them: 
Set  wide  the  gates  of  Hell,  and  summon  thence 
Murder,  enthroned  on  your  high  judgment-seat ; 
Arm  her  dark  sister,  lawless  Massacre, 
With  the  dread  axe  of  public  Execution; 
Can  Hell,  or  Earth's  confederate  Kings  prevail 
'Gainst  the  true  Church  ? — But,  oh !  ye  marlyr'd  souls! 
Spirits,  with  whose  saintly  blood  their  robes  are  wet — 
Oh !  all-accomplish'd  More,  and  sainted  Fisher, 
Rejoice  ye  not  that  with  your  death  ye  rouse 
The  fire-wing'd  ministers  of  Heaven's  just  wrath. 
That  welcoming  your  souls  to  th'  abode  of  bliss. 
Stand  with  spread  wings,  and  readygirt  forvengeance! 

But  ye,  the  pulpit  Captains  of  the  Schism, 
Worse  than  the  worst — soul  murderers.  Hell's  Apos- 
tles— 
Ye  would  pour  oil  into  the  Church's  wounds 
That  your  own  parricide  hands  have  rent,  and  think 
They  will  not  plead  against  you. — Oh !  ye  blind 
To  earthly  wisdom  as  Heaven's  light,  that  dare  not 
Greatly  to  sin,  or,  politicly  severe. 
Crush  where  ye  conquer — ye  will  stand  aloof 
From  the  black  scafl5)ld,  preach,  protest,  forswear 
All  deeds  of  blood  ;  yet  your  infected  cause 
Shall  smell  of  it  to  latest  generations  ! 
Oh  fools!  to  plunge  in  internecine  strife, 
Yet  pause,  and  fear  to  slay  : — deserving  none. 
And  by  Heaven's  throne  receiving  none,  to  dream 
Of  showing  mercy;  either  way  ye  perish. 
Or  shed  the  martyrs'  blood,  v\hose  dying  voices 
Arm  Earth,  Hell,  Heaven,  'gainst  your  ungodly  cause 
Abstain,  the  uncheck'd  recoil  of  our  fierce  vengeance 
Shall  sweep  you  to  the  appointed  pit  of  Hell ! 

Angelo,  Gardiner. 

ANGELO. 

My  Lord  of  Winchester,  thou  hast  received 
Our  full  credentials  from  St.  Peter's  chair  ? 

GARDINER. 

Brother  in  Christ,  thou  know'st  this  land  rejects 
Rome's  Bishop  and  his  tyrannous  usurpation. 

A.NGELO. 

That  Stephen  Gardiner  owns  no  power  in  Rome 

I  know,  nor  yet  in  England.     What  cares  he 

For  King  or  Pontiff,  so  he  may  maintain 

The  proud  supremacy  of  Stephen  Gardiner. 

A  second,  but  a  greater  Wolsey,  thou. 

With  thine  unbounded  soul,  wouldst  rule  o'er  all — 

Church,  State,  the  world 

344 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


335 


GARRIXER. 

Italian,  thou  'rl  too  bold 

ANGKLO. 

Too  true,  good  Islander!  but  think  not,  Gardiner, 
I  or  lament  or  deprecate  thy  greatness. 
What  qualities  that  make  man  fit  to  rule 
Meet  not  in  Winchester's  capacious  soul? 
The  statesman's  large  and  comprehensive  mind  ; 
The  politician's  keen  prophetic  eye  ; 

•  The  scholar's  mastery  o'er  the  realm  of  knowledge; 
Smooth  manners,  that  with  courtly  art  persuade  ; 

!  The  elo(iuent  pen,  pregnant  with  thought  profound  ; 
'  Quickness  to  penetrate  each  dark  design; 
'  Sagacity  to  wind  the  unwilling  soul 

To  his  own  purp)se  :  wisest  in  the  council ; 

Deep  read  in  books — in  man's  dark  heart siil!  deeper; 

Most  knowing  in  all  Europe's  courts.    Blest  England, 

•  If  she  but  prize  his  worth  ;  himself  most  blest, 
If  but  to  his  own  interests  blind,  he  err  not 

,  On  his  ascendant  path 

i    .  GARDINER. 

Your  meaning,  brother? 

ANGELO. 

A  Churchman,  and  abase  the  Church's  rule! 
To  wrest  the  thunder  from  his  awful  grasp, 
Whose  delegates  are  we,  as  he  is  Heaven's, 
And  place  it  in  the  temporal  tyrant's  hands. 
That  hath  no  scope  nor  end  but  his  own  pride 
'  And  carnal  lust  of  sway  I  Rome  covets  power, 
'  But  for  her  sons,  with  wholesome  tyranny, 
'  To  their  own  weal,  to  govern  kings  and  nations. 
I  Oh !  traitor  to  thy  people.  King,  and  God, 
j  As  to  thyself  I  to  cast  away  the  sceptre 

That  sways  man's  soul  to  his  immortal  vantage ! 
'  Son  of  the  Holy  Church,  I  exorcise 
j  The  fiend  of  disobedience  from  thine  heart; 
By  all  thou  lovest — pomp,  majesty,  dominion, 
By  all  thou  hatest — th'  apostate  cause  and  crew, 
Th'all  powerfnl  Cranmer! — ay,  I  see  thy  cheek 
Blanch,  thy  low  quivering  lip — by  all  thou  fear'st. 
By  all   thou   hopest,  thou  'rt  ours,  thou  'rt  Rome's, 
1  thou  'rt  Heaven's ! 

I  GARDINER. 

Good  Father,  walls  have  ears — the  treacherous  air, 
With  terrible  delation,  wanders  round 
t;  The  thrones  of  Kings. 

I  ANGELO. 

«  Thou  think'st  not,  I  or  Rome 

)  Would  urge  a  rashness,  vvhich  might  wreck  our  cause ; 

Would  have  thee  cast  this  wise  dissembling  off. 

By  which  thou  hast  won  the  easy  confidence 

Of  foolish  heretics  :  be  supple  still, 

And  seeming  true,  thou  'rt  worthier  of  our  trust. 

We  know  thy  heart  our  own,  and  lend  awhile 

Thy  tongue,  thy  pen,  to  the  proud  King,  I' abase  him 
[  To  a  more  abject  slave  of  thee  and  Rome. 

Now  hear  me.  Prelate,  glut  thine  ear  with  tidings, 
'  For  there  are  dark  and  deep-delved  plots,  that  'scape 

Even  Gardiner's  lynx-eyed  sight — thy  soul  shall  laugh. 

The  Queen — the  Boleyn — the  false  harlot  heretic — 

She 's  in  our  toils — lost,  doom'd 

2  T 


GARDINER. 

I  know  the  King 
Is  liillen  away  to  a  new  lust,  and  hates 
Where  once  he  doted. — But  her  death  I 

ANGELO. 

What!  versed 
In  courts  like  Gardiner,  and  not  know  how  close 
Death  wails  tipon  the  blasting  hale  of  Kings? 
I  tell  thee,  she  shall  die — die  on  a  scaffold! 
Die  branded  like  a  base  adulteress! — 
Die  like  a  heretic — the  Church's  (oe  ! — 
Die  unabsolved,  unhousel'd — die  for  ever  ! 

GARDINER. 

Ay,  but  her  blameless  life;  the  love  she  wins 
By  subtle  sorcery  from  every  rank. 

ANGELO. 

Blameless! — a  heretic  avow'd,  proclaim'd. 

The  nursing  mother  of  Apostasy  ! 

Heap  crime  on  crime,  load  all  her  soul  with  blackness, 

Make  her  name  hideous  to  the  end  of  time ; 

Yet  is  she  not,  to  a  true  son  of  the  Church, 

More  odious,  more  abominable — all  sins 

Are  in  that  one!    Adultery,  murder,  nought 

Is  wanting  but  desire  or  meet  occasion. 

And  the  loose  heart  gives  way. 

GARDINER. 

But  this  Jane  Seymour 
Is  of  no  better  brood. 

ANGELO. 

What  reck  we  who 
Or  wbat  she  is?  she  shall  give  place  t'  another. 
Another  still,  till  the  fierce  flame  burns  out. 
And  shame,  remorse,  and  horror,  all  the  furies 
That  howl  and  madden  round  the  guilty  bod, 
Seize  on  the  abject  Monarch!    He  shall  lick 
The  dust  beneath  our  feet,  and  pay  what  price 
The  Church  ordain,  for  tardy  reconcilement 

GARDINER. 

Brother,  draw  near!  thy  speech  hath  bodied  forth 
What  hath  come  floating  o'er  my  secret  thought. 

ANGELO. 

And  own'st  thou  not  Heaven's  manifest  inspiration? 

GARDINER. 

So  thou  wilt  bring  to  pass  what  Gardiner  left 
In  unaccomplish'd  vision  !    Man  of  men, 
What  fame  shall  wait,  what  canonizing  glory 
On  sainted  Angelo ! 

ANGELO. 

While  Stephen  fiardiner 
Must  sink  into  the  baser  rank.    Oh  !  fear  not, 
Nor  jealously  mistrust  me,  lest  I  cross 
Thy  upward  path  :  I  have  forsworn  the  world. 
Not  with  the  fiirmal  oaths  that  burst  like  flax, 
But  those  that  chain  the  soul  with  triple  iron. 
Earth  hath  no  guerdon  I  may  covet,  none 
I  may  enjoy. — Thou,  Stephen  Gardiner, 
Shalt  rule  submissive  Prelates,  Peers  and  Kings, 
Loftiest  in  station,  as  in  mind  the  mightiest ; 
And  a  perpetual  noon  of  golden  power 
Shall  blaze  around  thy  lordly  mitred  state. 
1  I  'm  girt  for  other  journeys  :  at  that  hour, 

345 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


^Vhen  all  but  crown'd  tlie  righteous  work,  this  Isle 

Half  bow'd  again  to  the  Holy  See,  I  go 

Far  in  some  savage  land  unknown,  remote 

From  civilized  or  reasonable  life, 

From  letters,  arts — where  wild  men  howl  around 

Their  blood-stain'd  altars — to  uplift  th' unknown, 

T'nawful  Crucifix  :  I  go  to  pine 

With  famine;  waste  with  slow  disease;  the  loathing 

And  scorn  of  men.     And  when  thy  race  is  run, 

Thou,  Winchester,  in  marble  cemetery. 

Where  thy  cathedral  roof,  like  some  rich  grove, 

Spreads  o'er,  and  all  the  walls  with  'scutcheons  blaze, 

Shalt  lie.    While  anihem'd  choirs  and  pealing  organs, 

And  incense  clouds,  and  a  bright  heaven  of  lamps, 

Shall  solemnize  thy  gorgeous  obsequies  ; 

O'er  my  unsepulchred  and  houseless  bones. 

Cast  on  the  barren  beach  of  the  salt  sea, 

Or  arid  desert,  where  the  vulture  flaps 

Her  dreary  wings,  shall  never  wandering  Priest 

Or  bid  his  beads  or  say  one  passing  pray'r. 

Thy  memory  shall  live  in  this  land's  records 

While  the  sea  girds  the  isle  ;  but  mine  shall  perish 

As  utterly  as  some  base  beggar's  child 

That  unbaptized  drops  like  abortive  fruit 

Into  unhallovv'd  grave. 

GARDINER. 

Impossible! 
Rome  cannot  waste  on  such  wild  service  minds 
Like  thine,  nor  they  endure  the  base  obedience. 

ANGELO. 

Man  of  this  world,  thou  know'st  not  those  who  tread 

The  steps  of  great  Ignatius,  those  that  bear 

The  name  of  Jesus  and  his  Cross.     I  've  sunk 

For  ever  title,  rank,  wealth — even  my  being; 

And  self  annihilated,  boast  myself 

A  limb,  a  nameless  limb,  of  that  vast  body 

That  shall  bespread  the  world,  uncheck'd,  untraced — 

Like    (iod's   own    presence,    every   where,  yet  no 

where — 
Th' invisible  control,  by  which  Rome  rules 
The  universal  mind  of  man.    On  me 
My  Father's  palace-gates  no  more  shall  open, 
I  own  no  more  my  proud  ancestral  name, 
I  have  no  property  even  in  these  weeds. 
These  coarse  and  simple  weeds  I  wear;  nor  will, 
Nor  passion,  nor  affection,  nor  the  love 
Of  kindred  touch  this  earth-estranged  heart; 
My  personal  being  is  absorb 'd  and  dead. 
Thou  thiiik'st  it  much  with  cilice,  scourge,  and  fast 
To  macerate  thy  nll-too-pamper'<l  body. 
That  thv  sere  heart  is  seal'd  to  woman's  love, 
That  child  shall  never  climb  thy  knees,  nor  call  thee 
His  father: — on  the  altar  of  my  Cod 
I  've  laid  a  nobler  sacrifice,  a  .«oul 
Conscious  it  miaht  have  compass'd  empire. — This 
I  've  done  ;  and  in  no  brief  and  frantic  fit 
Of  youthful  lust  nngratified — in  the  hour 
Of  disappointed  pride.     A  noble,  born 
Of  Rome's  patrician  blood,  rich,  letter'd,  versed 
In  the  affairs  of  men  ;  no  monkish  dreamer 
Hearing  Heaven's  summons  in  ecstatic  vision. 
God  spoke  within  this  heart  but  with  the  voice 


Of  stern  deliberate  duty,  and  I  rose 
Resolved  to  sail  the  flood,  to  tread  the  fire — 
That's  nought — to  quench  all  natural  compunction. 
To  know  nor  right  nor  wrong,  nor  crime  nor  virtua 
But  as  subservient  to  Rome's  cause  and  Heaven's.* 
I  've  school'd  my  haughty  soul  to  subtlest  craft, 
I  've  strung  my  tender  heart  to  bloodiest  havoc, 
.And  stand  prepared  to  wear  the  martyr's  flames 
Like  nuptial  robes; — far  worse,  to  drag  to  the  stake 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  soul — if  thus 
I  sear  the  hydra's  heads  of  heresy. 

GARDINER. 

Think  not  thine  order,  brother,  nor  thy  tenets 

Sublime  as  that  unquestioning  devotion 

With  which  Cod's  Seraphim  pern)rm  his  mandates 

Unknown,  unnoticed,  unobserved.     I  lay 

The  volume  of  this  heart,  that  man  ne'er  read. 

Before  thee.     Here  is  hate  of  heresy. 

Deep,  desperate  as  thine  own.     In  the  dead  night, 

And  in  the  secret  prayers  of  my  dark  chamber, 

Like  thee  I  cry,  Holy  and  True,  how  long — 

Oh  I  when  will  they  blaze  up  and  gladden  heaven. 

The  glorious  purifying  fires,  and  purge 

The  land  of  its  pollutions;  when  the  Church 

Its  pure  and  virgin  whiteness  re-array. 

And  its  true  Sons  shake  ofTdissembling  darkness? 

ANGELO. 

Oh  !  Gardiner,  beware  !    No  lust  of  vengeance, 
No  carnal  hate,  nor  hope  of  worldly  triumph, 
Must  leaven  our  hemic  zeal :  God's  will 
Its  sole  commission,  its  sole  end  God's  glory. 
We  must  gird  up  our  souls  to  this  high  service. 
Alike  subdue  and  bend  our  pride  and  passions 
To  our  great  scope  ;  with  nought  too  stern  or  dread 
But  that  we'll  on  relentless,  nought  too  base 
But  we  will  stoop — much  is  already  done — 

GARDINER. 

Enough.  I  nsk  no  more,  would  know  no  more. 
I  '11  stand  alr)of,  and  wait  in  holy  hope 
Th'  appointed  hour. 

ANGELO. 

In  safety  reap  the  harvest 
Sown  in  the  sweat  of  others'  brows.     'T  is  well. 
Thus  shall  \i  be,  thus  best  the  cause  will  prosper; 
And,  prosper  but  the  cause,  my  work  is  done. 


^^'hitehall. 
QUEEN  (dismissing  her  Ladies). 
Away — we  are  not  used  to  order  twice; 
A  way — depart. — 

I  am  alone — alone— 
Nor  that  cold  hateful  pomp  of  fawning  faces 
Pursues  me,  nor  the  true  officious  Jove 
Of  those  whose  hearts  I  uould  not  wring,  by  seeming 
The  wretch  I  am  :  so  pour  thee  forth,  mine  heart. 
Pour  thy  full  tide  of  bitterness;  for  Queens 
Must  weep  in  secret  when  they  weep.     I  .saw  it^ 
'Twas  no  finil  vision — with  unblinded  eyes 
I  saw  it ;  his  fond  hands,  as  once  in  mine, 
Were  wreathed  in  hers;  he  sazed  upon  her  face 
Even  with  those  fatal  eyes,  no  woman  looks  at — 

S46 


ANNE    BOLEYN, 


337 


I  know  it,  ah !  too  well — nor  madly  dote. 

That  eloquence,  the  self-same  burning  words 

That  seize  the  ax\e-siruck  soul,  when  weakest,  thrill'd 

Her  vainly-(le;il  averted  ears. — Oh,  Heaven! 

I  thank  thee  that  I  cursed  her  not,  nor  him. 

Jane  Seyninur,  like  a  sister  did  I  deem  thee; 

But  what  of  tiiat  ?   Thou  'rl  heaveii-ordain'd  to  visit 

Her  sins  upon  the  head  of  her  that  dared 

To  love,  to  wed  another's  lord.     Mayst  thou 

IS'e'er  know  iho  racking  anguish  of  this  hour, 

The  desolation  of  this  iieart!    Rut  thou, 

Oh  !  thou,  niv  crime,  my  madness  !  thou  on  whom 

The  loftiest  woman  had  been  proud  to  dote. 

Had  he  been  master  of  a  straw-rooPd  cottage  ! 

Was 't  just  to  awe,  to  dazzle  the  young  mind. 

That  deem'd  its  transport  loyal  admiration. 

Submissive  duty  all,  till  it  awoke 

And  found  it  thrilling,  deepest  woman's  love! 

Too  late,  loo  early  disabused — would  Heaven 

That  I  were  siill  abused  !    Long,  long  I  've  felt 

lyove's  bonds  fall  one  by  one  from  thy  pall'd  heart. 

Oh  !  the  fond  falsehoods  of  my  credulous  soul! 

War,  policy,  religion,  all  the  cares 

Of  kingdoms,  Europe's  fate  within  thy  hands, 

I  pleaded  to  myself  to  justify 

Thy  cold  estrangement. 

Well,  'tis  o'er,  and  I 
Must  sit  alone  on  ray  cold  eminence. 
All  women's  envy,  mine  own  scorn  and  pity. 
And  all  the  sweetness  of  these  virgin  lips. 
And  all  the  pureness  of  this  virgin  bosom. 
And  all  the  fondness  of  this  virgin  heart. 
Forgotten,  turn'd  to  scorn — perchance  to  loathing. 
Heaven!  was  no  way  but  this,  and  none  but  He 
To  scourge  this  guilty  heart?   Thy  will  be  done. 
I've  still  a  noble  Father,  and  a  Brother, 
And,  Powers  of  grace!  my  Mother — kill  her  not. 
Break  not  her  heart, — for  sure  it  will  break  to  hear  it. 
My  child,  my  child,  thou  only  wilt  not  feel  it: 
Thy  parent  o'er  thy  face  may  weep,  nor  thou 
Be  sadder  for  her  misery ;  thou  wilt  love  me 
Though   thy   false   father    scorn   and    loathe.      My 

Moiher — 
Oh !  ne'er  before  would  I  have  (led  thy  presence : 
Betray  me  not,  ray  tear-swoln  eyes. 

Queen,  L.\dy  Wiltshire. 

lady  wiltshire. 

Dear  Anne, 
I  come  to  task  thy  goodness :  thou  must  use 
That  witching  influence  none  e'er  resists; 
That,  with  a  sweet  and  pardonable  treason, 
Makes  the  King's  Grace  thy  slave,  nor  leaves  him 

power 
To  think  or  speak  but  at  thy  pleasure — 
QUEEN  (aside). 

Heaven ! 
Each  word  wrings  blood  from  my  torn  heart. 

LADY    WILTSHIRE. 

In  truth, 
There  never  lived  who  could  refuse  thee  aught; 
For  thou  wert  never  known  to  ask  araiss. 
But,  thou  'rt  all  tears. 


QUEEN. 

Nought — nought— thy  story,  Mother. 

LADY    WILTSHIRE. 

Ay,  nothing  sure  will  chase  away  thy  weakness, 
Be  't  of  the  body  or  the  mind,  so  soon 
As  that  sweet  consciousness  that  thou  art  using 
The  power  Heaven  gave  thee  in  Heaven's  cause. 

His  Grace 
The  Primate  waits  without  t' implore  your  Highness, 
That  the  old  high-born  Prior  of  the  Carthusians, 
And  two  right  noble  brethren  of  that  house. 
That,  obstinate  and  self-will'd,  still  subscribe  not 
The  King's  supreme  dominion,  may  find  mercy, 
Nor  perish  on  the  ignominious  scaflbld. 

QUEEN. 

My  Lord  of  Canterbury  at  our  door! 
The  presence  of  that  righteous  man,  dear  Mother, 
Breathes  sanctity  as  though  from  Heaven;  our  hearts 
O'erflow  at  once  with  prayer  and  holiest  thoughts. 
Admit  his  Grace. 

The  above.    Cranmer. 

QUEEN. 

Your  blessing,  holy  Father. 

CRANMER. 

Heaven  save  your  Highne.ss !    But,  remember.  Lady, 
Prayers  of  anointed  Priests  or  mitred  Prelates 
Are  poor  and  valueless  to  such  as  come 
From  those  that  wear  Christ's  truest  livery. 
The  wretched  and  the  broken-hearted. 

QUEEN  {aside). 

Heaven, 
I  own  thy  voice — then  mine  are  surely  heard. 

CRANSIER. 

I  'II  teach  your  Grace  to  do  Heaven  violence. 

By  shrining  your  blest  name  in  vows  of  men, 

From  death  released,  from  cruel  public  death. 

The  Countess  Wiltshire  hath  made  known  our  suit ; 

And  though  my  soul  abhors  the  wilful  hardness 

Of  these  proud  men.  yet  they  were  nursed  in  error — 

In  error,  but  for  all-enlightening  grace. 

That  still  had  darken'd  our  own  souls.  Were  Heaven 

Extreme  t'  avenge  its  outraged  majesty. 

Would  the  red  roaring  thunder  ever  cease? 

And  shall  the  axe  earth's  injured  Monarchs  wield 

Be  never  satiate  with  the  oflTending  blood  ? 

QUEEN. 

Had  I  the  power! 

CRANMER. 

The  power!  thou  'st  ever  been 
The  rainbow  o'er  the  awful  throne.    The  King, 
That  lives  but  in  thy  presence,  ne'er  disdain'd 
Thy  righteous  supplication.    Oh  !  great  Queen, 
Our  cause,  the  Gospel  cause,  the  cause  of  Christ, 
Is  spotted  o'er  with  shame.     Rude  sacrilege 
Usurps  the  name  of  godly  Reformation, 
And  revels  in  the  spoil  of  shrine  and  altar. 
Men  have  cast  down  the  incensed  heathenish  image 
To  worship  with  raore  foul  idolatry 
The  gold  of  which  'twas  wrought ;  and  all  the  blood 
The  too  relentless  Law  for  Treason  sheds. 
Attaints  our  blameless  faith  of  direst  cruelty. 

347 


338 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


QUEEX  {aside). 
More  woe,  more  woe — to  know  these  holy  hopes, 
This  noble  trust,  misplaced  and  frustrate  all ! 
Your  Grace  o'ervalues  our  poor  influence, 
Such  as  it  is. 

LADY   WILTSHIRE. 

The  King! 

QUEEN. 

I  '11  know  the  worst. 
Dear  mother,  leave  us.     Come  contempt  or  shame, 
She  must  not  witness  it:  but  he  the  rather 
Will  seek  to  compensate  the  heart's  deep  wrongs 
By  outward  graciousness.     Wretch,  wretch  myself, 
I  may  relieve  the  wretchedness  of  others: — 
Be  'I  as  it  may,  the  world  shall  never  know 
Through  me  the  secret  of  his  sin,  his  falsehood. 
But  deem  him  by  my  love  the  gentlest  husband 
As  the  most  noble  Monarch  upon  Earth. 

King  Henry. 

KING. 

Refuse  our  mandate — shut  their  Abbey  gates 
Against  our  Pursuivants — refuse  our  oaths — 
Now,  by  St.  Paul,  not  one  of  them  shall  wear 
His  shaven  crown  on  his  audacious  shoulders! 

CRANMER. 

Your  Majesty  will  hear  your  faithful  servant. 

KING. 

I  '11  none  of  it — their  heads  or  their  allegiance. 
God's  death  !  have  all  our  Parliament  and  Peers, 
Our  Rev'rend  Bishops,  given  their  hands  and  seals. 
And  shall  we  thus  be  mock'd  and  set  at  nought 
By  beggarly  and  barefoot  monks?    Archbishop, 
Out  of  our  love  to  thine  own  reverend  person, 
We  do  refuse  thy  most  unwise  petition. 
Good  foolish  man,  not  one  of  them  but  urged 
By  that  old  Priest  of  the  Seven  Hills  would  burn  us, 
Body  and  soul.     We  'II  have  no  Kings  but  one. 
None  but  ourself — Tut,  not  a  word.     How  now  ? 
What,  Nan?  what  blank?  what  all  a  mort?  Thy  jests, 
And  thy  quaint  sayings,  and  thy  smiles — 
auEEN. 

My  Liege, 
I  have  been  sued  to  be  a  suppliant 
For  these  who.fall'n  beneath  thine  high  displeasure — 

KING. 

'Sdeath  !  ye've  your  answer — as  I  pass'd  but  now 
Jane  Seymour  was  set  on  t'  entreat  our  mercy ; 
We  yielded  not,  nor  thought  of  being  wearied 
At  every  step  with  the  old  tedious  tale — 
Art  answer'd? 

QUEEN. 

What  I  am,  I  owe  your  Grace, 
And  in  mf)st  deep  humility  confess  it; 
But  being  as  I  am,  your  Grace's  wife, 
I  knew  not  that  my  maid's  rejected  prayer 
Precluded  further  speech 

KING. 

Why,  how  now,  wayward  ! 
Your  maid !  good  iruth.SirThomas  IJoleyn's  daughter's 
Right  nobly  served.  1  'd  have  you  know.proud  woman, 


What  the  King  gives,  the  King  may  take  away — 
Who  raised  up  one  from  dust,  may  raise  another. 
Look  to  thyself,  I  say — thou  mayst  have  cause ; 
I/)ok,  and  be  wise — be  humble.    For  your  Grace 
We  've  business  in  our  Council — not  a  word — 
Our  Queen 's  our  subject  still. 

QUEEN  (alone). 

And  this  is  he, 
The  flower  of  the  world's  chivalry,  most  courtly 
Where  met  the  splendour  of  all  courts !  When  Europe: 
Sent  its  three  Sov'reigns  to  that  Golden  field. 
Who  won  all  eyes  with  liberal  noble  bearing? 
Who  charm'd  all  ears  with  high  and  gracious  speech  ? 
Who  made  all  hearts  his  slaves  by  inbred  worth 
But  English  Henry?  by  his  pattern  all 
Moved,  spoke,  rode,  tilted,  shaped  their  dress,  theiii 

language, 
And  he  that  most  resembled  England's  King 
Was  kingliest  in  the  esteem  of  all.    This  he 
That  lay  whole  hours  before  my  worshipp'd  feet. 
Making  the  air  melodious  with  his  words? 
So  fearful  to  oflfend,  having  ofl^ended 
So  fearful  of  his  pardon,  not  myself 
More  jealous  of  my  maiden  modesty  ; 
The  bridegroom  of  my  youth,  my  infant's  Father! 
.\h  !  me,  my  rash  and  inconsiderate  speech. 
My  pride,  hath  wrought  from  his  too  hasty  nature    ■ 
This  shame  upon  mine  head  :  he  '11  turn,  he  '11  come: 
My  prodigal  back  to  mine  heart — if  not, 
I  'm  bom  his  subject,  sworn  before  high  Heaven 
His  faithful  wife ;  then  let  him  cast  me  from  him, 
Spurn,  trample  me  to  dust — the  foe,  the  stranger 
That  owns  no  law  of  kindred,  blood,  or  duty,  I 

Is  taught,  where  every  word  is  Heaven's  own  truth,! 
To  love  where  most  he  's  hated.    I  will  live  | 

On  the  delicious  memory  of  the  past. 
And  bless  him  so  for  my  few  years  of  bliss. 
My  lips  shall  find  no  time  for  harsh  reproach ; 
I  '11  be  as  one  of  those  sweet  flowers  that,  crush'd 
By  the  contemptuous  foot,  winds  closer  round  it, 
And  breathes  in  every  step  its  richest  odours. 


An  Apartment  in  Westminster. 
Angelo,  Lady  Rochford. 

ANGELO. 

In  that  proud  Prelate's  heart  a  noble  chord  (2) 
I  touch'd,  now  harp  we  on  a  baser  string. 
The  Lady  Rochford !  thou  art  here  to  tell  me 
That  thou  fulfill'st  the  terms  on  which  the  Church, 
In  its  high  plenitude  of  power,  absolves 
The  guilty  soul. 

LADY   ROCHFCSRD. 

I  come,  Sir,  to  advise 
With  your  wise  sanctity. 

ANGELO. 

We've  judged  already, 
And  look  but  for  obedience— hast  thou  scatter'd 
Those  hints  and  seeds  of  hate  in  the  King's  path, 
That  he  behold  this  Queen  in  her  true  colours? 

348 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


339 


LADV    ROCHFORI). 

I  have  ;  with  zeal  so  fatal,  with  success 
J5o  manifest,  mine  inmost  soul  recoils 
At  the  base  service. 

ANGEI.O. 

Hast  obtain'il  that  paper 
In  Lady  Wingfield's  hand  ? 

LADY   ROCHFORD. 

'Tis  here. 

ANGELO. 

Good !  good ! — 

LADV    ROCHFORD. 

Inexorable  I — mnst  I  show  no  mercy? 
Must  crime  be  still  atoned  by  crime?    Oh  !  think. 
She  is  my  husband's  sister — his,  the  bridegroom 
Of  my  fond  youth 

ANGELO. 

To  whom  thou  art  so  true 
And  faithful! 

LADV    ROCHFORD. 

JIa !  what  need  of  words  to  thee, 
That  readst  the  inmost  depths  of  this  dark  heart 
More  clearly  than  myself— I  hate  that  husband. 
For  that  I  've  injured  him  so  deeply ;  hate 
Her  virtue  that  reproaches  mine  own  shame  : 
But  yet  to  slander  her  pure  fame — — 

ANGELO. 

You  said 
Krewhile  you  doubled  her  yourself. 

LADY    ROCHFORD. 

The  sinful 
Have  a  base  interest  to  drag  down  the  holy 
To  their  own  level.     Set  me  some  strange  penance. 
To  grind  the  flesh,  and  wring  the  hearl's-blood  forth ; 
Oh !  any  thing  but  this  base  wicked  service ! 

ANGELO. 

Thou  wilt  do  all  but  what  the  Church  commands. 

What  is  it  for  a  life  like  thine — a  life 

That  doth  confess,  bewail,  forswear  its  sins, 

But  with  new  zest  t'  indulge — that  comest  so  oft 

With  the  tiiul  tale,  that  I  do  fear  to  breathe 

The  tainted  air  of  my  confessional  ? 

For  such  a  life  is  not  that  place  ordain'd 

Where  air  is  fire,  life  pain,  and  language  howling  ? 

LADV    ROCHFORD. 

Oh  I  horror ! 

ANGELO. 

Look  that  thou  perform  our  bidding 
To  the  strict  letter,  the  extremcst  point, 
Warv  and  secret,  as  becomes  a  servant 
Would  merit  grace  and  favour. 

LADY    ROCHFORD. 

I  'm  no  servant — 
A  slave — a  lash"d,  a  crouching,  abject  slave, 
In  the  iron  bondage  of  my  sins  ! 

ANGELO. 

Ungrateful  I 
When  I  might  hurl  thee,  black  with  malediction, 
Where  all  thy  direst  visions  of  remorse. 
The  racking  moments  of  remember'd  crime, 
•29  -28 


The  fangs  of  Conscience  tearing  at  ihy  heart. 
Thy  tossing,  feverish,  spectre-staring  midnights, 
Would  seem  remission,  peace,  delight  to  years 
Interminable 

LADY    ROCHFORD. 

Oh!  my  soul!  my  soul! 

ANGELO. 

And  I  have  taught  thee  how  to  merit  favour 
From  those  to  whom  the  eternal  keys  are  given — 
Tinged  your  black  desperation  with  the  hue 

Of  hope Away  !  back  to  thy  duty — watch  ! 

And  those  who  weigh  in  the  everlasting  scales 
Service  against  rebellion,  and  obedience 
Against  transgression,  may  at  length  strike  down 
The  balance,  and  pronounce  thee  what  thou  darest 

not — 
Thou  dost  not — hope  may  be  thy  lot. — Away! 


The  Garden,  as  before. 

Mark  S.meaton   Magdalene  Smeaton. 

magdalene. 
My  brother ! 

MARK. 

Oh !  her  voice — it  will  not  cease — 
It  sounds  within  my  ears,  within  my  heart. 
And  thou,  my  harp  once  loved,  but  now  a  treasure 
Which  kingdoms  will  not  buy;  of  her  sweet  tones 
Thou 'It  keep  the  perfume,  as  the  Arabian  air 
The  smell  of  spices. 

MAGDALENE. 

Mark,  thou  'rt  strangely  moved  ; 
Speak  to  me — keep  from  her  no  jealous  secret, 
From  her  who  loves  thee  with  so  whole  a  heart: 
Nor  thy  unkindness,  were  't  in  thy  soft  nature — 
Nor  sorrows,  they  would  but  endear  thee  more — 
Nor  even  thy  sins,  if  that  way  I  could  fear  thee — 
Could  e'er  estrange 

MARK. 

The  Queen  !  the  Queen  I   my  si.-^ter : 
She  sent  for  me — she  made  me  sit  before  her. 
As  my  hand  trembled  on  my  lute,  she  smiled 
With  gracious  playfulness — oh  !  what  a  store 
Of  precious  memories  I  've  treasured  u[) — 
Tx)ok,  motion,  word,  like  relics  have  I  shrined  them 
In  the  heart's  sanctuary,  where  all  my  thoughts 
Shall  come  in  daily  pilgrimage  devout 
Till  I  am  dust  and  clay.     I  miserable, 
With  such  a  refuge!  sinful,  with  the  power 
Of  her  controlling  hnline.ss  about  me ! 

M.\GDALENE. 

Oh  !  brother,  brother,  my  misgiving  heart 
Recoils,  it  knows  not  why,  from  words  that  sound 
Like  dangerous  profanation  :    I  have  fiirswom 
All  love  but  that  of  holiest  cloister'd  maids 
Before  the  bleeding  crucifix;  but  yet 
I  feel  that  there  is  sin  in  thy  wild  language. 
Sin,  no  less  deep  in  thought  because  in  deed 
Impossible. — Lo!  Father  Angelo. 

349 


340 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


MARK. 

This  awful  man  again  ! — must  we  ne'er  meet 
But  his  appalling  look,  inscrutable 
Yet  scrutinizing  all,  must  cite  to  judgment 
Each  passing  thought,  each  word,  each  wish 

MAGDALE?»E. 

Mark,  Mark, 
Do  any  but  the  guilty  dread  the  presence 
Of  holiest  men  ?   He  comes  to  visit  here 
The  mother  of  my  youth,  whose  outcast  age 
Ilath  none  but  me,  of  all  our  scattered  convent, 
To  smooth  her  dying  pillow,  watch  her  wants; 
And  none  but  Father  Angelo  t'  attend  her, 
So  constantly  as  though  no  soul  but  hers 
Needed  his  zealous  function. 

Angelo.     The  above. 

ANGELO. 

So,  fair  youth. 
Our  prophecies  fall  true — thou  'rt  i'  the  sunshine. 
Last  eve,  I  ask  not,  if  the  dangerous  song 
Beseem'd  a  son  of  Holy  Church — that  sin 
Be  theirs,  nut  thine. 

MARK. 

How  knew  he  this  ? 

ANGELO. 

Had  those 
That  take  in  charge  th'clprnal  souls  of  men 
No  ways  of  knowledge  to  the  vulgar  eye 
Inscrutable,  our  task  were  ill  fulfill'd. 
So  tell  me,  youth,  and  look  that  thou  speak  truth, 
Truth  to  the  word,  the  letter,  even  the  tone — 
F'ell  no  peculiar  private  passages, 
Nor  word,  nor  sign,  nay,  nor  familiar  motion, 
Emphatic  tone,  nor  more  expressive  pause. 
Between  thyself  and  the  Queen's  Grace? 

MARK. 

Good  Sir, 
Think  on  my  baseness  and  her  state 

ANGELO. 

So  young 
And  so  dishonest !    Boy,  lix>k  to 't !  Thy  soul, 
Thy  soul  that  lives  in  bliss  or  dies  for  ever. 
Is  on  the  hazard  (hut  I  speak  in  love. 
And  not  in  anger)  spake  she  not  more  gently  ? 
Glanced  not  her  eye  more  kindly  than  't  was  wont  ? 
Drank  not  her  ears  thy  songs  with  longer  rapture  ? 

Awes  not  her  presence  less,  and  charms  the  more? 

Boy,  boy,  take  heed — be  wam'd,  be  wise. 

.MARK. 

Sir,  Sir, 
Is't  possible,  in  human  nature!  where, 
In  History  or  Legend,  wild  and  marvellous, 
Is't  written,  that  a  Queen — a  Queen  like  her — 
The  Queen  of  Queens  in  beauty  and  in  goodness, 
Stoop'd  to  consider  one  like  me  ? 

ANGELO. 

This  life 
Hath  strange  vicissitudes.     This  Queen,  this  partner 
Of  England's  throne,  I  can  remember  well 
The  Duchess  of  Alencon  once  esteem'd 


Of  note  scarce  higher  in  her  royal  court 

Than  thou  in  England's — so,  once  more  beware. 

There  is  no  price  man's  enemy  will  not  pay 

For  one  immortal  soul.     Now,  the  good  .Abbess 

Daughter,  advance — how  fares  it  with  your  charge! 

MAGDALENE. 

Sir,  longing  for  your  presence,  as  the  blind 

For  light :  your  holy  words  breathe  deeper  calmness 

O'er  all  her  frame,  than  medicine's  opiate  drugs; 

Her  only  fear  of  death  is  lest  she  want 

Your  parting  benediction. 

A.NGELO. 

In— I  11  follow. 

MARK. 

Will  he  not  warn  me  not  to  wing  the  air, 
Lest  I  should  fly  too  near  the  parching  Sun, 
.And  shrivel  into  dust  ? — To  doubt  his  wisdom 
Were  to  impeach  man's  general  estimate  ; 
T' arraign  his  charity  would  give  the  lie 
To  a  whole  life  of  painful  sar.clity. 
And  slur  th' anointed  l'riesih(HKl  with  contempt. 
Yet  her — of  her  to  speak,  to  think,  t' imagine 
Less  than  the  purest,  chastest,  holiest,  best — 
An  Angel,  but  without  an  Angel's  wings. 
Lest,  weary  of  this  tainting  world,  she  fly 
Untimely  to  her  native  skies;  and  I, 

A  poor,  unknown,  a  homeless,  friendless  boy 

The  more  I  think  the  wilder  grow  my  thoughts. 
And  every  thought  is  stamp'd  with  her  bright  image; 
She  is  my  world  of  fantasy,  each  sound 
Is  as  her  voice,  each  gleam  of  light  her  look, 
And  midnight  hath  no  vision  but  of  her. 


WTiiUhaU. 

QrEEN  and  Ladieg. 

Sir   IIenrv  Norreys,  Sir  Francis  Weston,  Sia 
William  Brereto.v,  Mark  Smeaton. 

norreys. 
Your  Majesty  will  grace  the  tilt  to-day  ? 

qieen. 
The  King  so  wills  it :  mine  obedience  rather 
Than  mine  own  humour  sways  my  choice. 

NORREYS. 

I  had  dared 
To  hope  that  he,  your  Grace  has  deign 'd  to  name 
Your  Knight,  being  Champion  of  the  ring,  your 

Highness 
Had  given  him  victory  by  your  presence. 

auEEN. 

Norreys, 
Trust  me,  I  wi.sh  thee  all  that  proud  success 
Thy  valour  and  thy  truth  deserve. 

NORREYS. 

That  wish 
Is  triumph — and  my  vaunting  adversaries 
Are  strewn  already  at  my  feet. 

350 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


341 


QUEEX. 

Sir  Henry, 
Such  language  breathes  of  the  blithe  air  of  France; 
It  brings  hack  recollections  of  my  youth, 
When  all  my  life  was  like  a  jocund  dream, 
Or  air  of  gayest  music  : — but,  time  presses — 
So  Gentlemen,  in  the  old  Knightly  phrase, 
Go  bear  you  bravely  for  your  Mistress'  sake. 

WESTON, 

Our  Mistress  thus  commanding,  what  true  Knight 
Can  fail  or  falter  ? 

QUEEN. 

Courteous  words.  Sir  Francis  ; 
But  I  mistake  me  or  that  name  calls  up 
Another — and,  in  truth,  a  fairer  lady. 

WESTON. 

Not— as  I  live. 

QUEEN. 

Take  heed  I  false  oalh,  false  Knight  : 
Enough  of  this — 

NORRKVS. 

We  kiss  your  Highness'  hands, 
And  with  this  talisman  of  strength  set  forth. 

QUEEN. 

Heaven  prosper  you  I 

[Mark  Smeaton  kneeh  also. 
How  now  ?  thou  'rt  over-bold  : 
Thou  dost  forget  thy  rank  and  station,  youth;    * 
Thou  'rt  not,  I  deem,  of  gentle  blood. 

HARK. 

No,  no, 
A  look  suffices  me. 

QUEEN. 

Truth,  noble  Sirs, 
i'our  gallantry  's  infectious  ;  this  poor  youth 
Must  needs  a<lmirp  and  imitate  your  courtesies: 
Take  heed  that  thou  offend  no  more — be  modest. 

As  thou  wert  wont.    And  now  to  horse.  Sir  Knights 

Go  forward,  and  Heaven  speed  the  brave  and  noble! 

So  now  to  Greenwich,  to  look  gay  and  light 
As  this  May  morning,  with  a  heart  as  heavy 
As  dull  November;  to  be  thought  the  happiest. 
Be  the  most  wretched  of  all  womankind. 

[Exeunt. 

Near  WhilehalL 
Gardiner  and  Angelo. 

ANGEF.O. 

My  Lord  of  Winchester— thou  'st  seen  the  King? 

GARDINER. 

I  've  seen  a  raging  madman  loose  ;  he  came 
From  Greenwich  at  full  speed  ;  their  horses  seem'd 
Like  those  who  ride  for  life  from  a  lost  battle  : 
What  hath  befallen  ? 

ANGELO. 

The  game  is  won  ere  play'd ! 
It  fires  beyond  our  hopes,  the  sulphurous  train 
Flames  up,  they're  hnrl'd  aloft,  but  not  to  Heaven. 
Wake,  Hell.'  and  lift  thy  gates;  and  ye,  that  tenant 


The  deepest,  darkest,  most  infuriate  pit, 

Th'  abyss  of  all  abysses,  blackest  blackness. 

Where  that  most  damning  sin,  the  damning  others. 

With  direst,  most  remorseless  expiation. 

Howls  out  its  drear  eternity,  arouse 

The  myriad  voices  of  your  wailing;  loud 

As  when  the  fleshly  Luther,  or  the  chief 

Of  his  cursed  crew  have  one  by  one  gone  down 

To  tread  your  furnace  chambers  ! — Rise  I  prepare 

The  throne  of  fire,  the  crown  of  eating  flames! 

She  comes — the  Queen,  the  filial  Oueen,  w  hose  beauty 

Hath  been  to  England  worse,  more  full  of  peril, 

Than  Helen's  was  to  Troy,  hath  seal'd  for  death, 

For  death  eternal,  irremediable. 

Whole  generations  of  her  godless  sons. 

And  made  her  stately  church  a  heap  of  ruin! 

GARDINER. 

I  am  no  heretic:  why  keep  me  thus 
Upon  the  rack? 

ANGELO. 

When  slightest  accidents 
Lead  to  effects  that  change  the  doom  of  nations. 
Dost  thou  not  read  the  visible  hand  of  Heaven? 

GARDINER. 

Who  questions  it  ? 

ANGELO. 

Why  then  behold — adore  it! 
My  Lord,  we  're  wise  and  politic,  but  yet 
A  fiwiish  kerchief  falling  to  the  ground 
Shall  more  advance  our  high  and  righteous  cause 
Than  months  of  subtlest  craft. 

GARDINER. 

Explain. 

ANGELO. 

I  stood 
Within  the  tilt-yard,  not  to  take  delight 
Carnal,  unpricstly,  in  the  worldly  pageant : 
Though,  Heaven  forgive  me!  when  the  trumpets  blew, 
And  the  lists  fell,  and  Knights  as  brave,  and  full 
Of  valour  as  their  steeds  of  fire,  wheel'J  forth. 
And  moved  in  troops  or  single,  orderly 
As  youths  and  maidens  in  a  village  dance, 
Or  shot,  like  swooping  hawks,  in  straight  career; 
The  old  Caraffa  rose  within  my  breast — 
Struggled  my  soul  with  haughty  recollections 
Of  when  I  rode  through  theoiitpour'd  streets  of  Rome, 
Enamouring  all  the  youth  of  Italy 
With  envy  of  my  noble  horsemanship. 
But  I  rebuked  myself,  and  thought  how  Heaven 
Had  taught  me  loftier  mastery,  to  rein 
And  curb  with  salutary  governance 
Th'  unmanagcd  souls  of  men.     Hut  to  our  purpose; 
Even  at  the  instant,  when  all  sjiears  were  levell'd. 
And  rapid  as  the  arblast  bolt,  the  Knights 
Spurr'd  one  by  one  to  the  ring,  when  breathless  leant 
The  Ladies  from  their  galleries — from  the  Queen's 
A  handkerchief  was  seen  to  fall;  but  while 
Floating  it  dallied  on  the  air,  a  Knight, 
Sir  Henry  Norreys,  as  I  learnt,  stoop'd  down. 
Caught,  wrealh'd  it  in  his  plume,  regain'd  his  spear, 
And  smote  right  home  the  quivering  ring :  th'  acclaim 
Burst  fiirth  like  roaring  waters,  but  the  King 

351 


342 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sprang  up.  and  call'd  to  horse,  while  tumult  wild 
Broke  up  the  marr'd  and  frighted  ceremony. 

G.\RDINER. 

Something  of  this  I  augur'd  :  as  the  King 

Swept  furious  by,  he  beckon'd  me ;  yet  seem'd 

Too  busied  with  his  wrathful  thoughts  to  heed 

Whom  thus  he  summon'd ;  and  I  heard  him  mutter 

"  The  saucy  groom !"  and  terms,  which  to  repeat 

Were  not  o'erlltting  priestly  lips,  but  coupled 

With  the  Queen's  name  most  strangely.    Seeing  this, 

I  thought  it  in  mine  office  to  administer 

Grave  ghostly  admonition,  mingled  well 

With  certain  homily  and  pulpit  phrases 

Of  man's  ingratitude,  and  gracious  Kings 

Whose  bounties  are  abused  ;  the  general  looseness 

Of  the  age.   The  more  I  spake,  the  more  he  madden'd, 

As  though  my  words  were  oil  on  fire. 

ANGELO. 

'Twas  well, 
But  must  be  better:  I  have  further  tidings. 
I  pass'd  the  Tower,  and  saw  Sir  William  Kingston, 
Summon'd  't  was  said,  with  special  haste,  come  forth 
Among  his  archers. 

GARDINEn. 

Ila !  there  's  more  in  this. 

ANGELO. 

Prelate,  there  shall  be — where 's  the  King  ? 

GARDINER. 

I  left  him 
Near  the  apartment  of  Jane  Seymour. 

ANGELO. 

Good! 
The  field  of  battle  where  we  have  them  all 
At  vantage. — Lead  me  to  him. 

GARDINER. 

Thee? 

ANGELO. 

What !  jealous  still  ?    Then  go  thyself— be  speedy. 
Thou  lovest  the  King,  ray  Lord  of  Winchester : 
Suits  it  thy  reverence,  then,  and  holy  station, 
Nearest  his  heart,  and  in  his  closet  counsels, 
That  he  retain  a  wanton  in  his  bosom. 
When  there  is  one  hath  damning  evidence 
At  peril  of  his  life  ? 

GARDINER. 

Where  ?  who  ? 

ANGELO. 

The  Man 

Am  [. Thou  seest,  my  Lord,  thine  all  the  glory, 

The  gratitude  for  this  great  service — mine 

The  peril.    Strike,  strike  now,  strike  home,  my  Lord. 

GARDINER. 

I  see  it:  as  we  pass,  thou  shall  unflild 

All  that  remains  behind  ;  and,  trust  me.  Brother, 

Thou  shall  have  thy  reward. 

A.NGELO. 

I  shall — ^in  Heaven. 
Whitehall 

ai'EEN. 

What  can  it  mean  ?   Each  face  as  I  pass'd  by 
Was  gathering  blackness;  and  a  silent  pity 


Sale  upon  brows  that  turn'd  aside  to  avoid  me. 

The  menials  are  infected  :  not  a  groom, 

As  I  descended  from  my  litter,  lent 

His  hand  to  aid  me  ;  and  my  ante-rooms 

Are  mute  and  empty,  even  as  though  the  plague 

Had  tainted  all  the  air.    Well,  what  of  this  >. 

Oh,  God  of  Grace  I  thou  'rt  bounteous  still!   Fall  off" 

The  cumbrous  trappings  and  appendages 

Of  mine  uneasy  stale,  thou  leavest  me  yet 

One  far  too  old  and  one  too  young  to  change : 

My  child,  my  Mother,  and  my  Innocence, 

Shall  make  me  up  a  blest  society. 

An  Empress  girt  about  wiih  handmaid-queens 

Might  envy. — .\t  her  charge  I  left  my  .Mother, 

Her  charge,  whose  joy  renews  her  youth,  and  makes  her 

Like  some  fond  nurse  o'er  her  first-born 

Lady  Wiltshire. 

lady  wiltshire. 

Come,  come, 
She  sleeps — thyself,  dear  Anne,  not  half  so  lovely: 
Come  sit  by  her,  and  gaze  on  her,  for  hours. 
For  days  :  a  violet  on  a  bed  of  snow, 
A  pearl  in  ivory  set,  the  brightest  star 
Where  all  are  bright  in  the  soft  milky  way — 
There's  no  similitude  she  dolh  not  shame. 
Her  forehead  arch'd  by  Heaven  to  fit  a  crown  I 
I've  almost  wish'd  thou  ne'er  shouldst  bear  a  Iwy, 
Dear  Anne,  to  bar  her  from  the  throne  she  's  born  to. 

QUEEN. 

Mother,  I  follow  thee. 

The  above.    Kingston  and  Guard. 

QUEEN. 

Ha  !  in  my  chamber 
Arm'd  men!   Sir  William  Kingston,  thou'rt  o'erbold 
To  press  unbidden  on  our  privacy. 

KINGSTON. 

By  the  King's  special  mandate,  I  attach 
Your  Highness. 

QUEEN. 

Stay,  Sir,  as  you  hope  f()r  mercy. 
My  mother!  she  is  old  and  fond — her  heart 
Will  break.    Dear  mother — back — go  back — the  King, 
Willing  to  do  your  daughter  honour,  sends 
Good  Kingston  and  his  guard.    God  pardon  me! 
The  first  untruth  that  e'er  defiled  my  lips. 
Now,  Sir,  your  message:  the  King's  Grace,  I  heard, 
In  his  displeasure  for  some  weighty  cause. 
Commands  his  Queen  to  prison ;  I  obey,  Sir. 

KINGSTON. 

Your  Majesty  must  hold  yourself  in  readiness 
T'  embark  on  the  instant  for  the  Tower. 

QUEEN. 

The  Tower! 
Oh,  mother!  mother!  that  the  time  should  come 
When  I  should  wish  thee  in  ihy  quiet  grave. 
My  child — that  I  should  wish  thee  yet  unborn  ; — 
Shall  I  find  justice.  Sir?  (3) 

KINGSTON. 

The  meanest  subject 
In  all  the  realm  would  not  impeach  the  equity 

3-52 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


313 


Of  the  King's  Grace  with  such  a  dangerous  doubt. 
Your  Highness ! 

QUEEN. 

Start  ye  thus  to  see  me  laugh  ? 
There  's  laughter  that  is  grief's  most  bitter  language, 
Laughter  that  hath  no  mirth — and  such  is  mine. 
Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  I  tell  thee  this: 
I  've  done.  Sir,  in  my  days,  some  good,  through  Christ; 
If  Ihey  misjudge  my  cause,  yea,  but  a  jot, 
The  fiery  indignation  from  above 
Shall  blast  the  bosom  of  this  land,  the  skies 
Shall  be  as  brass,  nor  rain  nor  drop  of  dew 
Shall  moisten  tlie  adust  and  gaping  earth. 

KINGSTON. 

I  would  beseech  your  Highness  to  compwse 
Your  too  distemper'd  mind. 

auEKN. 

Where  are  the  Bishops, 
Tlie  holy  Bishops  ?  They  will  plead  my  cause, 
And  make  my  enemies  kneel  at  my  footstool. 
I  needs  must  laugh,  Sir,  but  I'll  weep  anon, 
Weep  floods,  weep  life-blood,  weep  till  every  heart 
Shall  ache  and  burst  to  see  me.     Now  I  '11  kneel — 
Behold  me  kneel! — and  imprecate  Heaven's  vengeance 
If  I  'm  not  guiltless.     Come — away — away — 
Is  your  barge  ready?   Sooner  to  my  judgment, 
Sooner  to  my  deliverance. — So,  back 
To  those  I  dare  not  name,  I  dare  not  think  of 


The  Garden  as  before. 
AxGELO,  Mark  S.meatox. 

A.NGELO. 

Good  youth,  I  know  not  if  it  grieve  me  more, 
Thy  fair  preferment  thus  is  nipp'd  i'  the  bud. 
Or  give  me  joy  that  thou  hast  'scaped  the  snares 
That  might  have  limed  thy  soul. 

MARK. 

Is  it  then  true.  Sir  ? 
Is't  possible?   Thou  art  all  truth,  thou  wilt  not 
Torture  my  heart  with  such  a  hideous  falsehood. 
There  was  a  rude  tall  fellow  with  a  halberd. 
Who  spake  of  it,  and  with  his  villanous  jests 
And  fiendish  lauothter  tainted  the  Queen's  name. 
Her  snowy,  spotless,  air-embalmitig  name  I 
I  told  him  to  his  teeth  he  lied  ;  and  if 
His  scoffing  fellows  had  not  troop'd  around  him, 
I'd  struck  him  to  the  earth. 

ANCELO. 

Rash  boy,  beware ! 
Tliis  sounds  like  treason. 

MARK. 

If  the  King  himself 
Set  such  example  to  high  heaven,  cast  off 
Its  richest  bounties  with  such  insolent  scorn. 
What  wonder  if  ingratitude  become 
The  fashion  of  this  court,  and  the  most  favour'd 
Change  to  the  blackest  traitors  >. 

A.NGELO. 

Mark,  't  is  true 
The  Queen  is  order'd  prisoner  to  the  Tower — 


Most  true ;  yet  know'st  thou  not  the  worst :  the  King 
Has  changed  to  such  a  deadly  hate  against  her. 
That  she  must  die 

MARK. 

Die!  die! — No,  Sir,  no  soul 
Will  load  itself  with  such  a  deep  damnation  : 
Earth  would  break  out  in  execration.  Heaven 
With  unexampled  thunders  interdict 
The  horrible  sentence! 

ANGELO. 

Youth,  I  "1!  trust  thee  farther. 
Come  hither,  close — thy  love  to  thy  lost  mistress 
Warrants  my  somewhat  dangerous  confidence  : 
She  stands  between  the  King  and  a  new  lust — 
He  must  be  widow'd,  e'er  his  guilty  heart 
Glut  its  foul  appetite. 

MARK. 

Oh !  reverend  Father, 
Does  not  thy  flesh  grow  cold,  thy  holy  heart 
Sicken  still  more  and  more  at  this  bad  world  ? 
For  me,  for  me,  she  will  so  hallow  death — 
She  will  so  darken  and  make  void  this  earth 
At  her  departure — I  and  all  true  servants 
Will  seek  out  our  untimely  graves,  to  attend, 
Adore  her,  in  a  better  world  ;  at  least. 
Not  live  in  this,  when  sunless  of  her  presence. 

ANGELO. 

Now,  as  a  heretic  I  love  her  not. 
But  yet  my  charity  would  not  she  were  cast. 
Where  she  must  perish  body  and  soul  in  hell ; 
I  'd  have  her  live — live  on,  in  shame  and  sorrow ; 
For  sorrow  is  the  mother  of  true  penitence. 

MARK. 

Is  there  no  way  to  save  her  ? 

ANGELO. 

None. 

MARK. 

Then,  farewell 
All  hope,  all  joy  in  this  world's  wilderness, 
A  barren  waste  of  sand,  the  fountain  dried 
That  was  its  life  and  gladness. — 

ANGELO. 

None,  but  that 
At  which  our  nature  shudders,  wliich  would  damn 
The  name  to  blackest  branded  infamy. 
Would  peril  the  eternal  soul,  would  give 
The  fiends  such  awful  vantage,  by  a  crime, 
A  wilful  crime,  so  like  th' accursed  Judas, 
That  good  men  would  not  stay  to  seek  the  cause. 
But  heap  the  head  with  merciless  execration. 
Where  shall  we  find,  in  these  degenerate  days. 
Devotion  more  than  Roman? — Who  will  risk 
His  fame,  his  soul,  to  save  a  woman's  life. 
And  give  a  heretic  time  to  pluck  the  brand 
Of  her  lost  soul  out  of  hell  fire  ? 

MARK. 

Good  Father, 
Wrap  not  thy  speech  in  darkness. 

ANGELO. 

If  the  King, 
On  some  just  plea  (and  these  new  (iospellers 
Do  admit  none  but  foul  adultery) 
Were  but  divorced — how  long,  how  honourably 

obi 


344 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Lived  the  Impfirial  Catherine! — which  were  best — 
Her  spoilesa  name  be  tainted,  or  her  body 
Writhe  on  a  scaffold,  and  her  soul  in  flames? 

IVIAUK. 

Horrible!  horrible! — to  live  with  name 
Spotted  with  shame,  or  die  lor  aye ! 

ANGELO. 

E'en  so — 
To  bear  a  branded  life,  nor  maid,  nor  widow. 
Nor  wife;  for  who  would  wed  a  tainted  outcast? 
She  were  beneath  the  lowest  groom. 

MARK. 

True,  true. 
On,  I  beseech  you,  Sir. 

ANGELO. 

Do  we  not  force 
The  deadliest  poison  down  the  best-loved  lips, 
If,  by  its  wholesome  intervention,  life 
Be  prison'd  in  the  mortal  frame  ?    We  hate 
At  first  the  stern  physician,  but  erevvhile 
The  wiser  heart  o'erflows  with  grateful  love. 

MARK. 

Good  reverend  Sir,  tell  me  at  once — directly, 
With  no  prudential  riddling  in  thy  phrase, 
What  must  he  do  would  save  the  Queen? 

ANGELO. 

Avouch, 
And  with  a  solemn  oath,  in  the  face  of  Heaven, 
That  they  have  done  together  that  foul  sin 
That  taints  the  lips  to  speak,  the  heart  to  think  on. 

MARK. 

Oh!  but 't  must  be  a  nobler  perjury. 
Who  would  believe  th'  impossible  falsity 
Averr'd  by  baser  lips  ? 

ANGELO. 

Those  that  would  fain 
Believe,  are  ne'er  o'er-nice  or  scrupulous. 

MARK. 

Too  mnch  at  once,  with  falsehood  to  blaspheme 
Such  goodness,  on  this  side  of  Heaven  unknown. 
And  be  a  base  and  perjured  wretch! 

ANGELO. 

The  Church, 
On  meet  occasions— and  what  cause  more  noble 
Than  possible  redemption  of  a  soul 
Like  hers,  sold  captive  to  the  heretic  crew? — 
Hath  power  to  absolve  the  guilt  of  falsest  oaths. 

MARK. 

Dost  say  so  ? 

ANGELO. 

Oh  !  that  .soft  luxurious  neck 
Bare  on  the  cold  dark  block  to  lie,  the  axe 
Come  gleaming  down  with  horrid  expedition— 

MARK. 

I  "11  do 't 

ANGELO. 

Thou  !  soft  and  timorous  boy  ! 

MARK. 

I'll  do't. 
If  fiends  stand  plucking  at  my  soul,  and  Hell 
Yawn  at  my  feet!   Thou,  Father,  thou  wilt  case 
My  soul  in  adamantine  resolution. 
I  '11  save  her,  if  I  die,  on  earth — for  ever! 


Do  with  me  as  thou  will — I  'II  speak,  I  'II  swear, 
I'll  pull  down  good  men's  imprecations.  Heaven's—. 
No,  Heaven  will  pardon  if  I  save  the  heavenly! 
Upon  my  head  rain  curses,  contumelies. 
She  will  erewhile  be  taught  to  bless  me;  ways 
Will  sure  be  found  to  teach  her  why  I  've  dared 
Thus  'gainst  my  nature,  hold  and  false — she  '11  know  it, 
She  '11  know  it  all — my  pains,  my  hopes,  my  truth! — 


Anne  Boleyn  landing  at  the  Tower. 
Sir  William  Kingston,  Guards. 

queen. 
Here — here,  then,  all  is  o'er  ! — Oh  !  awful  walls, 
Oh!  sullen  towers,  relentless  gates,  that  open 
Like  those  of  Hell,  but  to  receive  the  doom'd. 
The  desperate — Oh!  ye  black  and  massy  barriers. 
But  broken  by  yon  barr'd  and  narrow  loop-holes. 
How  do  ye  coop  from  this  God's  sunshine  world 
Of  freedom  and  delight,  your  world  of  woe. 
Your  midnight  world,  where  all  that  live,  live  on 
In  hourly  agony  of  death  !    Vast  dimgeon. 
Populous  as  vast,  of  your  devoted  tenants  ! 
Long  ere  our  bark  had  touch'd  the  fatal  strand, 
I  felt  your  ominous  shadows  darken  o'er  me, 
.^nd  close  me  round ;  your  thick  and  clammy  air, 
.'\s  though  't  were  loaded  with  dire  imprecations, 
Wailings  of  dying  and  of  tortured  men. 
Tainted  afar  the  wholesome  atmosphere. 

KINGSTON  {to  the  Guard). 
Advance  your  halberds. 

queen. 
Oh !  Sir,  pause — one  look, 
One  last  long  look,  to  satiate  all  my  senses. 
Oh!  thou  blue  cloudless  canopy,  just  tinged 
With  the  faint  amber  of  the  setting  sun. 
Where  one  by  one  steal  forth  the  modest  stars 
To  diadem  the  sky  : — thou  noble  river. 
Whose  quiet  ebb.  not  like  my  fortune,  sinks 
With  gentle  downfall,  and  around  the  keels 
Of  those  thy  inyriail  barks  makest  passing  music: — 
Oh!  thou  great  silent  city,  with  thy  spires 
And  palaces,  where  I  was  once  ihe  greatest. 
The  happiest — I,  whose  presence  made  a  tumult 
In  all  your  wondering  streets  and  jocund  marts: — 
But  most  of  all,  thou  cool  and  twilight  nir, 
That  art  a  rapture  to  Ihe  breath !   'J'he  slave. 
The  begsar,  the  most  base  down-troddrn  outcast, 
The  plague-struck  livid  wretch,  there  's  none  so  vile. 
So  abject,  in  your  streets,  that  swarm  with  life — 
They  may  inhale  Ihe  liquiil  joy  Heaven  breathes — 
They  may  behold  the  rosy  evening  sky — 
They  may  go  rest  their  free  limbs  whore  they  will: 
But  I — but  I,  to  whom  this  sumiTier  world 
Was  all  bright  sinisliine;  I,  whose  time  was  noted 

But  by  succession  of  delights Oh  !  Kingston, 

Thou  (lost  remember,  thou  wert  then  Lieutenant, 
'T  is  now — how  many  years  ? — my  memory  wanders 
Since  I  set  (iirth  from  yon  dark  low-brow'd  porch, 
A  bride — a  monarch's  bride — King  Henry's  bride? 
Oh!  the  glad  pomp,  that  burn'd  upon  the  waters — 
Oh!  the  rich  streams  of  music  that  kept  time 

354 


ANNE    BOLEYN, 


345 


With  oars  as  musical — the  people's  shouts, 

That  call'd  Heaven's  blessings  on  my  head,  in  sounds 

That  might  have  drown'd  the  thunders 1  've  more 

need 
Of  blessing  now,  and  not  a  voice  would  say  it. 

KINGSTON. 

Your  Grace,  no  doubt,  will  long  survive  this  trial. 

QUKEN. 

Sir,  Sir,  it  is  too  late  to  flatter  me  : 

Time  was  I  trusted  each  fond  possibility. 

For  hope  sate  (jueen  of  all  my  golden  fortunes  ; 

But  now 

KINGSTON. 

Day  wears,  and  our  imperious  mandate 
Brooks  no  delay — advance. 

QUEEN. 

Back,  back,  T  say  ! — 
I  will  not  enter!    Whilher  will  ye  plunge  me? 
Into  what  chamber,  but  the  sickly  air 
Smells  all  of  blood — the  black  and  cobvveb'd  walls 
Are  all  o'ertraced  by  dying  hand,  who've  noted 
In  the  damp  dews  indelible  their  tale 
Of  torture — not  a  bed  nor  straw-laid  pallet 
But  bears  th'  impression  of  a  wretch  call'd  forth 
To  execution.     Will  ye  place  me  there. 
Where  those  poor  babes,  their  crook-back'd  uncle 

murder'd. 
Still  haunt  ? — Inhuman  hospitality  ! 
Look  there !  look  there  !  fear  mantles  o'er  my  soul 
As  with  a  prophet's  robe,  the  ghostly  walls 
Are  sentinel'd  with  mute  and  headless  spectres, 
Whose  lank  and  grief-attenualed  fingers 
Point  to  their  gory  and  di.ssever'd  necks. 
The  least  and  lordly  noble,  some  like  princes  : 
Through  the  dim  loop-holes  gleam  the  haggard  faces 
Of  those,  whose  dark  iiiuittprable  fate 
Lies  buried  in  your  dungeons'  depths;  some  vran 
With  famine,  some  with  writhing  features  fix'd 
In  the  acony  of  torture. — Rack  !  I  say  : 
They  beckon  me  across  the  fatal  threshold, 
Which  none  may  pass  and  live. 

KINGSTON. 

The  deaths  of  traitors, 
If  such  have  died  within  these  eloomy  towers, 
Should  not  appal  voiir Grace  with  such  vain  terrors; 
The  chamber  is  prepared  where  slept  your  Highness 
When  last  vi  ithin  the  Tower. 

QL'EEN. 

Oh  I  't  is  too  good 
For  such  a  wretch — a  death-doom'd  wretch,  as  me. 
My  Lord,  my  Henry— he  that  call'd  me  forth 
F.ven  from  that  chamber,  with  a  voice  more  gentle 
Than  flutes  o'er  calmest  waters — will  not  wrong 
Th' eternal  Justice — the  creat  law  of  Kings! 
Let  him  arraicm  me — bribe  as  witnesses 
The  angels  that  behold  onr  inmost  thoughts. 
He'll  find  no  crime  but  loving  him  loo  fondly  ; 
And  let  him  visit  that  with  his  worst  vengeance. 
Come,  Sir,  voiir  wearied  patience  well  may  fail  : 
On  to  thai  chamber,  where  I  slept  so  sweeflv. 
When  guiltier  far  than  now.    On — on.  good  Kingston. 
2T 


MTiilehaU. 
King  IIenrv  atid  Attendants. 

KING. 

'Sdeath  !  ye  're  all  traitors  :  the  King's  bed  defiled, 

And  by  his  grooms,  and  ye  must  pause  and  parley 

For  proof  and  witness!    Find  me  demonstration. 

Or  I  'II  he  law,  witness,  and  judge.     A  King 

Not  to  cast  o(T  a  wanton  from  his  bed, 

Rut  must  be  trammel'd,  thwarted,  check'd,  control'd 

By  quirks  of  law,  old  formal  statutes,  rolls 

Of  parchment  scribled  o'er  with  musty  phrases! 

I  '11  let  you  know  our  will 's  this  kingdom's  law. 

Where  's  Norreys  ? 

ATTENDANT. 

He  awaits  your  Highness'  pleasure. 

KING. 

Come  hither,  Norreys:  we  have  loved,  have  trusted 

you — 
Could  you  find  out  no  nobler  way  than  this 
Of  being  a  traitor?  could  your  daring  lust 
Stoop  to  no  humbler  paramour  than  our  Queen  ? 

NORREYS. 

Your  pardon, Sire,  but  save  your  Highness'  presence. 
Show  me  the  man  dare  taint  my  name  with  treason, 
I  'd  dash  my  gauntlet  in  his  face,  and  choke 
Th' audacious  lie  within  his  venomous  throat. 
And  more,  excepting  still  my  Liege's  person. 
Whoe'er  hath  slander'd  the  Queen's  honour,  be  it 
With  me,  or  Knight  far  worthier  of  her  favour, 
I  do  defy  that  man  to  mortal  hattle. 
Body  to  body,  as  a  Knight — I  '11  prove  him 
The  most  convicted,  recreant,  foulest  slanderer, 
Whose  breath  e'er  soil'd  a  Lady's  spotless  name  ! 

KING. 

Thou  hast  done  us  service,  Norreys ;  for  that  reason. 

Though  we  impeach  our  honour  by  our  mercy. 

Confess,  if  treacherous  opportunity 

Or  her  too  easy  virtue  did  allure  thee, 

(For  in  the  heat  and  wild  distemperature 

Of  passion,  noblest  souls  fororet  themselves). 

Be  bold,  be  dauntless,  but  be  true :  we  pledge 

The  honour  of  a  king,  to  give  thee  back 

Thy  forfeit  life ;  fiir  look  ye,  she  shall  die — 

She  and  her  minions! — Siand  thou  f()rlh  our  witness. 

Perchance,  beside  thy  life,  our  grace  may  find 

Some  meet  return. 

NORREYS. 

I  do  beseech  your  Highness, 
What  act  of  mine  in  all  my  life  avouches 
The  slanderous  hope,  to  biiv  or  life,  or  what 
I  value  more,  my  Sov'reign's  gracious  flivour, 
I  'd  perjure  mine  own  soul,  accuse  the  blameless  ? 
Mv  Liege,  you  are  abused — foully  abused  ! 
Some  devil  hath  beset  your  easy  ear. 
If  you  strike  off  this  unofTeriding  head. 
Your  Majesty  will  lose  a  faithful  servant — 
That 's  soon  replaced  ;  but  for  the  Queen,  I  sav. 
And  will  maintain  it  with  my  life,  the  best, 
The  chastest  Queen,  the  closest  nun  in  Europe, 

Is  Messalina  to  a  Vestal 

355 


346 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Ofl! 
Away  with  him  to  the  Tower. — What!  have  we 

stoop'd 
Thus  to  be  gracious,  to  be  scorn'd  and  rated, 
And  by  our  slaves  ? 

The  above.    WiNCifESTER. 

KING. 

Why  how  now,  Winchester  ? 
Another  Churchman  come  t'  impeach  his  King, 
And  with  mock  charitable  increduhty 
Arraign  his  justice?    I  'd  but  now  a  mi.ssive 
From  Cranmer  ; — he,  forsooth,  good  blameless  man, 
Knowing  no  sin  himself,  believes  there's  none 
In  others. — 'Sdeath  !  I  'II  hear  no  more  excuses ; 
The  fact 's  as  clear,  or  shall  be,  as  yon  Sun. 
Thou  think'st  her  guiltless  ? 

GARDINER. 

Till  this  hour,  my  Liege, 
I  could  have  pledged  my  life,  sworn  strongest  oaths 
That  such  a  monstrous  sin — a  sin  that  darkens 
The  annals  of  mankind,  makes  us  suspect 
Some  moral  plague  broke  out  in  human  nature — 
Had  been  impossible.    Oh  !  best  and  greatest, 
That  best  and  greatest  to  ungrateful  men 
Should  be  a  license  thus  to  wrong  the  bounties 
By  which  they  lived  I — And  that  the  Queen — raised  up 
From  a  Knight's  daughter  to  the  throne  of  England — 
A  partner  of  King  Henry's  bed — the  strange, 
Th'  unnatural  act  doth  give  itself  the  lie! 
It  doth  outargue  closest  demonstration. 
And  make  us  rather  deem  our  senses  traitors 
Than  trust  the  assurance  of  most  damning  proofs. 

KING. 

Ha !  proofs  ? 

GARDINER. 

Would  there  were  none,  my  Liege,  who  bears 
Tidings  of  shame  to  an  abused  husband. 
That  husband  too  a  King,  a  glorious  King — 
Sire,  my  ungracious  presence  still  will  seem 
A  base  remembrancer  of  these  foul  deeds. 
Odious  as  they 

KING. 

Your  proofs,  good  Prelate,  proofs. 

GARDINER. 

Is  the  confession  of  the  guilty,  forced 
By  no  stern  tension  of  the  searching  rack, 
Nor  laceration  of  the  bleeding  flesh, 
But  free,  unbribed,  unsought 

KI.VG. 

Ila !  which ! 

GARDINER. 

My  Liege, 
'T  is  that  outdoes  all  record  of  old  crime. 
Makes  true  all  tales  of  fabulous  wantonness; 
It  is  the  boy — the  beardless  boy  ! — Oh  !  lust, 
Blind  as  unbridled,  frantic  ns  impure. 
That  no  discrimination  knows,  nor  choice 
Of  base  from  noble,  foul  from  fair — to  fall 
From  the  allow'd  embrace  of  such  a  king — 


Now, by  St  Paul!  thou  wear'st  our  patience. — Speak, 
How  got  ye  this?  look  ye  confirm  it. 


GARDINER. 


Sire. 


May  't  please  your  Highness,  that  a  holy  Friar, 
Albeit  I  know  your  Grace  for  weightiest  reasons 
Mistrusts  their  order,  hath  perpetual  access 
Unto  the  prisoner  Smeaton. 

KING. 

Ha!  a  priest 
r  the  plot — why  then 't  is  ripe  and  pregnant.  Gardiner, 
We  are  bound  to  thee.     My  Lord  of  Winchester, 
Look  thou  make  good  this  charge  against  our  Queen, 
Or,  by  St.  Paul!  thou  shall  have  cause  to  rue  it. 
So,  back  to  Greenwich  ;  we  'II  go  hunt  the  deer! 
Blow  horns — yell  dogs — we  '11  have  a  gorgeous  day! 
The  sun  is  in  the  Heavens,  and  our  high  heart 
Is  mounting  with  him.    Off— to  horse — to  horse. 


The  Tower. 

QUEEN. 

"  Blessed  are  those  that  weep." — Oh !  truth  of  truths, 

Not  understood  till  felt — thou  grace  of  Heaven, 

Spirit  of  Christ,  thou  didst  not  all  forsake  me. 

When  my  whole  life  was  like  a  banquet — served 

By  Pride  and  Luxury — dangerous  cup-bearers. 

Prayers,  all  unwonted  on  the  dainty  couch, 

Where  Queens  are  lapt  in  purple,  fail'd  not  me; 

Mine  heart,  a  place  forbid  to  pain  or  sorrow. 

Thou  didst  incline  to  other's  grief:  I  read 

In  the  deep  lines  of  woe-worn  cheeks,  the  bliss 

Of  resignation  to  the  Eternal  will ; 

And  felt,  admired,  adored  the  Christian  beauty 

Of  graces  that  I  had  no  scope  to  practise. 

But  now,  oh  Christ!  that  thou  vouchsafest  me 

The  mercy  of  afTliction — oh  !  the  warmth 

Of  prayer  that  burns  upon  my  lips,  the  deep. 

The  full  religion  that  o'erflows  my  heart. 

My  cited  thoughts  stand  ready  at  my  call, 

And  undistracted  memory  ranges  o'er 

My  map  of  life — where  it  is  wilderness 

Or  weed-o'ergrown,  pour  streams  of  penitence  ; 

But  where  the  sunshine  of  Heaven's  grace,  though 

cross'd 
By  hasty  clouds  of  earthly  passion,  gleams 
Upon  the  golden  harvest  of  good  deeds. 
It  glorifies  that  Sun  in  humblest  thankfulness. 
Thee,  therefore,  amiable  prison,  thee — 
Oh!  Solitude — dreadful  in  apprehension; 
When  present,  to  the  friendless,  the  best  friend! 
Henceforth  will  I  esteem,  as  much  beyond 
The  pride  and  press  of  courts,  as  I  feel  nearer 
To  Heaven  within  you. 

Queen,  Cranmer. 

QUEEN. 

Good  my  Lord  Archbishop, 
I  will  not  wrong  thee  by  the  idle  question 
Why  here  ?  'T  is  sorrow's  du  elling,  and  thou  art  here 
But  in  obedience  to  thy  heart  and  function. 

356 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


347 


CRAXMER. 

I  come  not,  Lady,  to  erect  anew 

The  much  misused  Confessional,  where  Sins 

Best  hid  in  shameful  silence,  or  wrung  forth 

In  voiceless  anguish,  to  Heaven's  midnight  ear, 

Are  acted  o'er  again  in  foul  recital: — 

But  oh,  if  thou  art  liillen,  the  saintliest  pupil 

In  our  young  school  of  Christian  graces,  thou 

That  to  the  living  fountain  of  the  Gospel 

Camest  duly,  to  draw  (i)rih  the  eternal  waters, 

What  infamy  will  blacken  o'er  our  cause! 

A  horror  of  deep  darkness  halh  oppress'd 

The  Church,  that  wails  in  awful  hope  th' event. 

QI'EF.N. 

Cranmer,  behold  this  book,  niv  sole  companion. 

Yet  whose  sweet  converse  makes  my  prison  day 

So  short,  I  'm  fain  t' encroach  upon  the  night. 

Sir,  were  I  guilty  (and  in  truth  I  know 

My  crime  but  vaguely),  there's  a  pa.ssage  here 

Of  one  detected  in  such  nameless  sin. 

That  had  been  hlotied  with  my  scalding  tears  : 

Tis  stainless,  and  in  truth  unread  ;  nor  ask  I 

If  my  accusers  are  less  deep  in  sin. 

If  I  am  g'.ilty,  let  who  will  cast  first 

The  avenging  stone,  and  heap  the  death  upon  me. 

CRANMKR. 

Heaven's  Grace  be  praised!  but  oh!  the  obdurateKing. 

QUEEN. 

There's  death  in  thy  sad  looks:  speak,  I  '11  endure  it. 

He  that  has  placed  this  cross  upon  my  shoulders 

Will  give  me  strength  to  bear  it.     1  defy  not, 

With  b<iastfulness  unfeminine,  ihe  shame. 

The  agony  ;  nor  yet  ungrateful  speak 

As  weary  of  a  world  only  too  full 

Of  joyance.     Thou,  my  child,  wouldst  well  rebuke 

Thy  mother's  selfish  soul  if  she  could  leave  thee 

Without  a  rending  of  her  heart-strings:  thou 

Not  less,  my  mother!  most  of  all,  my  husband! 

If  unreluctant  I  could  load  ihy  soul 

With  the  (riul  crime  of  my  judicial  murder; 

Even  our  afllicled  Church  may  ill  sustain 

The  loss  of  my  unworthy  aid. 

CRA.N.^IER. 

Oh !  rale  not 
Thus  low  your  faithful  service  :  farewell  now 
Vain  hope,  that  the  whole  land  should  hear  the  Word 
Of  God  go  forth  on  all  the  winds  ;  no  more 
Fatigue  the  deaf  cold  Saint  with  fruitless  pray'r. 
Or  kiss  wilh  pilgrim  lips  the  unheeding  shrine: 
That  not  a  village,  not  a  silent  hamlet 
In  mountain  solitude,  or  glen,  of  traveller 
Untrod,  should  want  ilss.Tbbath  bell  to  knoll 
To  purest  worship:  that  a  holy  priesthood, 
Chaste,  simple,  to  themselves  alone  .severe. 
Poor  below  luxury,  rich  beyond  contempt, 
Environ'd  with  their  heaven-led  families. 
Should  with  their  lives'most  saintly  eloquence 


But  now  shall  irreligious  Avarice 

Pluck  from  his  lips  the  Scholar's  dole— the  Temples 

I,ie  desecrate  in  ruin — or  the  night 

Of  ancient  ignorance  and  error  sink 

On  the  dark  land  lor  ever  and  for  over. 

QUEEN. 

Alas!  Sir,  why  enamour  me  with  life. 

Making  me  deem  myself  of  value  here, 

Here  in  this  world,  which  I  must  leave?— So  young 

To  be  cut  off,  and  so  untimely  !  cast 

A  blooming  branch  to  the  cold  grave!   Yet  Heaven, 

Whose  cause  it  is,  will  raise  defenders  uji. 

My  child!  my  daughter!  oh  prophetic  soul! 

I  (lare  not  trust,  yet  will  not  disbelieve 

Thy  glorious  omens.     Good  my  Lord  Archbishop, 

Thou  'It  not  endure  these  knees  should  grow  lo  earth. 

To  less  than  Heaven;  but  I  adjure  thee,  watch 

Her  ripening  spirit,  sow  the  seed,  ne'er  lost 

Though  cast  on  the  waste  waters. 

CRANMER. 

Heaven  but  grant 


The  life  and  power! 


My  sins,  my  sins  ! 


QUEEN. 

T'  another  subject  now, 


CRANMER. 

Of  them  to  Christ  alone  ; — 
That  heart  bleeds  freeliesi  that  inly  bleeds. 

QUEEN. 

Bear  with  me  yet,  my  Lord,  Cut  I  must  tax 
Your  kindness  further.    There  is  one,  but  one 
In  all  this  world,  my  memory  names,  halh  cause 
To  think  of  me  as  of  her  enemy, 
The  Lady  Mary ;  for  a  dying  woman 
Knireat  her  pardon.     I've  a  letter  here. 
Written  to  the  King  wilh  such  poor  eloquence 
As  I  am  mistress  of;  beseech  thee  hear  it ; 
Then,  if  thou  will,  be  thou  the  bearer  of  it. 

T/ie  Jailer.  (4) 
"  Sire,  your  displeasure  and  impri.sonment 
Are  all  so  strange  to  me,  that  what  to  write 
I  know  not,  what  t'  excuse :  you  sent  erewhile 
Mine  enemy  to  urge  me  to  confess. 
And  so  secure  your  Hivoiir; — willingly. 
If  to  confess  a  truth  might  purchase  me 
My  ne'er-despised  safety — but  imagine  not 
Your  wife  will  own  a  sin  ne'er  soil'd  her  thoughts. 
Never  had  Prince  a  wife  so  loyal — duteous. 
So  lo  affection  Iriie,  as  your  Anne  Boleyn. 
That  name  and  place  had  been  my  life's  coiilent, 
(iod  and  your  Grare  so  willing  it ;  yet  ne'er 
p'orgot  I,  that  the  fancy  which  had  raised  me 
Might  wander  to  another  fairer  object. 
You  chose  me,  nor  deserving,  nor  desiring. 
Your  Queen  and  Partner: — having  so  honoiir'd  me, 


Preach  Christ  —  Christ  only  :  —  while  all   reverend  ;  (iood,  your  CJrace,  let  no  light  unworthy  molive. 


Learning 

In  arch'd  cathedral  cloister,  or  the  grove 
That  bosoms  deep  ihe  calm  and  thoughtful  college, 
Should  heavenward  mediate,  and  bring  to  earth 
The  knowledge  learnt  amid  the  golden  stars. 
2T 


IN'or  my  malicious  enemies'  false  counsel. 
Withdraw  your  favour  from  me,  lest  the  slain, 
Th'  indelible  slain  of  a  disloyal  heart. 
Attaint  your  duteous  wile  and  royal  daiishter. 
Try  me,  good  Ivtng,  but  wilh  a  lawful  trial, 

307 


348 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Not  with  my  foes  my  judges — try  me  openly ; 

So  sliall  my  innocence  shine  forth  as  day, 

Your  nice  and  jealous  honour  he  absolved, 

Th'  opprobrious  voice  ofthe  vvorhl  's  slander  silenced: — 

Or  by  the  undoubted  plainness  of  my  guilt, 

Your  Grace  escape  all  censure  of  rash  harshness, 

And  God  and  man  approve  th'  extremest  rigour 

Of  vengeance  on  a  lawless  wife: — then  freely 

Your  Grace  may  follow  that  your  heart's  affection, 

Fix'd  where  I  know,  but  where  I  may  not  name. 

But  if  my  death,  worse  than  my  death,  my  shame, 

In  your  high  councils  is  already  doom'd, 

I  make  my  prayer  to  CJod  to  pardon  you. 

To  blot  this  most  unprincely  usage  of  me 

From  your  account,  when  thou  and  I  shall  meet 

Before  his  judgment  throne,  where  I  shall  stand. 

Judge  hovvsoe'er  the  world,  in  saintly  whiteness. 

I  've  but  one  more  reciuest ;  on  me  alone, 

]f  it  must  fall,  full  all  thy  wrath— Oh!  touch  net 

The  innocent  lives  of  those  poor  gentlemen 

In  prison  for  my  sake.     If  e'er  thy  wife 

Found  favour  in  thy  sight — if  e'er  thine  ear 

Found  music  in  Anne  Boleyn's  name — deny  not 

This  last,  this  dying  prayer.    j\o  more  I  trouble  thee. 

The  Holy  Trinity  keep  your  good  Grace 

In  health,  life,  happiness,  and  holiness. 

Written  from  my  doleful  prison  in  the  Tower, 
Your  loyal  and  most  faithful  wife,  Anne  Boleyn." 

CRANMER. 

God,  that  can  make  the  marble  heart  like  wax. 
Make  this  his  instrument  of  grace ! 

QUEEN. 

Amen. 


A  Prison  in  the  Tower. 
Angelo. 


ANGELO. 

Down,  impotent  remorse !  temptation,  down ! 
My  soul  abjures  thee  I  and  thoii,  carnal  pride. 
That  wilt  not  use  the  means  this  world  calls  base 
For  that  great  end,  t'  advance  the  faith  of  Christ! 
What  if  the  span  of  some  few  mortal  lives 
Be  somewhat  slirunk,  some  eyes  untimely  closed 
On  this  world's  ISuii,  will  not  ten  thousand  souls 
Live  through  eternity's  uiifiithom'd  years. 
And  a  whole  nation  walk  in  mortal  light  ? 
'Tis  but  the  wise  relentlessness  of  Heaven. 
Doth  the  dread  earthquake  feel  remorse,  that  makes 
A  populous  city  one  vast  tomb,  where  (Juilt 
And  Iiuiocence  lie  side  by  side  ?   Does  Pity 
Pale  the  blue  cheek  of  pestilence,  that  blasts 
Whole  nations  ?    Doth  the  sweeping  deluge  pause, 
And  hold  suspended  its  vast  weight  of  waters. 
To  give  the  righteous  time  to  fly  the  ruin? 
The  best,  the  v%isesl,  holii^st  Sauits  and  Pontiffs 
Have  sent  fierce  war  with  undiscerning  vengeance 
To  waste  the  heretic's  land;  fiir  though  just  Heaven 
Turn  from  the  field  of  carnage — from  the  city 
Made  desolate,  far  rather  it  beholds  them. 
Than  the  fierce  tossings  of  the  infernal  pit, 


And  Hell  made  rich  with  everlasting  souls. — 
Here  are  but  two:  one  guiltless,  and  one  guilty. 
On — and  be  fearless — on,  my  soul ! 

He  sleeps; 
Poor  wretch,  thou  'It  sleep  ere  long  more  deep — he 
dreams. 

MARiv  {in  his  sleep.) 

Her  voice — her  voice — ye  heard  her  lute-like  voice. 
Who  loosed  these  bonds,  who  led  me  forth  from  death? 

'T  was  I,  your  servant,  I 

Where  am  I  ? — who 
And  what  art  thou  ? — The  Father  Angelo  ! 
Oh  !  sleep,  sweet  sleep,  art  thou  a  prophetess. 
Or  but  a  gracious  and  most  kind  deceiver? 
Oh!  palace-builder — oh!  thou  Queen  of  bridals. 
That  in  the  silent  prison  makest  the  bells 
Sound  for  the  jocund  marriage — oh!  magician. 
With  realm  of  witchcraft  wideas  thought — time,  place, 
And  circumstance,  combine,  and  shift,  and  change, 
Like  spirits  on  thy  sorcerous  wand  that  wait. 
And  all  things  are  that  are  not — nigHt  is  day. 
Grief  joy,  death  life,  th'  impossible  becomes 
Breathing  reality  ;  thou  dost  take  up 
Th'  unpillow'd  beggar,  and  dost  proudly  seat  him 
Upon  a  throne — dost  bring  the  Queen  of  queens 
Down  to  the  level  of  a  boy  like  me. 

ANGELO. 

Mark  Smeaton,  I  am  here  to  know  thy  purpose, 
Thy  calm  deliberate  purpose :  yet  't  is  time 
To  disavow  thy  dangerous  evidence — 
Yet,  but  not  long :  I  saw  the  Judges  pass 
Across  the  court,  and  one  that  bare  an  axe 
Went  first,  as  to  denote  they  sate  in  judgment 
Upon  a  capital  crime. 

MARK. 

Then  she  must  die — 
If  by  mine  oath  she  is  found  guilty,  who 
Shall  intercept  that  bloody  instrument? — 

ANGELO. 

There  has  been  stir  and  parleying  to  and  fro 
Concerning  a  pre-contract,  said  to  exist 
Between  the  Queen,  when  young,  and  the  Lord  Piercy; 
And  wherefore  this,  but  the  relenting  King 
Would  be  content  to  break  the  chain  asunder 
That  galls  him. 

MARK. 

Yet  to  swear — before  high  Heaven — 
All-seeing  Heaven  ! — Heaven,  that  in  thunder  spake 
The  stern  command,  "Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  wit- 
ness!" 

ANGELO. 

'T  is  well : — what  is 't  to  thee  if  the  fierce  King 

Add  to  his  ruthless  soul  the  crime  of  murder? 

And  one  unhoiisel'd  heretic  more  bear  down, 

Her  soul  all  leprous  with  its  gangrene  taint, 

To  burn  for  endless  ages?    I  had  brought 

The  deposition,  that  but  wants  thy  signet 

And  oath  befi)re  some  witnesses  that  wait 

r  the  court  without — but  to  flames  with  it, 

.'\nd  to  the  block  with  her— not  worth  the  jeoparding 

The  immortal  spirit 

358 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


349 


MARK. 

Not  worth  ! — if 't  were  but  death, 
To  go  to  sleep  in  the  cold  grave,  and  know 
That  she  walk'd  iiannless  in  the  living  world. 
Oh!  Sir,  but  Hell  has  some  thrice  darkest  chamber, 
Some  outcast  dwelling,  where  ihe  perjured  hear 
The  hissing  and  the  execration  of  the  damn'd. 

ANGKLO. 

Crime  is  not  crime  but  in  ils  motive : — thou 
Art  false  but  to  be  true — (iilse  to  her  fame. 
True  to  her  better  interests. — But  I  came  not 
To  argue.     Yet  when  thou  go'st  hence,  take  heed 
Thou  pass  not  o'er  the  hill  where  Traitors  die  ; 
Lest,  trammel'd  in  the  press,  thou  'rt  (breed  to  see, 
From  first  to  last,  the  hideous  deed — the  stroke, 
The  agony,  the  despair,  the  wriihing  hands, 
The  sever'd  neck,  the  cry  to  Heaven,  that  Heaven 
Shall  turn  away  from,  and 

MARK. 

Give  me  the  paper; 
Let  me  not  read  it,  lest  its  hideous  falsehood 
Shake  my  faint  resolution.    There — 'tis  done  ! 

ANGELO. 

What,  ho!  within, — ye  see  this  youth  deliver 
This  instrument  as  his  own  deed. 

WITNESSES. 

We  do. 

AXGELO. 

Now  in  and  sleep  again. 

MARK. 

Sleep! — never  more; 
The  perjured  do  not  sleep;  the  slanderers,  those 
That  bear  false  witness  —  yet  Heaven   knows,  and 

Heaven 
Will  pardon — and  she  too,  like  Heaven,  will  know. 
Like  Heaven  will  pardon!  Sir,  I  cannot  think 
Thou  hast  deceived  me;  if  thou  hast,  the  tortures 
Of  all  eternity  will  be  too  short 
T'  avenge  this  wicked  subornation  I 

ANGELO. 

Peace ! 

MARK. 

Oh !  pardon.  Sir,  my  thoughts  do  swim  so  strangely; 

Things  all  so  monstrous  and  incredible 

Have  come  to  pass,  there  's  nought  that  seems  too 

strange. 
And  nothing  is  but  what  could  never  be. 
That  thou,  a  man  of  such  strict  saintliness, 
Shouldst  be  so  false,  finds  credit  w'ith  me  only 
Because  it  is  impossible,  and  far 
Beyond  the  reach  and  scope  of  our  belief 


Ha[l  in  the  Tower. 


Duke  of  Norfolk,  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Marquis 
Exeter,  and  others  as  Judges.  The  Quee.n  and 
Officers. 

NORFOLK. 

Read  our  commission. 

OFFICER. 

Thomas  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Marquis  Exeter, 


Earl  Arundel,  and  certain  other  peers 
Here  present ;  ye  are  met  in  the  Tower  of  Londoii, 
Ry  special  mandate  from  the  King,  t'  arraign 
Of  certain  dangerous  and  capital  treasons 
Against  the  peace  and  person  of  the  King 
Anne,  Queen  of  England. 

CRIER. 

Come  into  the  Court, 
.•\nne.  Queen  of  England. 

QUEEN. 

Here. 

OFFICER. 

Anne,  Queen  of  England 
(Be  seated,  it  beseems  your  Grace's  station). 
Look  on  this  Court,  these  peers  of  England,  met, 
By  the  King's  high  commission,  to  pass  sentence 
Between  thyself  and  the  King's  Grace— hast  aught 
T'  object  ere  thou  'rt  arraign'd  ? 

QUEEV. 

I  'd  thought,  my  Lords, 
It  had  stood  more  with  the  King's  justice,  more 
With  the  usage  of  the  land,  a  pf)or  weak  woman 
Had  not  been  forced  t'  abide  your  awful  ordeal 
Alone  and  unadvised;  that  Counsel,  learn'd 
In  forms  of  law,  and  versed  by  subtle  practice 
In  forcing  from  the  bribed  or  partial  witnesses 
Tir  unwilling  truth,  had  been  assigu'd  me. — Well, 
Be  't  as  it  is — 1  have  an  advocate 
Gold  cannot  fee,  nor  circumstance  appal : 
An  advocate,  wlioso  voiceless  eloquence, 
If  it  should  fail  before  your  earthly  court. 
Shall  in  a  higher  gain  me  that  acquittal 
Mine  enemies'  malice  may  deny  nie  here — 
Mine  Innocence.     Proceed. 

OFFICER. 

Anne,  Queen  of  England, 
Thou  stand'st  arraicrn'd,  that  treasonously  and  foully. 
To  the  dishonour  of  his  Highness'  person 
And  slander  of  his  issue,  thou  hast  conspired 
With  certain  Traitors,  now  convict  and  sentenced — 
George,  \"iscoMnt  Rochford,  Henry  Norreys,  Knight, 
Sir  William  Brereton,  Francis  Weston,  Knights, 
And  one  Mark  Smeaton. 

QIEEN. 

Pause,  Sir;  heard  I  rightly 
My  Brother's  name.  Lord  Rochford's?  I  beseech  you, 
My  Lords,  what  part  bears  he  in  this  Indictment? 

OFFICER. 

The  same  with  all  the  rest. 

QUEEN. 

Great  God  of  Thunder, 
Refrain  thy  bolt! — my  Lords,  there  are  among  ye 
Have  noble  Sislers,  if  ye  deem  this  possible, 
I  do  consent  ye  deem  it  true.    Go  on.  Sir. 

OFFICER. 

And  one  Mark  Smeaton. 

QUEEN. 

Would  they  make  me  smile 
With  iteration  of  that  name — a  meet 
And  likely  lover  lor  King  Henry's  Queen! 

NORFOLK. 

Read,  now,  the  Depositions.     Each  and  all, 

My  Lords,  ye  have  perused  that  dangerous  paper 

359 


350 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Written  by  the  Lady  Wingfield,  now  deceased — 
Heard  sundry  evidence  of  words  unseemly 
And  most  unroyal  spoken  by  her  Grace. 

QUEEN. 

The  Depositions !  good,  my  Lord — I  'd  thought 
T'  have  seen  my  accusers  fare  to  face :  is  this 
The  far  renown'd  and  ancient  English  Justice? 

OFFICER. 

The  Deposition  of  Lord  Viscount  Rochford  : — 
That  for  th' impossible  and  hideous  charge, 
His  soul  abhors  it  with  such  sickly  loalhing, 
Words  cannot  utter  it :  to  stab  the  babe 
r  the  mother's  arms,  to  beat  the  brains  from  out 
A  father's  hoary  head,  had  been  to  nature 
Less  odious,  less  accurst. 

QUEEN. 

There  spake  my  brother. 

OFFICER. 

The  Deposition  of  Sir  Henry  Norreys: 

That  the  Queen's  Grace  is  as  the  new-born  babe 

For  him — for  others,  he  will  prove  her  so 

In  mortal  combat  'gainst  all  England. 

Sir  Francis  Weston — doth  deny  all  guilt, 

With  an  asseveration,  if  in  thought 

Or^word  he  hath  demean'd  her  Grace's  honour, 

He  imprecates  Heaven's  instant  thunder-bolt. 

Sir  William  Brercton — if  all  women  here 

In  England  were  as  blameless  as  her  Grace, 

The  Angels  would  mistake  this  land  for  Heaven. 

Mark  Smeaton  doth  confess 

QUEEN. 

Confess  I 

OFFICER. 

That  twice 
In  guilty  commerce  with  the  Queen 

QUEEN. 

My  Lords, 
Who  is  it  hath  suborn'd  this  wretched  boy! 
I  do  arraign  that  man,  in  the  dread  court 
Whose  sentence  is  eternity  !    My  soul 
Shall  rise  in  judgment,  when  the  Heavens  are  fire 
Around  Christ's  burning  throne,  against  that  man  ; 
And  say  on  earlh  he  murder'd  my  poor  body. 
And  that  false  swearing  boy's  lost  soul  in  Hell. 

OFFICER. 

This  full  confession — sign'd  and  in  the  sight 

Of  witnesses  deliver'd,  in  due  f)rm 

Of  law,  in  every  part  clear  and  authentic. 

NORFOLK. 

Anne,  Queen  of  Etiglaiul,  ere  this  high  commission 
Pass  to  their  final  sentence,  hast  thou  aught 
To  urge  upon  their  Lordships  in  defence 
Or  palliation  of  these  fearful  charges? 

QUEEN. 

My  Lords!  th'  unwonted  rigour  of  the  King 
And  mine  imprisonment  have  .something  shaken 
My  constant  state  of  mind  :    I  do  beseech  you, 
If  I  speak  not  so  reverently  or  wisely 
Of  the  King's  justice  as  I  ought,  bear  with  me. 
I  will  not  say,  that  some  of  you,  my  Lords, 
For  my  religion  and  less  weighty  motives. 
Are  my  sworn  enemies — 't  were  to  disparage 


The  unattainted  whiteness  of  my  cause, 
That  had  defied  the  malice  of  the  basest. 
Nor  deigns  mistrust  the  high-sonl'd  enmity 
Of  English  Nobles.     \Vhen  that  I  have  forced  you 
To  be  the  vouchers  for  my  honesty, 
My  fame's  pure  gold  shall  only  blaze  the  brighter, 
Tried  in  the  furnace  of  your  deadly  hale  ! 
My  Lords,  the  King,  whose  bounties,  numberless 
And  priceless,  neither  time  nor  harsher  usage 
Shall  ever  raze  from  my  heart's  faithful  tablets — 
The  King,  I  say,  took  me  an  humble  maid. 
With  not  a  jewel  but  my  maiden  fame  : 
That  I  'm  his  wife,  seeing  the  infinite  distance 
Between  my  Father's  daughter  and  a  throne, 
Argues  no  base  or  lowly  estimate. 
Think  ye  a  crown  so  galling  to  the  brows. 
And  a  Queen's  name  so  valueless,  that  false 
And  recreant  to  the  virtue  which  advanced  rae, 
I  should  fall  off"  thus  basely  ? — I  am  a  mother, 
My  Lords,  and  hoped  that  my  right  royal  issue 
Should  rule  this  realm :  had  I  been  worse  than  worst. 
Looser  than  lo'osest — think  ye  I  'd  have  peril'd 
The  pride  of  giving  birth  to  a  line  of  Kings, 
And  rnbb'd  my  children  of  their  sceptred  heritage? 
Your  proofs,  my  Lords ! — some  idle  words,  that  spoken 
By  less  than  me,  had  been  forgotten  air  : 
The  force  of  words  dwells  not  on  their  mere  letters, 
But  in  the  air,  time,  place,  and  circumstance 
In  which  they  're  utter'd — the  poor  laughing  child 
Will  call  himself  a  King,  will  ye  indite  him 
Of  treason  ?    If  less  solemnly  I  've  spoken 
Or  gravely  than  beseem'd  my  queenly  state, 
'T  was  partly  that  his  Grace  would  take  delight 
In  hearing  my  light  laughing  words  glance  off; 
As  is  the  wont  in  gay  and  courtly  France: — 
Partly,  that  raised  from  such  a  lowly  state 
Haply  to  full  again,  I  watch'd  my  spirit. 
Lest  with  an  upstart  pride  I  might  offend 
The  noble  Knights  whose  service  honour'd  me. 
If  thus  I  've  err'd  through  humbleness  familiar, 
Heaven  will  forgive  the  liiult,  though  man  be  mer- 
ciless ! 
To  the  rest,  my  Lords !  knowing  nought  living  dared 
.Attaint  my  fame,  my  enemies  have  ransack'd 
The  grave;  the  Lady  Wingfield  hath  been  summon 'd 
To  speak  against  me  from  her  tomb — and  what  ? — 
Vague  rumours!  that  I  will  not  say  base  Envy 
(I  '11  have  more  charity  to  the  dead  than  they 
To  me),  but  pardonable  error,  zeal 
For  the  King's  honour,  may  have  swollen  to  charges. 
Which  if  ye  trust,  not  the  shrined  Vestal 's  pure 
My  Lords,  my  Lords,  ye  better  know  than  I 
What  subtle  arts,  what  gilded  promises 
Have  been  employ 'd  to  make  the  noble  Knights 
My  fellow  criminals,  my  Accusers !  which 
Might  not  have  purchased  life  by  this  base  service, 
And  crept  into  a  late  and  natural  grave? 
But  let  me  ask,  my  Lords,  who,  base  enough. 
And  so  disloyal,  as  t'  abuse  thus  grossly 
The  bounties  of  so  good  a  King,  had  risen 
To  this  wild  prodigality  of  honour. 
For  a  loose  woman  to  lay  down  his  head 
And  taint  his  name,  his  blood  with  infamy? 

360 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


351 


For  ihis  besotted  boy ! — my  Lords,  I  know  not 

If  to  rebut  this  charge  with  serious  speech ; 

Such  as  it  is,  my  I^rds,  this  modest  beauty 

Made  me  a  Queen,  and  other  Kitigs  disdain'd  not 

To  lay  their  flattering  incense  at  its  shrine. 

My  Lords,  there  's  none  amongst  your  noblest  sons, 

Rich  in  ancestral  titles,  none  so  moulded 

By  nature's  cunning  symmetry,  so  high 

In  station,  but  my  favour  had  endanger'd 

His  truth  t"  ills  King: — and  I,  1  that  disdain'd 

Less  than  a  crown,  with  wayward  wantonness 

Demean  me  to  a  half  form'd,  base-born  slave! — 

I  do  demand — if  that  ye  will  not  damn 

Your  names  to  everlasting  infamy — 

Here  in  this  court,  this  instant,  ye  bring  forth 

This  boy  :  if  with  one  word  I  force  you  not 

To  do  me  justice  on  this  monstrous  slander — 

Do  with  me  as  ye  will.  ^I  've  done,  and  now 

Renew  an  old  petition  : — if  the  King, 

Abused  and  cheated  of  his  wonted  mercies, 

Hath  sworn  ray  death ; — so  order  it,  1  pray  you. 

That  on  my  head  alone  fall  all  his  wrath : 

Let  these  untainted  gentlemen  go  free. 

And  mine  all-honour'd  Brother.     Spare  the  King 

The  anger  of  unnecessary  crime,  , 

And  with  less  blood  defile  your  own  fair  names. 

NORFOLK. 

Anne,  Queen  of  England,  first  this  Court  commands 
You  lay  aside  the  state  and  ornaments 
Of  England's  Queen. 

QUEEX. 

As  cheerfully,  my  Lords, 
As  a  young  bride  her  crown  of  virgin  flowers. 

XORFOI.K. 

Prisoner,  give  ear!  I,  Thomas,  Duke  of  Norfijlk, 

In  the  name  of  all  th'  assembled  Peers,  declare 

The  verdict  of  this  court: — all  circumstance, 

AH  proof,  all  depositions  duly  weiah'd. 

We  do  pronounce  thee  guilty  of  High  Treason. — 

And,  further,  at  the  pleasure  of  the  King, 

Adjudge  thv  body  to  be  burnt  with  fire, 

Or  thine  head  sever'd  from  thy  guilty  shoulders. 

QUEE.V. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts !— the  way  !  the  truth  !  the  life  ! 
Thou  know'st  me  guiltless;  yet,  oh!  visit  not 
On  these  misjudging  men  their  wrongfid  sentence — 
Show  them  thai  mercy  they  deny  to  me. 
My  Lords,  my  Lords,  your  sentence  I  impeach  not! 
Ye  have,  no  doubt,  most  wise  and  cogent  reasons. 
Best  heard  perhaps  in  th'open  court,  to  shame 
The  wretched  evidence  adduced.     My  Lords, 
I  ask  no  pardon  of  my  Cod,  for  this 
Of  which  ve  've  found  me  guilty — to  the  King 
In  person  and  in  heart  I  've  been  most  true. 
Haply  I  've  been  unwise,  irreverent. 
And  with  unseemly  jealousies  arraign 'd 
His  unexampled  goodness.    This  I  say  not 
To  lengthen  out  my  too  protracted  life. 
For  God  hath  given,  will  give  me  strength  to  die. 
I  am  not  so  proudly  honest,  but  the  grief 
Of  my  suspected  chastity  is  gall 
And  wormwood  to  me  ;  were  't  not  my  sole  treasure. 
It  less  had  pain'd  me  thus  to  see  it  blacken'd. 
30 


My  Lords,  I  take  my  leave: — upon  your  heads. 
Upon  your  families,  on  all  this  kingdom. 
On  him  who  is  its  head  and  chiefest  grace. 
The  palm  of  Europe's  sovereignty,  may  Heaven 
Rain  blessings  to  the  end  of  time — that  most. 
And  most  abundant,  his  redeeming  grace  I 


A  prison 
Magdalene,  Mark  Smeatox. 
magdalene. 
Oh!  Mark,  Mark,  Mark,  to  find  thee  here,  and  thus! 
Brother,  that  I  should  come  to  shame  through  thee! 
Through  thee,  my  heart's  one  pride  !  I  pray'd  my  way 
Through  mockingmen  to  find  thee.  Some  did  spurn  me. 
Did  almost  void  their  rheum  on  me  ;  and  some 
Pitied  me  with  more  barbarous  charity 
That  I  'm  thy  Sister ;  thoii  whom  I  had  chosen 
Before  the  proudest  Knight  of  all  the  Court. 
And  thou  must  die — all  croak'd  that  in  mine  ear. 
The  Ravens  !   All  in  drear  accord. — 

MARK. 

Die!  die! 
Oh !  yes — the  .solemn  forms  must  be  gone  through. 
And  the  stem  sentence  read  and  register'd. 
And  then! — oh  then!  what  pride  of  rank,  what  dis- 
tance 
Shall  keep  two  branded  criminals  asunder? 
Oh  !  pardon  me,  that  thus  my  selfish  soul 
Rejoice  in  thy  debasement:  thou  wilt  know 
What  I  have  risk'd,  have  suffer'd,  all  for  thee. 
Oh  !  what 's  the  world — its  infamy — its  pride — 
To  those  that  love  ?    they  're  their  own  world. 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh!  Mark. 
Dear  Mark,  this  dreadful  prison,  and  the  awe 
Of  death — the  guilt — oh  !  would  I  dared  tieny  it; 
The  guilt  hath  made  thee  frantic  :  not  a  word 
Hath  meaning  to  mine  ears — thou  look'st  on  me, 
Not  as  a  man  condemn'd  to  die,  with  eyes 
All  gleaming  with  a  horrid  joy. 

MARK. 

Thou,  too. 
Thou  only,  Magdalene,  shall  find  free  entrance 
To  the  retired  garden  of  our  joy. 

The  above.     Angelo. 

MARK. 

Oh!  Father  Angelo!  is  she  set  free? 

Where  is  she  gone  ?  may  I  yet  follow  her. 

And  tell  her  with  what  violence  to  my  soul 

I  've  forced  and  bow'd  myself  to  crime  to  save  her? 

AXGELO. 

She  will  be  free  anon  ;  thou  first. 

MARK. 

I  Dost  say  so  ? 

Now  will  I  wait,  and  linger  all  unseen  ; 
And  when  the  massy  doors  roll  back,  and  slow 
The  huge  portcullis  groans  along  its  grooves, 
And  down  the  drawbridge  fall-s — I  shall  behold  her. 
Along  the  frowning  files  of  gloomy  archers, 
Come  gliding  like  a  swan  on  turbid  waters. 

361 


352 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ANGELO. 

Dereive  thyself  no  more — I  spake  of  freedom, 
For  death  it  is  that  frees  th'  encumber'd  spirit 
From  the  dark  prison  of  this  world  ;  nor  she 
Nor  thou  shall  ever  pass  these  iron  gates, 
But  to  th'  appointed  stroke  of  death. 

MAGDALENE. 

Look,  look ! 
He  cannot  speak!  he  chokes,  he  shivers! — look, 
He  's  dying.    Oh!  already  you  have  kill'd  him. 
My  Brother,  avvakel 

ANGELO. 

Oh  !  youth,  whom  Heaven  hath  chosen 
For  its  blind  instrument  to  work  the  ruin 
Of  its  most  deadly  enemy,  I  'm  come 
To  fit  thee  for  thy  sacrifice — arise 
A  Martyr  to  the  glorious  cause.     I  open 
The  gates  of  Heaven  before  thy  mounting  soul. 

HL\RK. 

Devil!  no  man  of  God  !  unmeasured  liar! 

My  soul  is  sick  at  thee.    Thou  hold  the  keys 

Of  Heaven,  thou  bloody  wretch  forsworn  ?  thou  worse, 

If  worse  can  he,  than  mine  own  perjured  self, 

I  spurn  thee,  curse  thee,  execrate  thy  faith 

And  thee! 

ANGELO. 

Die,  then!  die  lost,  accurst  for  ever! 
Go  with  thy  leprous  soul  unwash'd  to  Hell, 
To  see  what  hideous  torments  wait  on  perjury. 

MARK. 

Avaunt. 

ANGELO. 

Weak  boy  and  thankless,  whom  I've  wrought 
To  be  a  sharer  in  this  great  design  ; 
Were  thine  head  crown'd,  thy  body  rough  with  scars 
Won  in  the  service  of  the  Church,  the  joy 
And  pride  of  nations  wailing  on  thy  footsteps, 
I  'd  trample  on  thy  corpse  with  merciless  heel, 
If  o'er  it  lay  my  way  to  lilt  the  throne 
Of  Peter  o'er  the  carnal  Lords  of  earth. 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh!  save  him — save  him!  I  have  heard  thee  speak 

In  language  that  might  melt  the  stoniest  hearts; 

I  've  heard  thee  pray  with  such  soul-kindling  warmth 

Beside  the  bed  of  our  departed  Mfither, 

That  iron  bonds  had  burst  like  flax  before  thee. 

ANGELO. 

It  stands  not  in  my  power;  but  oh!  rash  youth, 
Go  not  a  rebel  to  the  Church,  to  meet 
The  Church's  Lord  :— kneel,  I  entreat  thee,  kneel ; 
Let  me  not  say  I  've  slain  thy  soul ;  confess. 
Repent,  and  be  absolved. 

MARK. 

Avaunt ! — away ! — 
Wash  thine  own  soul  from  thine  own  sins !  kneel  thou, 
Howl  <br  thy  crimes,  thy  treasons,  and  Ihy  murders! 
And,  if  Christ  give  mc  power  to  pardon  thee, 
'Twill  more  avail  thee  in  thy  hour  of  need 
Than  all  thy  f()rmal  conjuring  absolutions. 
With  her — with  her — the  gracious,  good,  and  chaste, 
I  '11  take  my  everlasting  portion  ;  trust 
Even  where  she  trusts;  go  where  she  goes Oh!  no. 


My  perjuries  !  my  murders !  when  my  soul 
Would  rise  to  track  the  starlight  path  of  hers. 
They  '11  hiss  me,  howl  me  down,  down    down  to 

blackness, 
To  horror,  now  the  element  of  my  soul. 

ANGELO. 

The  bell !  It  soimds  for  thee,  it  summoas  thee, 
I  hear  the  trampling  feet  down  the  long  galleries; 
The  grating  bolts  fall  back:  kneel,  kneel — the  Church 
Will  pardon  thy  wild  words — be  reconciled. 

MARK. 

Ofl! — I  will  have  no  share  or  portion  with  you. 

Think  you  your  crimes  and  murders,  ye,  no  Priests 

Of  the  great  God  of  Truth  and  Holiness, 

Will  not  out-preach  you  from  the  face  of  earth : 

This  air  at  length  shall  purify  itself 

From  your  curst  doctrines. 

ANGELO. 

Saints  and  holy  Angels, 
Hear  not  his  blasphemies !  but  thee,  my  daughter, 
Will  I  bestow  among  some  holy  Sisters. 

MAGDALENE. 

With  thee,  my  Brother's  Murderer?  thee,  whose  guile 

Has  tainted  his  immortal  soul  with  sin ! 

Sir,  I  'm  a  weak  and  foolish  maid  ;  I  know  not 

The  nice  distinction  of  your  rival  creeds  ; 

But  this  I  know — 't  is  not  the  faith  of  Christ, 

Of  Christ  the  merciful,  the  sinless  Christ, 

To  guile  an  innocent  youth  to  such  a  sin, 

And  make  a  murderer  of  a  heart  had  paused 

To  take  the  meanest  insect's  life.    Oh  !  Brother, 

Dear  Brother,  I  will  die  with  thee  ;  they  '11  leave 

A  corner  in  thy  narrow  bed  where  I 

Mfiy  creep  and  hide  my  weary  head. 

ANGELO. 

Be  w'ise. 

MAGDALENE. 

No — if  I  may  not  die,  I  '11  starve — I  '11  beg — 
I  '11  serve  the  basest  and  most  loathsome  office, 
Ere  owe  my  pittance  to  my  Brother's  murderer. 

ANGELO. 

They  're  here — they  are  at  the  door. 

MAGDALENE. 

Ah!— 

MARK. 

Peace,  my  Sister ! 
Look  you,  I  'm  calm.    I  've  hope — but  not  of  life. 
I  '11  tell  thee— hark!  I  will  go  forth— I  '11  stand 
Before  the  public  eye — and  then  and  there 
I  will  undo  the  deadly  crime  I  've  done; 
Unswear  what  I  have  sworn,  with  such  strange  oaths 
That  they  perforce  shall  cancel  their  rash  doom, 
And  she  shall  live,  and  not  quite  curse  my  memorj'. 
Though  their  drums  roll,  and  trumpets  blare,  I  '11 

shriek 
The  audible  truth — and  I  'II  lay  me  down 
And  take  my  (juiet  death — my  quivering  tongue 
Still  murmuring  of  her  slander'd  innocence. 
And  God  shall  give  me  grace  not  to  denounce  thee; 
Thou  shalt  live  on,  and  eat  thy  heart  to  see 
Thy  frustrate  malice.     Live,  and  still  behold 
Man  after  man,  and  kingdom  after  kingdom, 

3C2 


ANNE   BOLEYN, 


353 


Fall  from  the  faith  that  jiprjiires— murders!   Hark! 
They  're  here — oh,  Magihileue  I— Farewell. 

MAGDAI.F.NE. 

Not  yet, 
I  '11  not  part  yet;  t'nere  's  none  to  pray  f()r  thee 
But  I ;  there  's  none  to  wind  ihy  corjise— to  weep, 
To  die  ui>on  it. 

MARK. 

Call  on  Christ,  my  Sister, 
On  Christ  alone;  cry  loudly,  fervently. 
They  're  here— come,  come. 

m.\gdai.f:ne. 

Go  on,  I  '11  follow  thee, 
Even  to  the  brink,  into  the  grave  :  go  on  ; 
Till  I  am  pluck'd  perforce  from  thee,  I  '11  follow. 

ANGELO  (alojie). 
Oh!  Ihon  that  thrice  deniedst  the  Lord  of  Life, 
Yet  wert  the  Rock  on  which  th'  Eternal  Church 
Was  built,  thou  know'st,  O  Peter!  that  in  zeal 
For  thy  soul-savins  throne,  asainst  my  nature, 
I  've  cast  away  this  life.     Oh  !  if  thy  servant 
Have  aught  deserved  hy  this  self-sacrifice. 
Thou  with  thy  powerful  inlercession  stand 
Between  his  soul  and  endless  burnings.    Grant 
The  Masses  I  will  pay,  while  life  is  mine, 
May  slake  full  soon  the  Purgatorial  fires, 
And  gales  of  Paradise  come  breathing  o'er 
His  rescued  spirit ! 

So  on  to  death,  poor  youth, 
Not  unabandon'd,  not  unwept  by  him 
Whose  aid  thou  scomest  now  ;  but  thou  shall  own 
There,  where  all  motives  and  all  hearts  are  known. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Tower. 

QUEEN. 

0  Heaven  I  will  they  keep  up  this  heavy  din 

For  ever,  mocking  me  with  hope,  that  now 

For  me  they  're  knolling — roll  on  roll,  and  clash 

On  clash  ! — Oh  !  music  most  unmusical ! 

That  never  soundest  but  when  graves  are  open. 

And  widows'  hearts  are  breaking,  and  pale  orphans 

Wringing  their  hands  above  a  silent  bier. — 

Four  knells  have  rung,  four  now  are  dust,  thou  only 

Remain'sl,  my  Brother!  thou  art  kneeling  now. 

Bare  thy  majestic  neck .\  pause — more  long 

Than  wonted  ;  hath  the  mercy  of  the  King — 
The  justice  rather? — shalt  thou  rush  again 
To  our  poor  Mother's  arms,  and  tell  her  yet 

She  's  not  all  childless  ? Still  no  sound  I — alas  I 

It  may  be  that  the  rapture  of  deep  pity, 
And  admiration  of  his  noble  bearing. 
Suspends  all  hands  at  their  blood-reeking  work, 
And  casts  a  spell  of  silence  o'er  all  sound. — 
Ha!  thou  low-rolling  doubling  drum — I  hear  thee! 
Stem  bell,  that  summon'st  to  no  earthly  temple ! 
Thou  'rt  now  a  worshipper  in  Heaven,  my  brother, 
And  thy  poetic  spirit  ranges  free 
Worlds  after  worlds,  confest  th'  immortal  kindred 
Of  the  blest  angels — for  thy  heaven-caught  fire. 
Still  like  that  fire  sprang  upward,  and  made  pure 
Th'  infected  air  of  this  world  as  it  pass'd. 


My  child— my  mother— they  'vc  forbidden  me 
To  see  once  more  on  earlh  your  dear  loved  faces; 
There  's  mercy  in  their  harshness— here  's  no  place 
To  e-ntertnin  the  future  (iueen  of  Knglani), 
And  (iod  hath  given  me  courage  to  keep  down 
The  mother  in  my  heart ;  thou  ti>o,  my  parent, 
W'hat  Imdst  thou  done  but  torn  my  heart  asunder. 
And  all  distracted  my  calm  thoughts  of  Heaven  ? 

Enter  Sir  William  Kingston. 

aUEEN. 

Now  all  is  o'er  with  those  brave  gentlemen — 
They  died,  I  know.  Sir,  as  they  lived,  right  nobly. 

KINGSTON. 

Thev  gave  their  souls  to  their  Redeemer,  Lady, 
With  protestations  of  your  Highness'  innocence, 
'T  was  their  sole  care  sjnd  thought  in  death;  they 

dared 
Heaven's  utmost  vengeance  if  they  falsely  swore. 

QUEEN. 

And  that  false  youth,  clear'd  he  our  honour? 

KINGSTON. 

Loud 
He  shriek'd  and  struggled,  not  with  fear  of  death. 
But  with  the  burthen  of  some  painful  secret 
He  would  unfold— the  rapid  executioner 
Cut  short  his  wailing. 

QUEEN. 

Most  unrighteous  speed ! 

KINGSTON. 

Your  Majesty  's  prepared  ? 

QUEEN. 

Oh !  pomp  of  phrase. 
To  tell  a  sinner  to  prepare  for  judgment ; 
And  yet,  I  think,  Christ  Jesus,  through  thy  blood, 
I  'm  but  about  to  change  an  earthly  crown 
For  one  that 's  amaranth. 

There  is  no  end 
Of  the  unexhausted  bounties  of  the  King: 
He  made  me  first  the  Marchioness  of  Pembroke, 
Duchess  of  Dorset,  then  his  sceptred  Queen  ; 
And  now  a  new  advancement  he  prepares  me. 
One  of  Heaven's  angels. — 

Is  it  true.  Sir  William, 
You  've  brought  from  Calais  a  most  dextrous  craftsman 
In  th'  art  of  death  ? — here  's  much  ado,  good  truth. 
To  smite  asunder  such  a  neck  as  this, 
My  own  slight  hands  grasp  easily. 

Ye  weep 
To  see  me  smile — I  smile  to  see  you  weep. 
I  have  no  tears:  I  have  been  reading  o'er 
His  agony  that  suffer'd  on  the  cross 
For  such  poor  sinners  as  myself,  and  there 
Mine  eyes  spent  all  their  moisture. 

KINGSTON. 

We  rejoice 
'  To  see  your  Highness  meet  your  doom  thus  calmly. 

QUEEN. 

I  am  to  die— what's  that? — why,  thou  and  I 
And  all  of  us  die  every  night ;  and  duly 
Mom  to  our  spirits'  resurrection  comes 

363 


354 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  rosy  light,  fresh  flowers,  and  birds'  sweet  an- 
thems ; 
But  when  our  grave  's  our  bed,  thai  instant  comes 
A  morning,  not  of  this  world's  treacherous  light, 
But  fresh  with  palms,  and  musical  with  angels. 
Oh!  but  a  cruel,  shameful,  public  death — 
There's  no  disease  will  let  the  spirit  loose 
With  less  keen  anguish  than  the  sudden  axe ! 
And  for  the  shame — the  sense  of  that 's  within! 
I  've  thoughts  brook  no  communion  or  with  that 
Or  fear.     My  death  the  Lord  may  make  a  way 
T'  advance  his  gracious  purpose  to  this  land  : 
There  'II  be,  will  see  a  delicate  timid  woman 
Lay  down  her  cheerful  head  upon  the  block 
As  on  a  silken  pillow;  when  they  know 
'T  was  Christ  that  even  at  that  dread  hour  rebuked 
Weak  Nature's  fears,  returning  home,  they  '11  kneel 
Andseekthat  power  that  turns  ourdeath  to  triumph. — 
Sir,  are  you  ready  ? — they  'II  allow  me  time 
To  pray  even  there. — Go  forward,  Sir,  we  '11  follow. 


The  Scaffold. 

QUEEN. 

My  fellow  subjects,  I  am  here  to  die  ! 
The  law  hath  judged  me — to  the  law  I  bow. 
He  that  doth  know  all  hearts,  before  whose  throne, 
Ere  ye  have  reach'd  your  homes,  I  shall  stand  trem- 
bling— 
God  knows — I  've  lived  as  pure  and  chaste  as  snow- 
New  fallen  from  heaven  ;  yet  do  not  ye,  ray  friends, 
Presumptuous  judge  anew  my  dangerous  cause, 
Lest  ye  blaspheme  against  the  wonted  goodness 
Of  the  King's  Grace — most  merciful  and  gentle 
r  've  ever  known  him,  and  if  e'er  betray 'd 
From  his  kind  nature,  by  most  cogent  reasons. 
Adore  the  hidden  secrets  of  his  justice 
As  ye  would  Heaven's.    Beseech  you,  my  good  friends, 
If  in  my  plenitude  of  power  I  've  done 
Not  all  the  good  I  might,  ye  pardon  me : — 
If  there  be  here  to  whom  I  've  spoken  harshly 


Or  proudly,  humbly  I  entreat  forgiveness. 
— No,  Sir,  I  '11  wear  no  bandage  o'er  mine  eyes. 
For  they  can  look  on  death,  and  will  not  shrink. 
Beseech  you.  Sirs,  with  modesty  unrobe  me, 
And  let  my  women  have  the  decent  charge 
Of  my  poor  body. 

Now,  God  bless  the  King, 
And  make  his  Gospel  shine  throughout  the  land! 


NOTES. 

Note  I. 
From  the  Carthusian's  decimated  house. 
The  execution  of  the  Prior  and   several  of  tho    i 
Brethren  of  the  Carthusian  Monastery  for  denying  the     ' 
King's  Supremacy,  was  amongst  the  most  barbarous 
transactions  of  this  period,  the  chief  guilt  of  which 
must  be  attributed  to  the  unrelenting  disposition  of 
the  King. 

Note  2. 

In  that  proud  Prelate's  heart  a  noble  chord 
I  touch'd,  now  harp  we  on  a  baser  string. 

All  writers  agree  in  the  unprincipled  and  unnatural 
character  of  the  Countess  of  Rochford,  who  suffered 
at  a  subse(]uent  period  for  being  accessary  to  the 
criminal  conduct  of  Queen  Catharine  Howard. 

Note  3. 
Shall  I  find  justice.  Sir? 
The  singular  conduct  and  language  of  Anne  when 
she  was  arrested  is  strictly  historical.    See  Burnet's 
Hi.ilorij  of  the  Reformation. 

Note  4. 
The  Letter. 
This  is  little  more  than  a  versification  of  the  cele- 
brated letter;  the  authenticity  of  which  Mr.  Ellis  ap- 
pears to  have  established. 

364 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


35.' 


Efxt  JHcittgt  Of  ^ntCocH; 

A    DRAMATIC    POEM. 


INTRODUCTION. 


CHARACTERS. 


This  poem  is  founded  on  the  following  part  of  the 
History  of  Saint  Margaret.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  heathen  priost,  and  beloved  by  Olybius,  the  Pre- 
fect of  the  East,  who  wished  to  marry  her.  The  rest 
of  the  legend  I  have  thought  myself  at  liberty  to  dis- 
card, and  to  fill  up  the  outline  as  my  own  imagination 
suggested.  Gibbon  has  so  well  condensed  all  the  in- 
formation which  remains  to  us  from  Strabo,  Chrysos- 
tora,Sozomen,and  the  writings  of  Julian  ihe  Apostate, 
relative  to  Antioch,  the  Temple  and  sacred  grove  of 
Daphne,  that  the  reader  will  be  able  to  comprehend 
from  his  florid,  and  too  glowing  description,  most  of 
the  allusions  to  these  subjects  contained  in  the  poem 
The  passage  occurs  in  his  twenly-third  chapter. 

The  martyroiogisis  have  dwelt  almost  exclusively 
on  the  outward  and  bodily  sufferings  of  the  early 
Christians.     They  have  described  wilh  almost  ana- 
tomical precision  the  various  methods  of  torture.  The 
consequence  has  been,  the  neglect  of  their  writings; 
in  perusing  which  a  niind  of  the  least  sensibility 
shrinks  with  such  loathing  and  abhorrence  from  the 
tedious  detail  of  suffering,  as  to  become  insensible  to 
the  calm  resignation,  the  simple  devotion,  the  exult- 
ing hope  of  the  sufferer.      But  these   writers  have 
rarely  and  briefly  noticed  the  internal  and  mental 
agonies  to  which  the  same  circumstances  inevitably 
exposed  the  converts.    The  surrender  of  life,  when 
it  appeared  most  highly  gifted  with  the  blessings  of 
Providence ;  the  literal  abandonment  of  this  world, 
when  all  its  pleasures,  its  riches,  and  its  glories  were 
in  their  power;  the  violent  severmg  oflho.se  ties, 
which  the  gentle  spirit  of  Christianity  had  the  more 
endeared ;  the  self-denial,  not  of  the  ungodly  lusts, 
but  of  the  most  innocent  affections;  that  last  and  most 
awful  conflict,  when  "  brotiier  delivered  brother  unto 
death,  and  the  father  the  child,"  when  "  a  man's  foes 
were  those  of  his  own  household," — it  was  from  such 
trials,  not  those  of  the  fire  and  the  stake  alone,  that 
the  meek  religion  of  Christ  came  forth  triumphant. 
In  such  a  situation  it  has  been  my  object  to  represent 
the  mind  of  a  young  and  tender  female ;  and  I  have 
opposed  to  Christianity  the  most  beaulifiil  and  the 
most  natural  of  Heathen  superslitinns — the  worship 
of  the  Sun.     The"  reader,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  will  re- 
collect that  although  the  following  poem  is  in  most 
part  a  work  of  imagination,  there  were  multitudes 
who  really  laid  down  their  lives  for  the  faith  of  Christ, 
imder  circumstances  equally  appalling  and  afTlictive; 
for  that  faith,  to  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  which  they 
had  demonstrative  evidence  in  their  power  and  in 
their  possession. 

30*  2U 


Olybius,  Prefect  of  ihe  East. 

Vopiscus. 

Macer,  Governor  of  the  City. 

Callias,  Priest  of  Apollo. 

Fabius,  Bishop  of  Antioch. 

DiODOTUS, 


Charinus,       >    Christians. 

Calanthias, 

Officers. 
Citizens. 
Christians. 
A  Shepherd. 

Margarita,  daughter  of  Callias. 
Maidens  of  Antioch. 

SCE'NE.— Antioch  in  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Probiis. 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


SCENE. 

The  Front  of  the  Temple  of  Apollo,  in  the  Daphne 
near  Antioch. 

Olybius,  Macer,  Romans,  Citizens  of  Antioch,  Cal- 
lias, Priests. 

CHORUS  OF   YOUTHS. 

Lord  of  the  golden  day ! 

That  hold'st  thy  fiery  way. 
Out-dazzling  from  the  heavens  each  waning  star; 

What  time  Aurora  fair 

With  loose  dew-dropping  hair, 
And  the  swift  Hours  have  yoked  thy  radiant  car. 

Thou  mountest  Heaven's  blue  steep. 

And  the  universal  sleep 
From  the  wide  world  withdraws  its  misty  veil ; 

The  silent  cities  wake, 

Th'  encamped  armies  shake 
Their  unfurl'd  banners  in  the  freshening  gale 

The  basking  earth  displays 
Her  green  breast  in  the  blaze ; 
And  all  the  Gods  upon  Olympus'  head. 
In  haughty  joy  behold 
The  trampling  coursers  bold 
1  Obey  thy  sovereign  reign  with  stately  tread. 

365 


S56 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CHORUS   OF   .MAIDENS. 

Lord  of  the  speaking  lyre  ! 

That  with  a  touch  of  fire 
Strikest  music,  which  delays  the  charmed  spheres; 

And  with  a  soft  control 

Dost  steal  away  the  soul, 
And  draw  from  melting  eyes  delicious  tears — 

Thou  the  dead  hero's  name 

Dost  sanctify  to  fame, 
Erabalm'd  in  rich  and  ever-fragrant  verse  ; 

In  every  sunlit  clime, 

Through  all  eternal  time 
Assenting  lands  his  deathless  deeds  rehearse. 

The  lovesick  damsel,  laid 

Beneath  the  myrtle  shade. 
Drinks  from  thy  cup  of  song  with  raptured  ear, 

And,  dead  to  all  around. 

Save  the  sweet  bliss  of  .sound, 
Sits  heedless  that  her  soul's  beloved  is  near 

CHORUS   OF   YOUTHS. 

Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 

Whose  fateful  arrows  go 
Like  shafts  of  lightning  from  the  quivering  string: 

Pierced  through  each  scaly  fold, 

Enormous  Python  roll'd. 
While  thou  triumphant  to  the  sky  didst  spring ; 

And  scorn  and  beauteous  ire 

Steep'd  with  ennobling  fire 
Thy  quivering  lip  and  all  thy  beardless  face ; 

Loose  flew  thy  clustering  hair. 

While  thou  the  trackless  air 
Didst  walk  in  all  thine  own  celestial  grace. 

CItORUS   OF   MAIDE.NS. 

Lord  of  the  holy  spring, 

Where  the  Nine  Sisters  sing, 
Their  dearest  haunt,  our  Syrian  Castaly, 

There  oft  the  entranced  maid, 

By  the  cool  waters  laid. 
Feels  all  her  labouring  bosom  full  of  thee : 

The  kings  of  earth  stand  near 

In  pale  religious  fear  ; 
The  purple  Sovereign  of  imperial  Rome 

In  solemn  awe  hath  heard 

The  wild  prophetic  word. 
That  spake  the  cloud-wrapt  mystery  of  his  doom. 

CHORUS    OF    YOUTHS. 

Ijord  of  the  gorgeous  shrine, 

Where  to  thy  form  divine 
The  snow-white  line  of  lessening  pillars  leads. 

And  all  the  frontispiece. 

And  every  sculptured  frieze, 
Is  rich  and  breathing  with  thy  godlike  deeds. 

Here  by  the  lulling  deep 
Thy  mother  seems  to  sleep 
On  the  wild  margin  of  the  floating  isle; 
Her  new-born  infants,  thou, 


And  she  the  wood-\ymph  now, 
Lie  slumbering  on  her  breast,  and  slumbering  smile. 

Here  in  her  pride  we  see 

The  impious  i\iobe, 
'Mid  all  her  boasted  race  in  slaughter  piled. 

Folding  in  vain  her  vest. 

And  cowering  with  fond  breast 
Over  her  last,  her  youngest,  loveliest  child. 

CHORUS    OF   MAIDE.\S. 

Lord  of  the  cvprei^s  grove. 

That  here  in  baffled  love 
The  soft  Thessalian  maid  didst  still  pursue  ; 

Until  her  snowy  loot 

In  the  green  earth  took  root. 
And  in  thine  arms  a  verdant  laurel  grew. 

And  still  thy  tenderest  beams 

Over  our  falling  streams 
At  shadowy  eve  delight  to  hover  long; 

They  to  Orontes'  tide 

In  liquid  music  glide 
Through  banks  that  blossom  their  sweet  course  along. 

And  still  in  Daphne's  bower 

Thou  wanderest  many  an  hour. 
Kissing  the  turf  by  her  light  footsteps  trod ; 

And  iVymphs  at  noontide  deep 

Start  from  their  dreaming  sleep. 
And  in  his  glory  see  the  bright-hair'd  God. 

CHORUS    OF    YOUTHS    AND   MAIDENS. 

Phcebus  Apollo,  hear! 

Great  Lycian  king,  appear. 
Come  from  thy  Cynihian  steep,  or  Xanthus'  shore ; 

Here  to  thy  Syrian  home 

In  visible  godhead  come, 
.And  o'er  our  land  thy  choicest  influence  pour. 

CALLIAS. 

Break  off  the  hymn.     And  now  the  solemn  rites 
Are  duly  paid  ;  the  hundred  steers  have  bled  ; 
O'er  all  the  Temple  the  rich  incense  curls 
In  clouds  of  fragrance  ;  and  the  golden  cujis 
In  generous  libation  have  pour'd  forth 
The  honied  wine;  and  all  along  the  shade 
Of  sacred  Daphne  hath  your  pomp  been  led. 
Waking  the  slumbering  echoes  from  their  caves. 
To  multiply  the  adoring  lo  Pa?an 
To  great  Apollo. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Callias!  our  God, 
That  yesterday  on  our  Flean  games 
Shone  with  a  splendour,  even  as  though  a  veil, 
Which  to  that  day  had  dimm'd  his  full  divinity. 
Had  been  rent  off;  our  (iod  hath  centred  now 
As  't  were  the  galher'd  light  of  many  moons 
Within  his  orb  to  honour  this  our  festival. 

.MACER. 

Nor  wonder!  for  did  ever  elder  Greece, 
When  all  her  cities  and  her  kings  were  met 
On  the  Olympic  plain,  or  where  the  priestess 

366 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


357 


Sate,  speaking  fate,  upon  her  Delphic  tripod, 
With  richer  rite,  or  stateher  ceremony, 
With  nobler  or  more  spotless  hecatombs, 
Propitiate  the  immortal  Gods  ? 

OLYBIUS. 

Great  Rome 
Herself  not  costlier. 

MACER. 

What,  then,  is  wanting  ? 

SECOND    PRIEST. 

What,  but  the  crown  and  palm-like  grace  of  all. 
The  sacred  virgin,  on  whose  footsteps  Beauty 
Waits  like  a  handmaid  ;  whose  most  peerless  form 
Light  as  embodied  air,  and  pure  as  ivory 
Thrice  piilish'd  by  the  skilful  statuary, 
Moves  in  the  priestess'  long  and  llowing  robes, 
While  our  scarce-erring  worship  doth  adore 
The  servant  rather  than  the  God. 

THIRD    PRIEST. 

The  maid 

Whose  living  lyre  so  eloquently  speaks. 

From  the  deserted  grove  the  silent  birds 

Hang  hovering  o'er  her;  and  we  human  hearers 

Stand  breathless  as  the  marbles  on  the  walls. 

That  even  themselves  seem  touch'd  to  listening  life 

All  animate  with  the  inspiring  ecstasy. 

FIRST   ROM.\N. 

Thou  mean'st  the  daughter  of  the  holy  Callias ; 
I  once  beheld  her,  when  the  thronging  people 
Press'd  round,  yet  parted  still  to  give  her  way. 
Even  as  the  blue  enamour'd  waves,  when  first 
The  sea-born  (ioddess  in  her  rosy  shell 
Sail'd  the  calm  ocean. 

SECOND   PRIEST. 

Margarita,  come. 
Come  in  thy  zoncless  erace,  thy  flowing  loelvs 
Crown'd  with  the  laurel  of  the  God  ;  the  lyre 
Accordant  to  thy  slow  and  musical  steps. 
As  grateful  't  would  return  the  harmony 
That  from  thy  touch  it  w-ins. 

THIRD   PRIEST. 

Come,  Margarita, 
This  long,  this  bashful,  timorous  delay 
Beseems  thee  well,  and  thou  wilt  come  the  lovelier. 
Even  like  a  late  long-look'd  for  flower  in  spring. 

SECOND   PRIEST. 

Still  silent!  some  one  of  the  sacred  priests 
Enter,  and  iii  Apollo's  name  call  forth 
The  tardy  maiden. 

CM. MAS. 

Shame  upon  the  child. 
That  thus  will  make  th'  assembled  lords  of  .Antioch, 
And  sovereign  Rome's  imperial  Prefect,  wait 
Her  wayward  pleasure. 

FOURTH  PRIEST  {reluming  from  within.) 
Callias! 


Ila !  what  now  ?- 


FOURTH    PRIEST. 


Callias ! 


CALLIAS. 

Hath  lightning  smitten  thee  to  silence  ? 
Or  hath  some  sinister  and  angry  sign. 
The  bleeding  statue  of  the  god,  or  birds 
Obscene  within  the  secret  sanctuary, 
Appall'd  thee  ? 

FOURTH    PRIEST. 

In  the  holy  place  we  sought  her; 
Trampled  in  dust  we  found  the  laurel  crown. 
The  lyre  unstrung  cast  down  u|xjn  the  pavement, 
And  the  dislionour'd  robes  of  prophecy 
Scatter'd  unseemly  here  and  there — and 

CALLIAS. 

What  ? 

FOURTH   PRIEST. 

And  Margarita  was  not  there. 

CALLIAS. 

Not  there ! 
My  child  not  there!   Prefect  Olybius, 
This  is  thy  deed — I  knew  that  thou  didst  love  her, 
And  mine  old  heart  was  proud  to  see  thee  stand 
Before  her  presence,  awed  ;  the  sovereign  lurd 
Of  Asia,  Rome's  renown'd  and  consular  captain, 
Awed  by  my  timid,  blushing  child  ;  whom  now 
His  Roman  soul  hath  nobly  dared  to  rend 
From  her  afllicted  father. 

OLVBIUS. 

Holy  Callias, 
By  Mars,  my  god,  thou  wrong'st  me  ! 

CALLIAS. 

Oh,  rr.y  Lord ! 
Tyrant,  not  lord  !  inhuman  ravisher ! 
Dissembling  Tarquin  ! — but  it  is  no  fable. 
That  great  Apollo  once  avenged  his  priest. 
When  broke  the  wasting  plague  o'er  Agamemnon, 
And  all  the  myriad  ships  of  Greece. 

OLVBIU.S. 

Old  man. 
But  that  thy  daughter's  unforgotten  loveliness 
Hallows  thy  wrath 

CALLIAS. 

By  Heaven!  yet  I'll  have  justice, 
If  I  do  travel  to  the  emperor's  throne. 
I  '11  raise  a  cry  so  loud,  that  all  the  palace 
In  which  great  Cajsar  dwells,  (lie  Capitol, 
And  every  stone  within  the  F.ternal  City, 
Shall  with  my  wrongs  resound.    Ah,  fond  ol<i  man  I 
My  trembling  limbs  have  lost  their  only  stay. 
And  that  sweet  voice  that  iitier'd  all  my  wishes, 
Reading  them  in  my  secret  heart  within. 
Shall  never  thrill  again  up<jn  mine  ears! 
I  may  go  wandering  forth  another  (Edipus, 
But  with  no  fond  Antigone 

CITIZENS. 

Hark !  hark ! 
A  trumpet  sound  !  a  messenger  from  Rome. 

CALLIAS. 

From  Rome !  from  Rome  !  it  is  thy  doom,  destroyer  I 
The  sunbeams  have  beheld  thy  deed  of  shame, 
And  have  proclaim'd  it;  the  arraigning  winds 
Have  blown  my  injuries  and  thy  disgrace 
Over  the  wide  face  of  the  listening  earth ; 

367 


358 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  Caesar's  arm  of  justice  is  outstretch'd 
To  strike  and  punish  ! 

The  above,  Vopiscus. 

VOPISCl'S. 

Great  Olybius, 
I  am  the  bearer  of  the  emperor's  mandate, 
Would  I  might  add  of  wonted  thanks  and  praise. 
'Tis  said  that  here  in  Antioch,  the  high  place 
And  chosen  sanctuary  of  those  Galileans, 
Who  with  their  godless  and  incestuous  rites 
Offend  the  thousand  deities  of  Rome, 
Making  them  waste  our  mildew'd  lands  with  dearth, 
Attaint  our  wholesome  airs  with  pestilence. 
And  shake  th'  indignant  earth,  even  till  our  cities, 
With  all  their  unwarn'd  multitudes,  sink  down 

Into  the  sudden  yawning  chasms  beneath  them ; 

'Tis  said,  even  here  Olybius  hath  let  sleep 

The  thunders  of  the  law,  which  should  have  smitten 

With  the  stern  frequency  of  angry  Jove, 

When  with  fierce  storms  he  darkens  half  the  world! 

Wherefore,  instead  of  flying  in  close  haunts 

And  caves,  and  woods,  the  stern  extermination. 

They  climb  our  palaces,  they  crowd  our  camps, 

They  cover  all  our  wide  and  boundless  realms; 

While  the  sad  Priests  of  all  our  Gods  do  sit 

Round  their  cold  altars  and  ungifted  shrines, 

Waiting  in  vain  for  victim  or  oblation. 

OLYBIUS. 

It  moves  no  wonder  that  Vopiscus  comes 

To  taunt  with  negligence  Olybius'  rule. 

Not  ignorant  that  Vopiscus  were  well  pleased 

If  that  this  Kastern  Prefecture  should  pass 

To  abler  hands,  perchance  his  own.— To  the  charge. 

It  is  most  true  that  I  have  sought  to  stay 

This  frenzy,  not  with  angry  fire  and  sword, 

But  with  a  lofty  and  contemptuous  mercy. 

That  scorn 'd  too  much  to  punish.     For  my  heart 

Was  sick  of  seeing  beardless  youlh  and  age 

Wearying  the  pall'd  and  glutted  executioner; 

Exhausting  all  the  subtlest  arts  of  torture 

With  cheerful  patience:  even  soft  maidens  moving. 

With  flower-crown'd  locks,and  pale  butsmilingcheeks, 

To  the  consuming  fire,  as  to  their  bridal.  | 

I  saw  in  this  wild  scorn  of  death  a  grandeur  I 

Worthy  a  nobler  cause;  'twas  Roman  virtue. 

Though  not  for  Roman  glory.     But,  Vopiscus, 

I  am  not  one  that  wears  a  subject's  duty 

Loose  and  cast  off  whene'er  the  changeful  will 

Would  clollie  itself  in  sole  authority. 

The  edict  of  the  Kmperor  is  to  me 

As  the  unrepealed  word  of  fate.     To  death 

It  doth  devote  these  Christians,  and  to  death 

My  voice  shall  doom  them.     Wot  Vopiscus'  self, 

Whom  I  invite  to  share  my  stern  tribunal. 

But  shall  confess  th'  obedience  of  Olybius. 

THE    PEOPLE. 

Long  hve  the  Christians'  scourge  I— long  live  Olybius! 
Haste,  drag  them  forth,  the  acctirsed  of  our  gods. 

SECOND    PRIEST. 

She  comes— she  is  here— the  beauteous  Margarita. 

CALt.IA.S. 

My  child!  and  thou  an  breathing  still!— Come  back 


Unto  my  desolate  heart- thy  father,  child 

These  choking  tears!  they  would  not  flow  but  now. 

MARGARITA. 

Dear  father ! 

CALLIAS. 

But,  sweet  daughter,  how  is  this. 
Upon  our  solemn  day  of  festival, 
Thus  darkly  clad,  and  on  thy  close-bound  locks 
Ashes,  and  sackcloth  on  thy  tender  limbs  ! 

MARGARITA. 

I  thought  the  rites  had  been  o'erpass'd  ere  now 
Or 

CALLIAS. 

Hath  the  god  afflicted  thee,  my  child  ? 

MARGARITA. 

My  God,  indeed,  afflicts  me,  father. 

j  OLYBIUS. 

Priests! 
We  mourn,  that  we  must  leave  th'  imperfect  rites, 
Deeply  we  mourn  it,  when  bright  Margarita 
A'ouchsafes  her  late  and  much-desired  presence. 
So  on  to-morrow  for  our  Judgment  Hall. 
Let  all  the  fires  be  kindled,  and  bring  forth 
The  long  disused  racks,  and  fatal  engines. 
Their  rust  must  be  wash'd  off  in  blood.    Proclaim 
That  every  guilty  worshipper  of  Christ 
Be  dragg'd  before  us. — 11a! 

MACER. 

What  frantic  cry 
With  insolent  interruption  breaks  upon 
Rome's  Prefect  ? 

MANY  VOICES. 

Lo  the  priestess !   Lo  the  priestess ! 

SECO.ND    PRIEST. 

She  hath  fall'n  down  upon  her  knees;  her  hair 
Is  scatter'd  like  a  cloud  of  gold  ;  her  hands 
Are  clasp'd  across  her  swelling  breast;  her  eyes 
Do  hold  a  sad  communion  with  the  heavens. 
And  her  lips  move,  yet  make  no  sound. 

THIRD    PRIEST. 

Haste— haste — 
The  laurel  crown— the  laurel  of  the  God- 
She  's  wrapt — jx)ssess'd  ! 

MARGARITA. 

The  crown— the  crown  of  glory — 
God  give  me  grace  upon  my  bleeding  brows 
To  wear  it. 

SECO.ND    PRIEST. 

She  is  distracted  by  our  gaze — 
She  shrinks  and  trembles.    Lead  her  in  :  the  trance 
Will  pass  anon,  and  her  unsealed  lips 
Pour  forth  the  mystic  numbers,  that  men  hear, 
And  feel  the  inspiring  deity. 

OLYBIUS. 

On — away ! 

THE   PEOPLE. 

Long  live  the  Christians'  scourge !— long  live  Olybius '. 

CHORUS  AROU.ND  THE  TEMPLE. 

Phoebus  AfX)llo,  hear! 
Great  Lycian  king  appear, 

36S 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


359 


Come  fr«m  thy  Cynl)iian  steep,  or  Xaiilluis'  shore; 

Here  tu  thy  Syrian  homo, 

In  visible  goilliead  come, 
And  o'er  our  land  tiiy  choicest  infhience  pour. 

CHORUS    ROUND   OLYBIUS. 

Go  on  thy  (low'r-strewn  road, 

The  champion  of  our  god. 
By  Phcebus'  self  his  chosen  chief  conless'd  ; 

Ilis  brightest  splendours  bask 

Upon  thy  glowing  casque, 
And  gild  the  waving  glories  of  thy  crest. 


The  Grove  of  Daphne. 
Evening. 

MARGARITA. 


My  way  is  through  the  dim  licentious  Daphne, 
And  evennig  darkens  round  my  stealthful  steps; 
Yet  I  must  pause  to  rest  my  weary  limbs. 

Oh,  thou  polluted,  yet  most  lovely  grove! 
Hath  the  .Almighty  breathed  o'er  all  thy  bowers 
An  everlasting  spring,  and  paved  thy  walks 
With  amaranthine  flowers — are  but  the  winds. 
Whose  breath  is  gentle,  suffer'd  to  entangle 
Their  light  wings,  not  unwilling  prisoners. 
In  thy  thick  branches,  there  to  make  sweet  murmurs 
With  the  bees'  hum,  and  melodies  of  birds, 
And  all  the  voices  of  the  hundred  fountains, 
That  drop  translucent  from  the  mountain's  side, 
And  lull  themselves  along  their  level  course 
To  slumber  with  their  own  soft-sliding  sounds; 
And  all  for  foul  idolatry,  or  worse. 
To  make  itself  a  home  and  sanctuary  ? 

Oh,  second  Eden,  like  the  first,  defiled 
With  sin!  even  like  thy  human  habitants, 
Thy  winds  and  flowers  and  waters  have  forgot 
The  gracious  hand  that  made  them,  ministers 
Voluptuous  to  man's  transgressions — all, 
Save  thou,  sweet  nightingale!  that,  like  myself, 
Pourest  alone  thy  melancholy  song 

To  silence  and  to  God not  undisturb'd — 

The  velvet  turf  gives  up  a  iiuickening  sound 
Of  coming  steps  : — oh,  thou  that  lovest  the  holy, 
Protect  me  from  the  sinful — from  myself! 
'Tvvas  what  I  fear'd — Olybius! 

Olybius,  Margarita. 

OLYBIL'S. 

Margarita, 
I  heard  but  now  that  thou  hadst  wander'd  hither, 
And  foUovv'd  thee,  my  love. 


Brooks  no  delay. 


MARGARITA. 

My  lord,  mine  haste 


W'hat  sudden  speed  is  this? 
Behold  the  Sun,  our  God 


MARGARITA. 


iVot  so,  my  lord. 


oi.vnius. 
What!  thou  'rt  become  a  tender  worshipper 
Of  yon  pale  crescent,  that  alone  in  heaven 
Breathes  o'er  the  world  her  cold  serenity. 
Trust  me,  my  sweet,  it  is  a  barren  service. 

MARGARITA. 

My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you  let  me  pass, 
I  have  nor  lime  nor  wish 

OLYBIUS. 

Ha,  Margarita! 
At  this  luxurious  hour,  when  all  is  mute 
But  the  fond  lover  at  his  mistress'  ear. 
Through  the  dusk  grove,  where  every  conscious  tree 
Bears  in  its  bark  the  record  of  fijnd  vows 
And  amorous  service 

MARGARITA. 

Hath  the  Prefect  seen 
Aught  loose  in  Callias'  daughter,  aught  unholy. 
That  he  would  breathe  suspicion's  tainting  blight 
On  the  pure  lily  of  her  fame  ? 

OLYBIUS. 

Ungrateful ! 
I  have  endured  this  day  for  thee  the  taunts 
Of  thy  distracted  sire;  but  will  not  bear 
The  thought,  that  thou  art  hurrying  hence  to  hear 
Some  fiivour'd  lover  pour  into  thy  soul 

MARGARITA. 

Olybius,  thou  dost  not  truly  think  it — 

I  had  forgot Lord  Prefect,  thou  art  tyrannous, 

That  thus  with  harsh  and  most  untimely  violence 
Impedcst  my  way. 

OLYBIUS. 

Fond  maiden,  know'st  thou  not 
That  I  am  clothed  with  power  ?  my  word,  my  sign 
May  drag  to  death,  whoe'er  presumes  to  love 
Th'  admired  of  great  Olybius. 

MARGARITA  (apart.) 

My  full  heart ! 
And  hath  it  not  a  guilty  pleasure  still 
In  being  so  fondly,  though  so  sternly  chided  ? 

OLYBIUS. 

Hear  me,  I  say,  hut  weep  not,  Margarita, 
Though  thy  bright  tears  might  diadem  the  brow 
Of  Juno,  when  she  walks  ih'  Olympian  clouds. 
My  pearl !  my  pride  I  thou  know'st  my  soul  is  thine — 
Thine  only!  On  the  Parthians'  fiery  sands 
I  look'd  upon  the  blazing  noontide  sun. 
And  thought  how  lovely  thou  bel()re  his  shrine 
Wast  standing  with  thy  lanrel-crowncd  Iti'ks. 
And  when  my  high  triumphal  chariot  toil'd 
Through  .Antioch's  crowded  streets,  when  every  hand 
Rain'<l  garland<,  every  voice  dwelt  on  my  name, 
My  discontented  spirit  panted  still 
For  thy  long-silent  lyre. 

MARGARITA. 

Oh  !  let  me  onward. 
Nor  hold  mc  thus,  nor  speak  thus  fondly  to  me. 

OLVBICS. 

Thou  strivest  still  to  leave  me;  go  then,  go. 
My  soul  disdains  to  force  what  it  would  win 
With  the  soft  violence  of  favoiir'd  love. 
,  But  ah!  to-day — to-day — what  meant  thine  absence 

3G9 


300 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


From  the  proud  worship  of  thy  Ood  ?  what  mean 
Thy  wild  and  mournful  looks,  thy  bursting  eyes 
So  full  of  tears,  that  weep  not? — Margarita, 
Thou  wilt  not  speak— farewell,  then,  and  forgive 
That  I  have  dared  mistrust  thee  :— No,  even  now, 
Even  thus  I  '11  not  believe  but  thou  art  pure 
As  the  first  dew  that  Dian's  early  foot 
Treads  in  her  deepest,  holiest  shade.— Farewell ! 

MARGARITA. 

I  should  have  told  him  all,  yet  dared  not  tell  him— 

I  could  not  deeper  wound  his  generous  heart 

Than  it  endures  already.     My  Redeemer, 

If  weakly  thus  before  the  face  of  man 

I  have  trembled  to  confess  thee,  yet,  O  Lord, 

Before  thine  angels  do  not  thou  deny  me ! 

And  yet,  he  is  not  guilty  yet,  O  Saviour, 

Of  Christian  blood !   Preserve  him  in  thy  mercy 

Preserve  him  from  that  sin. — .-^h,  lingering  still. 

While  lives  of  thousands  hang  upon  my  speed, 

Away ! 


The  Burial  Place  of  the  Christians. 

Night. 

Fabius,  Diodotus,  Charinus,  Calanthias,  etc. 

FU.NERAL    ANTHE.M. 

Brother,  thou  hast  gone  before  us,  and  thy  saintly  soul 

is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye,  and  sorrow  is 

unknown  ; 
From  the  burthen  of  the  flesh,  and  from  care  and  fear 

released. 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from   troubling,  and  the 

weary  are  at  rest. 

The  toilsome  way  thou  'st  travell'd  o'er,  and  borne  the 

heavy  load. 
But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  languid  feet  to  reach  his 

blest  abode. 
Thou  'rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus  upon  his  father's 

breast. 
Where   the  wicked   cease  from   troubling,  and  the 

weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now,  nor  doubt  thy  faith 

assail, 
Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ  and  the  Holy  Spirit 

fail. 
And  there  thou  'rt  sure  to  meet  the  good,  whom  on 

earth  thou  lovedst  best. 
Where  the  wicked   cease   from   troubling,  and  the 

weary  are  at  rest. 

"Earth  to  earth,"  and  "du.sf  to  dust,"  the  solemn  priest 

hath  said. 
So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now,  and  we  seal  thy 

narrow  bed : 
But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away  among  the  faithful 

blest. 
Where   the  wicked   cease   from   troubling,  and  the 

weary  are  at  rest. 


And  when  the  Lord  shall  summon  us,  whom  thou  hast 

left  behind. 
May  we,  untainted  by  the  world,  as  sure  a  welcome 

find; 
May  each,  like  thee,  depart  in  peace,  to  be  a  glorious 

guest, 
Where   the  wicked   cease  from  troubling,  and  the 

weary  are  at  rest. 


FABIUS. 

So  by  the  side  of  martyr'd  Babylas, 

Brother,  thou  slumberest ;  silent  as  yon  stars, 

And  silent  as  the  falling  dews  around  thee. 

We  leave  thy  verdant  grave.     But  oh !  shall  we, 

When  we  put  off  the  load  of  mortal  life. 

Depart  like  thee  as  in  a  deeper  sleep. 

With  the  sweet  smile  of  life  on  the  closed  lips, 

Or  in  an  agony  of  mortal  pain, 

By  the  pitch'd  stake,  or  den  of  raging  lions  ? 

The  above,  Margarita. 


MARGARITA. 

I  'm  here  at  last  before  them,  and  ye  live. 

FABIUS. 

What  means  the  gentle  Neophite? 

MARGARITA. 

Good  sir, 

Thou  hast  not  heard Hark— hark !   they  are  be- 

hind  me. 

FABIUS. 

Who,  maiden,  who  ? 

MARGARITA. 

The  Prefect's  ruthless  soldiers , 
They  come  to  drag  us  to  their  Judgment  Hall. 
.'Already  is  the  scourge  prepared;  the  dungeons 
Ope  their  expecting  gates ;  the  outpour'd  city 
Pants  for  the  spectacle. 

FABIUS. 

Is  it  so,  my  child? 
Makes  the  fierce  Heathen  bloody  preparation 
For  slaughter?— then  must  we  for  death.     His  zeal 
Doth  furbish  up  his  armoury  of  murder; 
We,  ours  of  patience.    We  must  gird  around  us 
Heaven's  panoply  of  faith  and  constancy, 
And  so  go  forth  to  war. 

MARGARITA. 

Alas!  alas! 
If  they  should  take  thee — thee,  upon  whose  lips 
The  living  fire  of  inspiration  burns. 
Severing  by  gentle  force  the  willing  spirit 
From  this  low  earth,  and  pluming  it  for  heaven; 
That  makes  the  conscious  immortality 
Stir  in  our  souls,  and  pant  for  that  pure  life 
With  Christ  beyond  the  grave.   Oh,  thou  that  teachest 
Our  charities  to  flow  in  heaven's  own  light, 
Like  some  bright  river  in  the  desert  sands, 
Round  which  the  gladdening  pilgrims  sing  for  joy; 
That  send'st  us  f()rth  to  [wur  sweet  oil  and  wine 
Into  the  bleeding  wounds  ;  to  take  our  seat 
By  the  sick  couch  ;  to  shed  a  tender  health 
On  the  pale  prisoner's  cheek— Oh,  who  shall  lead 
The  foldless  sheep  to  life's  eternal  pastures 
When  their  good  shepherd  's  gone  ? 

370 


1 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


361 


FA  Bits. 

Hast  thou  forgot 
The  Master  of  the  (lock  ? 

MARUAUITA. 

Oh,  no — no — no — 
But  iiovv  shall  I  endure  to  see  thy  head, 
Thy  venerable  head,  bow'd  down  to  scorn  ? 
I  have  call'd  thee  lather,  and  have  fondly  jiray'd 
That  mine  own  parent  were  like  thee;  and  now 
I  must  behold  thy  blood  flow  drop  by  drop 
Beneath  the  knotted  scourge,  or  hungry  fires 
Preying  U(K)n  thy  shuddering  flesh. 

FADIUS. 

My  child, 
Think  thou  each  lash  that  rends  my  bleeding  skin 
A  beauteous  sign  of  brotherh(K)d  with  Christ ; 
That  the  pale  lire  which  wastes  my  perishing  flesh 
Is  heaven's  own  lambent  glory  gathering  round  me. 

CHARINIS. 

Why  now.  most  holy  Fabius,  I  had  look'd 
For  Joy  and  triumph  on  thy  brow,  to  hear 
That  we  may  mount  the  everlasting  heavens 
In  those  angelic  chariots,  wont  to  wrap 
The  Martyr's  spirit.     Lo  !  the  eternal  gates 
Lift  up  their  heads  to  greet  us!   Shall  we  then 
Waver  and  pause  ?  or  shall  we  not  go  forth 
Through  all  the  city  to  the  Roman's  throne 
Hymning  our  Christ,  and  calling  on  our  heads 
The  glorifying  axe  ? 

CALANTHIAS. 

Away!  I  see 
The  waving  of  the  purple  robe.     The  Lord 
Shall  tread  even  now  the  wine-press  in  his  wrath ; 
The  signs  are  labouring  forth,  the  latter  days 
Run  to  their  dregs.     He  comes  t'  avenge  his  own. 
Ko  more,  no  more,  your  vain  and  baffled  songs, 
"  Holy  and  True,  how  long  ?"  ascend  to  heaven — 
The  day  of  vintage,  and  the  day  of  dread, 
The  day  of  desolation  is  at  hand, 
The  day  of  vengeance ! 

FABIUS. 

Cease,  Calanthias,  cease; 
And  thou,  Charinus.    Oh,  my  brethren,  God 
Will  summon  those  whom  he  hath  chosen,  to  sit 
In  garments  dyed  with  their  own  blood  around 
The  Lamb  in  Heaven  ;  but  it  becomes  not  man 
To  affect  with  haughty  and  aspiring  violence 
The  loftiest  thrones,  ambitious  for  his  own, 
And  not  his  Master's  glory.     Every  star 
Is  not  a  sun,  nor  every  Christian  soul 
Rapt  to  a  seraph.     But  ii)r  thee,  Calanlhias, 
Thou  know'st  not  whether  even  this  night  shall  burst 
The  impatient  vengeance  of  the  Lord,  or  rest 
Myriads  of  human  years.     For  what  are  they, 
What  are  our  ages,  but  a  few-  brief  waves 
From  the  vast  ocean  of  eternity. 
That  break  upon  the  shore  of  this  our  world, 
And  so  ebb  back  into  the  immense  profound, 
Which  He  on  high,  even  at  one  instant,  sweeps 
With  his  omniscient  sight? 

Beloved  brethren, 
And  ye,  our  sisters,  hold  we  all  prepared. 


Like  him  beside  whose  hatlovv'd  grave  we  stand. 
To  give  the  last  and  awful  leslirni)My 
To  Christ  our  Lord.    Yet  tempt  not  lo  our  murder 
The  yet  unbloody  hands  of  men. 

They  come : 
Pale  lights  are  gleaming  through  the  dusky  night. 
And  hurrying  feet  are  trampling  to  and  fro. 
Disperse — disperse,  my  breihren,  to  your  homes! — 
Sweet  Margarita,  in  the  Hermitage 
By  clear  Orontes,  where  so  oft  we  've  met, 
Thou 'It  find  me  still.    God's  blessing  wail  on  all! 
Farewell !  v\e  meet,  if  not  on  earth,  in  heaven. 


The  Front  of  the  Temple. 
Day-hreak. 

MARGARITA. 

Yet  once  again  I  touch  thy  golden  strings. 

My  silent  and  forgotten  lyre,  oh  !  erst 

The  joy  of  Antioch,  when  on  festal  days 

At  the  proud  idol's  foot  I  sate ;  and  all, 

Even  as  thy  raptures  rose  and  fell,  bow'd  down 

Or  stood  erect  before  the  shrine.     I,  too, 

Like  thee,  was  hallow'd  to  an  impious  service. 

Even  till  a  touch  from  heaven  waked  my  soul's  music. 

And  (Kjur'd  it  l()rth  in  ecstasy  to  him 

Who  died  for  men.   And  shalt  not  thou,  my  partner 

In  mine  unholy  worship,  mingle  now 

Thy  sweetness  with  my  purer  vows.     Oh !  fountain 

Of  sounds  delicious,  shall  I  not  unseal  thee, 

Thou  that  didst  flow  through  Daphne's  flowery  grove. 

Timing  the  dancing  steps  of  youths  and  maids? 

Dwell  not  within  thy  secret  wrealhed  shell 

Sounds,  full  of  chaste  and  holy  melancholy, 

As  ever  mourn'd  in  angels'  moonlight  chants 

O'er  the  night-visited  graves  of  buried  saints — 

Even  sounds  accordant  to  the  weary  steps 

Of  him,  that,  loaded  with  the  ponderous  cross 

Toil'd  up  the  steep  of  Calvary  ? 

Callias,  Margarita. 

CAI.I.IAS. 

My  child. 
My  ovin,  my  loved,  my  beauteous  child !  once  more 
Thou  art  thvself ;  thy  snowy  hands  are  trembling 
On  thy  loved  lyre,  and  doubtless  thou  art  hailing 
Our  (iod,  who  from  his  golden  eastern  chamber 
Begins  to  dawn.     I  have  commanded  all 
The  ministering  priests  and  sacred  virgins 
Their  robes  and  verdant  cha[)lets  to  prepare. 
Thou  too  shalt  come,  with  all  thy  richest  songs 
To  hymn  the  triumph  of  our  God  around 
The  pile  whereon  these  frantic  Galileans 
Writhe  and  expire. 

MARGARITA. 

My  father! 

CALLIAS. 

What  is  this  ? 
\\\\l  thou  not  go  ? 

MARGARITA. 

Alas!  I  shall  be  there 
Too  surely. 

371 


362 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CALLIAS. 

Ay,  and  when  thy  ivory  brows 
Are  dimly  shaded  by  the  laurel  crown  ; 
And  when  thy  snowy  robes  in  folds  of  light 
Enwrap  thee,  like  the  glittering  ocean  foam 
In  which  the  sea-nymph  bowers  her  gliding  form  ; 
The  God  shall  make  thy  breast  his  shrine,  and  pour 
Such  all-enchanting  harmony  around  thee. 
Men's  senses,  spell-bound  by  their  captive  hearing. 
Shall  own  the  manifest  godhead,  and  bow  down 
In  worship. 

MARGARITA. 

Ah,  that  thou  and  all  might  know 
The  God  that  hath  possess'd  me — would  adore 
The  eternal  words  of  light  and  life  and  trulli 
That  I  could  utter! 

CALLIAS. 

O  my  child  !  my  pride  ! 
While  the  infected  daughters  of  the  land 
Fall  ofT  to  this  new  faith  ;  while  they  are  led 
To  expiate  in  the  fire  their  sinful  deeds. 
How  shall  I  gaze  on  thee,  through  Daphne  gliding 
Amid  thy  white-robed  choir  of  sacred  maids, 
Like  the  presiding  swan  on  smooth  Caj'ster; 
And  bless  Apollo,  that  hath  stamp'd  thy  soul 
His  own. 

MARGARITA  [apart.) 
Ah  me !  and  how  t'  unbarb  the  dart, 
Which  I  must  strike  into  his  inmost  soul ! 

CALLIAS. 

Thrice-dearest  of  our  god  ! 

MARGARITA. 

Beloved  father ! 
Those  tender  maids  led  forth  to  sacrifice. 
To  bear  upon  their  blushing,  delicate  limbs 
Rude  stripes  and  shameful  insults,  have  they  not 
Fond  parents,  loving  as  thyself,  whose  hearts 
Weep  blood,  more  fast  than  even  their  flowing  wounds? 
Oh  think  on  her,  thy  Margarita,  her — 
The  breathing  image  thou  hast  often  call'd  her 
Of  thy  youth's  bride — exposed  to  pain,  to  death! 
To  worse — to  nameless  shame  ! 

CALLIAS. 

When  Margarita 
Hath  from  her  God  revolted,  I  '11  endure 
Even  that,  or  more. 

MARGARITA. 

No,  father,  no,  thou  rouldst  not, 
Thou  wilt  not,  when  she  meets  her  Christian  brethren, 
Patient  to  bear  their  Master's  mournful  lot 
Of  suffering  and  of  death 

CALLIAS. 

How  ?  what !  mine  ears 
Ring  with  a  wild  confusion  of  strange  sounds 
That  have  no  meaning.     Thou  'rt  not  wont  to  mock 
Thine  aged  father,  but  I  think  that  now 
Thou  dost,  my  child. 

MARGARITA. 

By  Jesus  Christ — by  him 
In  whom  my  soul  hath  hope  of  immortality, 
Father !  I  mock  not. 


CALLIAS. 

Lightnings  blast — not  thee, 
But  those  that  by  their  subtle  incantations 
Have  wrought  upon  thy  innocent  soul ! 

Look  there ! — 

MARGARITA. 

Father,  I'll  follow  thee  where'er  thou  wilt: 
Thou  dost  not  mean  this  cruel  violence 
With  which  thou  dragg'st  me  on. 

CALLIAS. 

Dost  not  behold  him, 
Thy  God  I  thy  father's  God  !  the  God  of  Antioch 
And  feel'st  thou  not  the  cold  and  silent  awe. 
That  emanates  from  his  immortal  presence 
O'er  all  the  breathless  temple  ?  Darest  thou  see 
The  terrible  brightness  of  the  wrath  that  burns 
On  his  arch'd  brow  ?   Lo,  how  the  indignation 
Swells  in  each  strong  dilated  limb!  his  stature 
Grows  loftier;  and  the  roof,  the  quaking  pavement, 
The  shadowy  pillars,  all  the  temple  feels 
The  offended  God ! — I  dare  not  look  again, 
Darest  thou  ? 

MARGARITA. 

I  see  a  silent  shape  of  stone. 
In  which  the  majesty  of  human  passion 
Is  to  the  life  express'd.    A  noble  image. 
But  wrought  by  mortal  hands,  upon  a  model 
As  mortal  as  themselves. 

CALLIAS. 

Ha !  look  again,  then. 
There  in  the  East.     Mark  how  the  purple  clouds 
Throng  to  pavilion  him :  the  officious  winds 
Pant  forth  to  purify  his  azure  path 
From  night's  dun  vapours  and  fast-scattering  mists. 
The  glad  earth  wakes  in  adoration;  all 
The  voices  of  all  animate  things  lift  up 
Tumultuous  orisons;  the  spacious  world 
Lives  but  in  him,  that  is  its  life.     But  he. 
Disdainful  of  the  universal  homage, 
Holds  his  calm  way,  and  vindicates  for  his  own 
Th'  illimitable  heavens,  in  solitude 
Of  peerless  glory  unapproachable. 
What  means  thy  proud  undazzled  look,  to  adore 
Or  mock,  ungracious  ? 

MARGARITA. 

On  yon  burning  orb 
I  gaze,  and  say, — Thou  mightiest  work  of  him 
That  launch'd  thee  forth,  a  golden-crowned  bride- 
groom, 
To  hang  thy  everlasting  nuptial  lamp 
In  the  exulting  heavens.    In  thee  the  light, 
Creation's  eldest  Iwrn,  was  tabernacled. 
To  thee  was  given  to  quicken  slumbering  nature, 
And  lead  the  season's  slow  vicissitude 
Over  the  fertile  breast  of  mother  earth; 
Till  men  began  to  stonp  their  grovelling  prayers 
From  the  Almighty  Sire  of  all  to  thee. 
.And  I  will  add, — Thou  universal  emblem. 
Hung  in  the  forehead  of  the  all-seen  heavens, 
Of  him,  that  with  the  light  of  righteousness 
Dawn'd  on  our  latter  days  ;  the  visitant  day-spring 
Of  the  benighted  world.    Enduring  splendour! 

372 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH 


3G3 


Giant  refresh'd  !  that  evermore  renew'st 

Thy  flaming  strength ;  nor  ever  slialt  thou  cease 

With  time  coeval,  even  till  Time  itself 

Hath  perish'd  in  eternity.     Then  tliou 

Shalt  own,  from  thy  apparent  deity 

Debased,  thy  mortal  nature,  from  the  sky 

Withering  before  the  all-enlightening  Lamb, 

Whose  radiant  ilirone  shall  quench  all  other  fires. 

CALL1.\S. 

And  yet  she  stands  unblasted!   In  thy  mercy 

Thou  dost  remember  all  my  faithful  vows, 

Hyperion  I  and  suspend  the  fiery  shaft 

That  quivers  on  thy  string.    Ah,  not  on  her, 

This  innocent,  wreak  thy  fury .'  I  will  search, 

And  thou  wilt  lend  me  light,  although  they  shroud 

In  deepest  Orcus.     I  will  pluck  them  forth, 

.\nd  set  them  up  a  mark  for  all  thy  wrath  ; 

Those  that  beguiled  to  this  unholy  madness 

My  pure  and  blameless  child.    Shine  forth,  shine  forth, 

Apollo,  and  we  'II  have  our  full  revenge ! 

iM.VRG.\RITA. 

'Tis  over  now — and  oh,  I  bless  thee,  Lord, 

For  making  me  thus  desolate  below  ; 

For  severing  one  by  one  the  ties  that  bind  me 

To  this  cold  world,  for  whither  can  earth's  outcasts 

Fly  but  to  heaven  ? 

Yet  is  no  way  but  this, 
None  but  to  steep  my  father's  lingering  days 
In  bitterness  ?  Thou  knowest,  gracious  Lord 
Of  mercy,  how  he  loves  me,  how  he  loved  me 
From  the  first  moment  that  my  eyes  were  open'd 
l^pon  the  light  of  day  and  hirn.    At  least. 
If  thou  must  smite  him,  smite  him  in  thy  mercy. 
He  loves  me  as  the  life-blood  of  his  heart. 
His  love  surpasses  every  love  but  thine. 


For  thou  didst  die  for  me,  oh  Son  of  God  I 

By  thee  the  throbbing  flesh  of  man  was  worn ; 
Thy  naked  feet  the  thorns  of  sorrow  trod, 
And  tempests  beat  thy  houseless  head  forlorn. 
Thou,  that  wert  wont  to  stand 
Alone,  on  God's  right  hand. 
Before  the  Ages  were,  the  Eternal,  eldest  bom. 

Thy  birthright  in  the  world  was  pain  and  grief. 

Thy  love's  return  ingratitude  and  hate  ; 
The  limbs  thou  healedst  brought  thee  no  relief. 
The  eyes  thou  openedst  calmly  view'd  thy  fate: 
Thou,  that  wert  wont  to  dwell 
In  peace,  tongue  cannot  tell. 
Nor  heart  conceive  the  bliss  of  thy  celestial  state. 

They  dragg'd  thee  to  the  Roman's  solemn  Hall, 

Where  the  proud  Judge  in  purple  splendour  sate  ; 
Thou  stoodst  a  meek  and  patient  criminal. 
Thy  doom  of  death  from  human  lips  to  wait ; 
Whose  throne  shall  be  llie  world 
In  final  ruin  hurl'd. 
With  all  mankind  to  hear  their  everlasting  fate. 

Thou  wert  alone  in  that  fierce  multitude. 
When  "Crucify  hiral"  yell'd  the  general  shout: 
31  '  2  V 


No  hand  to  guard  thee  'mid  those  insults  rude, 
Nor  lip  to  bless  in  all  that  frantic  rout ; 
Whose  lightest  vvhisper'd  word 
The  Seraphim  had  heard. 
And  adamantine  arms  from  all  the  heavens  broke  out 

They  bound  thy  temples  with  the  twisted  thorn, 
Thy  bruised  feet  went  languid  on  with  pain ; 
The  blood,  from  all  thy  flesh  with  scourges  torn. 
Deepen'd  thy  robe  of  mockery's  crimson  grain  ; 
Whose  native  vesture  bright 
Was  the  unapproached  light. 
The  sandal  of  whose  foot  the  rapid  hurricane. 

They  smote  thy  cheek  with  many  a  ruthless  palm, 

With  thecold  spearthy shudderingside  they  pierced; 
The  draught  of  bitterest  gall  was  all  the  balm 

They  gave,  t' enhance  thy  unslaked,  burning  thirst: 
Thou,  at  whose  words  of  peace 
Did  pain  and  anguish  cease. 
And  their  long  buried  dead  their  bonds  of  slumber 
burst. 

Low  how'd  thy  head  convulsed,  and,  droop'd  in  death. 

Thy  voice  sent  forth  a  sad  and  wailing  cry  ; 
Slow  struggled  from  thy  breast  the  parting  breath, 
And  every  limb  was  wrung  with  agony. 
That  head,  whose  veilless  blaze 
Fill'd  angels  with  amaze. 
When  at  that  voice  sprang  forth  the  rolling  suns  on 
high. 

And  thou  wert  laid  within  the  narrow  tomb. 
Thy  clay-cold  limbs  with  shrouding  grave-clothes 
bound ; 
The  sealed  stone  confirm'd  thy  mortal  doom. 

Lone  watchmen  walk'd  thy  desert  burial  ground. 
Whom  heaven  could  not  contain. 
Nor  th'  immeasurable  plain 
Of  vast  infinity  inclose  or  circle  round. 

For  us,  for  us,  thou  didst  endure  the  pain. 

And  thy  meek  spirit  bow'd  itself  to  sliame. 
To  wash  our  souls  from  sin's  infecting  stain, 
T'  avert  the  Father's  wrathful  vengeance  flame : 
Thou,  that  conldst  nothing  win 
By  saving  worlds  from  s;n, 
Nor  aught  of  glory  add  to  thy  all-glorious  name. 


The  Prefect's  HaU  of  Justice. 
Olvbius,  Vopiscus,  Macer,  Priest,  Romans,  etc. 
Callus. 
DiODOTUS,  Charinus,  Cala.nthias,  and  other  Chris- 
tians. 

PRlFSr. 

The  sacrifice  hath  pleased  the  immortal  Gods. 
With  willing  foot  the  golden-horned  steer 
Moved  to  the  altar,  and  in  proud  delight 
Shook  the  white  fillet  on  his  brow:  the  blood 
Pour'd  forth  its  purple  stream  profuse  ;  the  Aruspcx 
Gazed  on  the  perfect  entrails ;  and  the  smoke 
Rose  in  a  full  unbroken  cloud.     Great  Prefect, 
Thv  deeds  are  holy  to  our  Gods. 

373 


364 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OLYBIUS. 

The  Gods, 
Whose  honour  we  espouse,  espouse  our  cause. 
Hear  me,  ye  Priests  on  earth,  ye  Cods  in  heaven ! 
By  Vesta,  and  her  virgin-guarded  fires; 
By  Mars,  the  Sire  and  guardian  God  of"  Rome ; 
By  Antioch's  bright  Apollo  ;  by  the  throne 
Of  him  whose  thunder  shakes  the  vaulted  skies; 
And  that  dread  oath  I  add,  that  binds  th'  immortals, 
The  unblessed  waters  of  Tartarian  Styx  : 
I>ast,  by  the  avengers  of  despised  vows, 
Th'  inevitable  serpent-hair'd  Eumenides, 
Olybius  swears,  thus  mounting  on  the  throne 
Of  justice,  to  exhaust  heaven's  wrath  on  all 
That  have  cast  off  their  fathers'  Gods  for  rites 
New  and  unholy.     From  my  heart  I  blot 
Partial  affection  and  the  love  of  kindred  ; 
Even  if  my  father's  blood  flow'd  in  their  veins, 
I  would  obey  the  Emperor,  and  the  Gods ! 

vopiscus. 
So  nobly  said,  as  nobly  be  it  done. 

OLYBIUS. 

Lead  forth  the  prisoners ! 

Ye  of  nobler  birth, 
Diodotus,  Charinus,  and  Calanthias, 
And  ye,  the  baser  and  misguided  multitude, 
Ye  stand  denounced  before  our  solemn  throne 
As  guilty  of  that  Galilean  faith. 
Whose  impious  and  blaspheming  scorn  disdains 
Our  fathers'  Gods;  ye  serve  not  in  our  temples; 
Crown  not  our  altars  ;  kneel  not  at  our  shrines; 
And  in  their  stead,  in  loose  and  midnight  feasts 
Ye  meet,  obscuring  with  a  deeper  gloom 
Of  shame  and  horror  night's  chaste  brow. 

DIODOTUS. 

Olybius ! 
Were  these  foul  deeds  as  true  as  they  are  false, 
We  might  return,  that  we  but  imitate 
The  Gods  ye  worship — ye,  who  deify 
Adultery,  and  throne  incest  in  the  skies: 
Who,  not  content  with  earth's  vast  scope  defiled, 
Advance  the  majesty  of  human  sin 
Even  till  it  fills  the  empyreal  heavens.     Ye  sit 
Avengers  of  impure,  unhaliow'd  license. 
'Tis  well : — why  summon  then  your  Gods  to  answer, 
Wrest  the  idle  thunderbolt  from  amorous  Jove, 
Dispeople  all  Olympus, — ay,  draw  down 
The  bright-hair'd  Sun  from  his  celestial  height, 
To  give  accompt  of  that  most  fund  pursuit 
Through  yon  dim  grove  of  cypress. 

OLYBIUS. 

Do  we  wonder 
That  Heaven  rains  plagues  upon  the  guilty  earth; 
That  Pestilence  is  let  loose,  and  P'amine  stalks 
O'er  kingdoms,  withering  them  to  barrenness; 
That  reeling  cities  shake,  and  the  swoln  seas 
Engulph  our  navies,  or  with  sudden  inroad 
Level  our  strong-wall'd  ports  I   But,  impious  men, 
We  will  no  longer  share  your  doom  ;  nor  suffer 
Th'  indiscriminate  vengeance  from  on  high 
To  wrap  mankind  in  wide  promiscuous  ruin : 
Impatient  earth  shall  shake  you  Irom  her  bosom. 


Even  as  a  city  spurns  the  plague-struck  man 
From  her  barr'd  gates,  lest  her  attainted  airs 
Be  loaded  with  his  breath. 

DIODOTUS. 

Hath  earth  but  now 
Begun  to  heave  with  fierce  intestine  fires. 
Or  the  hot  South  from  his  unwholesome  wings 
Drop  pestilence?   Have  changeless  slumbers  lock'd 
Th'  untempested  and  stagnant  seas,  and  now 
Awake  they  first  to  whelm  your  fleets  and  shores? 
But  be  it  so,  that  angry  nature  rages 
More  frequent  in  her  fierce  distemperature. 
Upon  yourselves,  ye  unbelieving  Heathen, 
The  crime  recoils.    The  Lord  of  Hosts  hath  walk'd 
This  world  of  man  ;  the  One  Almighty  sent 
His  everlasting  Son  to  wear  the  flesh. 
And  glorify  this  mortal  human  shape. 
And  the  blind  eyes  unclosed  to  see  the  Lord  ; 
And  the  dumb  tongues  brake  out  in  songs  of  praise; 
And  the  deep  grave  cast  forth  its  wondering  dead; 
And  shuddering  devils  murmur'd  sullen  homage: 
Yet  him,  the  meek,  the  merciful,  the  just, 
Upion  the  Cross  his  rebel  people  hung. 
And  mock'd  his  dying  anguish.     Since  that  hour, 
Like  flames  of  fire  his  messengers  have  pass'd 
O'er  the  wide  world,  proclaiming  him  that  died 
Risen  from  the  grave,  and  in  omnipotence 
Array'd  on  high  ;  and  as  your  lictors  wait 
Upon  your  earthly  pomp,  portentous  signs 
And  miracles  have  strew'd  the  way  before  them. 
But  still  the  princes  of  the  earth  take  counsel 
Against  the  Eternal.     Still  the  Heathen  rage 
In  drunken  fury.    Therefore  hath  the  earth 
Espoused  its  Maker's  cause ;  the  heavens  are  full 
Of  red  denouncing  fires  ;  the  elements 
Take  up  the  eternal  quarrel,  and  arise 
To  battle  on  God's  side.    The  universe. 
With  one  wide  voice  of  indignation,  heard 
In  every  plague  and  desolating  storm, 
Proclaims  her  deep  abhorrence  at  your  sins. 

OLYBIUS. 

Diodotus,  thou  once  didst  share  our  love ; 

I  knew  thee  as  a  soldier,  valiant ;  wise, 

I  thought  thee ;  therefore  once  again  I  stoop 

To  parley  with  thy  madness.     Koble  warrior, 

Wouldst  thou  that  -Rome,  whose  Gods  have  raised 

her  up 
To  empire,  boundless  as  the  ocean-girt 
And  sun-enlighten'd  earth  ;  that  by  the  side 
Of  her  victorious  chariot  still  have  toil'd. 
While  there  were  hosts  t'  enslave,  or  realms  lo  conquer; 
That  have  attended  on  her  ranging  eagles 
Till  the  winds  fail'd  them  in  their  trackless  flight; — 
Wouldst  thou,  that  now  upon  her  power's  meridian, 
Ungrateful  she  should  spurn  the  exhausted  aid 
Of  her  old  guardian  Deities,  and  disclaim 
Her  ancient  worship?  Did  not  willing  Jove 
His  delegated  sceptre  o'er  the  world 
Grant  to  our  fathers  ?   Did  not  arm'd  Gradivus 
His  Thracian  coursers  urge  before  our  van. 
Strewing  our  foes,  as  the  wild  hurricane 
The  summer  corn  ?   Where  shone  the  arms  of  Rome 
That  our  great  sire  Quirinus  look'd  not  down 

374 


THE  MARTI  R  OF  ANTIOCH. 


365 


Propitious  from  his  hich  Olympian  seat  ? 
.  And  shall  we  now  forsake  their  hailow'd  fanes, 
Rich  with  our  (iithers'  piety;  refuse 
The  soleniti  hecaioinb;  disiniss  the  flamen 
From  his  proud  otlice  ;  rend  the  purple  robe 
Pontilical,  and  leave  each  sumptuous  shriue 
A  nestling-place  iiir  foul  uiihallow'd  birds  I 

j  DlODOTl'S. 

'  Olybius,   thou  wrons'st  our  Roman  glory. 
No  fabled  Thunderer,  nor  the  fiery  car 
Of  Mavors,  nor  long-buried  Romulus, 
Set  up  great  Rome  to  awe  the  subject  world  ; 
It  was  her  children's  valour,  that  dared  all  things, 
And  what  it  dared,  ao<-omplish'd.     Rome  herself, 
Th'  Almighty  willing  her  imperial  sway. 
Was  her  own  tbrtutie,  fale,  and  guardian  deity. 
She  built  the  all-siiadowing  fabric  of  her  empire 
On  the  strong  pillars  of  her  public  virtues. 
And  reign'd  because  she  was  most  fit  to  reign. 
But  ours,  Olybius,  is  no  earthly  kingdom, 
We  offer  not  a  sceptre,  that  proclaims 
Man  mightier  than  his  brethren  of  the  dust; 
No  crown  that  with  the  lofty  head  that  wears  it 
Must  make  iis  mouldering  pillow  in  the  grave. 
This  earth  disowns  our  glories:  but  when  Rome 
Hath  sepulchred  the  last  of  all  her  sons. 
When  Desolation  walks  her  voiceless  streets, 
Ay,  when  this  world,  and  all  its  lords  and  slaves, 
Are  swept  into  the  ghastly  gulf  of  rum; 
High  in  immortal  grandeur,  like  the  stars, 
But  brighter  and  more  lasting,  shall  our  souls 
Sit  in  their  empyrean  thrones,  endiadem'd 
With  amaranthine  light.     Such  gifts  our  God 
Hath  promised  to  his  faithful. 

OLYBIUS. 

Bounteous  God  I 
That,  as  an  earnest  of  your  glory,  leaves  you 
For  every  spurning  foot  to  trample  on. 
To  feed  unstruggling  the  fierce  beast  of  rapine. 
To  stand  with  open  and  untented  wounds 
Beneath  the  scorching  sun  !     Where  sleep  the  bolts 
Of  your  Almighty,  when  we  hale  you  forth 
To  glut  the  fire,  or  make  a  spectacle 
Of  your  dread  sufferings  to  the  applauding  people  ? 

DIODOTUS. 

Our  God  and  Saviour  gives  us  what  we  pray  for; 

On  earth  a  portion  of  his  bitter  cup 

To  purify  the  world  from  our  gross  soul, 

And  disencumber  us  for    heaven. 

CHARIXUS. 

Diodotus ! 
Why  stand'st  thou  thus,  and  dalliest  with  this  man? 
Hear  me,  I  say,  proud  Pilate!  on  thy  throne 
Of  judgment  we  defy  thee, — loose  thy  hell-hound.s ! 

OLYBIUS. 

I'll  bear  no  more — Away  with  them! — we'll  glut 
Their  mad  desires  with  suffering ! 

Ha,  what 's  here  ? 


The  above.     Shepherd,  Guards,  etc.  with  a  veiled 
Maiden. 

OLYBIUS. 

Why  drag  ye  forth  that  maid,  who  by  her  fillet 


And  flowing  robes  would  seem  a  virgin,  chosen 
For  PhcDbus'  service  ? 

SllErilERD. 

Hear  us,  great  Olybius. 
There  is  a  cave  beside  Oroiilcs'  stream 
Roof'd  wilh  the  dropping  cryslal,  and  the  ivy 
And  woodbine  trail  their  tendrils  o'er  its  porch 
As  to  conceal  its  secret  chamber.     There, 
'Tis  said,  the  IS'aiads,  udcr  the  cool  disjx)rt 
In  the  fresh  waters,  carelessly  recline 
Their  dripping  limbs  upon  the  fragrant  moss; 
And  when  ilie  light  winds  lift  the  verdant  veil, 
Some  have  beheld  the  unearthly  loveliness 
That  slept  within;  and  some  have  heard  at  noon 
newilching  sounds  that  made  the  sultry  air 
Delicious.     We,  with  venturous  li)ot  profane. 
At  that  iiymph-hallovv'd  hour  had  wandcr'd  thither. 
When,  horror-struck,  wo  hoard  two  murmuring  voices, 
One  of  a  man  and  of  a  maiden  one, 
Pouring  u[X)n  the  still  and  shudd'ring  air 
Their  hymn  to  Christ — we  seized  and  bore  them  hither. 

OLYBIUS. 

Ha!  rend  they  then  the  dedicated  maids 
Kven  from  our  altars! — Haste,  withdraw  the  veil 
In  whic'h  her  guilty  face  is  shrouded  close — 
— Their  magic  mocks  mv  sight — I  seem  to  see 
What  cannot  be  before  me — Margarita  ! 
Answer,  if  thou  art  she. 

CALLIAS. 

Great  Judge!  great  Prefect! 
It  is  my  child — Apollo's  gifted  priestess! 
Within  that  holy  and  oracular  cave 
Her  spirit  quafis  th'  absorbing  inspiration. 
Lo,  with  what  cold  and  wandering  gaze  she  looks 
On  me,  her  sire — it  chokes  her  voice — these  men. 
These  wicked,  false,  blaspheming  men,  have  leagued 
To  swear  away  her  life. 

OLYBIUS. 

Callias,  stand  back. 
Speak,  virgin  :  wherefore  wert  thou  there,  wilh  whom  ? 

CALLIAS. 

Seal,  Phoebus,  seal  her  lips  in  mercy. 

OLYBIUS. 

Peace ! 

.MARGARITA. 

I  went  to  meet  the  minister  of  Christ, 
And  pray 

OLYBIUS. 

Now  where  is  he  ?  by  all  the  Gods 
I'll  rend  asunder  his  white  youthful  limbs; 
I'll  set  his  head,  with  all  its  golden  locks, 
Upon  the  city  gate,  for  each  that  passes 
To  shed  his  loathsome  contumely  upon  it — 

I'll Now  by  heaven,  she  smiles! — Apostate! 

still 
I  cannot  hate  her.  {Apart). 

Priestess  of  Apollo, 
Advance,  and  lend  thy  private  ear.     Fond  maid, 
Is't  for  some  loved  and  favour'd  yoiiih  thou'rt  changed  ? 
Renounce  thy  frantic  faith,  and  live  for  him  ; 
For  him,  and  not  for  me. 

375 


366 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


MARGARITA. 

Oh,  generous  Prefect! 
I  do  beseech  thee,  for  thy  soul's  sake,  shed  not 
The  innocent  blood  ;  for  him  that  I  have  loved— 
Behold  hirn. 

Guards,  with  Fabius. 

GUARD. 

The  second  criminal  I 

FABIUS. 

Thou'rt  here  before  me,  daughter: — may  thy  path 
To  heaven  precede  me  thus. 

MARGARITA. 

Amen!  Amen! 

OI.YElU.'i. 

He !— he!  that  man  with  thin  and  hoary  hair, 
Bow'd  down,  and  feebly  borne  on  tottering  limbs ! 
Ye  Gods—  ye  Gods,  [  thank  you  ! 

CALLIAS. 

Wizard  !  Sorcerer 
What  hast  thou  done  to  witch  my  child  from  me  ? 
What  p(jtent  herbs  dug  at  the  full  of  the  moon. 
What  foul  Thessalian  charms  dost  bear  about  thee? 
Hast  thou  made  league  with  Hecate,  or  wrung 
From  the  unwilling  dead  the  accursed  secret 
That  gives  thee  power  o'er  human  souls  ! 

FABIUS. 

Thou  'st  err'd 
Into  a  truth  :  the  dead  hath  risen,  and  walk'd 
The  unconscious  earth  \  and  what  he  taught,  I  teach. 

CALLIAS. 

Away  with  him!— he  doth  confess— away  ! 

OLVBIUS. 

Off  with  him  to  the  torturers! 

FABIUS. 

Hear  me.  Prefect  ; 
Hear  me,  I  charge  thee  by  the  eternal  God, 
Him  whom  thou  know'sl  not,  yet  whose  name  o'er- 

avves  thee  ; 
Nor  think  ye  that  [  speak  to  sue  i>n  mercy 
Upon  these  children  or  myself:  expend 
Your  subtlest  tortures,  nought  can  ye  inflict 
But  what  we  are  proud  to  suffer.     For  yourselves 
I  speak,  m  mercy  to  your  forfeit  souls. 
God — at  whose  word  the  vast  creation  sprang, 
Exulting  in  its  light  and  harmony, 
From  the  blank  silence  of  the  void  abyss  ; 
At  whose  command  at  once  the  unpeopled  world 
Brake  out  in  life,  and  man,  the  lord  of  all, 
Walk'd  that  pure  Paradise,  from  w  hich  his  sin 
Expell'd  him — God,  that  to  the  elder  world 
Spake  with  the  avenging  voice  of  rolling  waters, 
When  the  wild  deluge  swept  from  all  the  earth 
The  gianl-boni— He  that  in  thunder-peals 
Held  dreadful  converse  with  his  chosen  people; 
And  made  the  potent-teeming  elements, 
And  the  rapt  souls  of  Prophels,  to  proclaim 
His  will  aiuiighly— in  our  latter  days 
That  God  hath  spoken  by  his  Son.     He  came. 
From  the  dark  ages  of  the  infant  world 
Foretold,— the  Prophets'  everlasting  Burthen. 
The  Virgin  bare  the  .Son,  the  angelic  hosts 
Burst  out  in  song— the  Father  from  his  clouds 


Declared  him.     To  his  miracles  of  might 
Consenting,  Nature  own'd  her  Lonl.     His  [X)wer, 
His  sorrows,  all  his  glory,  all  his  shame. 
His  cross,  his  death,  his  broken  tomb  bare  witness. 
And  the  bright  clouds  that  wrapt  him  to  the  Sire 
Ascending.    And  again  he  comes,  again ; 
But  not  as  then,  not  clad  in  mortal  flesh. 
To  live  the  life,  or  die  the  death  of  man  : 
Girt  with  his  own  omnipotence,  his  throne 
The  wreck  of  worlds ;  the  glory  of  his  presence 
Lighting  infinity:    He  comes  to  assume 
Th'  eternal  judgment  Seat.     Then  thou  and  I, 
Olybius,  and  thy  armed  satellites. 
And  these  my  meek  and  lowly  followers; 
Thou,  that  art  there  enthroned  in  purple  robes, 
The  thrice-triumphant  Lord  of  all  our  Asia, 
.-^nd  I,  a  nameless,  weak,  unknown  old  man. 
That  stand  a  helpless  criminal  before  thee, 
Shall  meet  once  more.    The  earth  shall  cast  us  up. 
The  winds  shall  waft  our  thin  and  scatter'd  ashes, 
The  ocean  yield  us  up  our  drowned  bones; 
There  shall  we  meet  befijre  the  cloudy  throne- 
Before  the  face  of  him,  whose  awful  brightness 
Shall  be  the  sun  of  that  dread  day,  in  which 
Ten  thousand  thousands  of  the  angelic  hosts. 
And  all  the  souls  of  all  mankind  shall  bask. 
Waiting  their  doom  eternal.     Thou  and  I 
Shall  there  give  in  the  accompt  of  this  day's  process, 
And  Christ  shall  render  each  his  due  reward. 
Now,  Sir,  your  sentence. 

MARGARITA. 

Merciful  .lesus  I  melt 
His  spirit  in  its  hardness. 

.IIACF.R. 

By  our  Gods, 
The  very  soldiers  lean  their  [wilid  cheeks 
Upon  their  spears;  and  at  his  every  pause 
The  panting  of  their  long-suppressed  breath 
Is  audible. 

vopiscus. 
Methinks  the  stern  Olybius 
Is  lost  in  mute  admiring  meditation. 

OLYBIUS. 

There  needed  not  your  taunt.  Sir,  to  awake 
Olybius  to  his  duty. 

OHARINUS. 

They  demur, 
.^nd  will  defraud  us  of  our  glorious  crowns. 
Mu.st  we  not  scoff  them  hack  into  their  rage? 
What,  Heathens,  shake  ye  at  an  old  man's  voice? 
What  will  ye  when  the  archangel  trumpet  thrills 
Upon  your  souls  ? 

FA  EI  US. 

Charinus,  if  thou  lovest 
Thy  soul,  be  silent— pride  must  fall :  the  boastful 
Denied  his  Lord,  and  thou 

CHARINUS. 

I? 

OLVBIUS. 

Drag  them  forth. 
Some  to  the  dungeons,  to  the  torturers  some. 
As   we.   give  order; — and  to-morrow  morn. 
Whoe'er  adores  not  at  Apollo's  shrine 

37G 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


367 


In  Daphne,  him  the  headsman's  gleaming  steel, 

Or  the  fierce  lions,  or  the  tlaming  pile. 

Shall  cut  away,  as  a  corrupted  branch 

From  flourishing  Aniioch.— OtT  with  them,  I  say ! 

CHRISTIANS. 

Hallelujah!  Lord  our  God! 
Now  our  earthly  path  is  trod 
Pass'd  are  now  our  cares  and  fears, 
And  we  quit  this  vale  of  tears. 

Hallelujah!  King  of  Kings! 
Now  our  spirits  spread  their  wings, 
To  the  mansion  of  the  blest, 
To  thy  everlasting  rest. 

Hallelujah  !  Lord  of  Lords  I 
Be  our  last  and  dying  words. 
Glory  to  our  God  above. 
To  our  murderers,  peace  and  love. 


The  Prison. 

MARGARIT.\. 

I  'm  safe  at  last :  the  wild  and  furious  cries 

That  drove  me  on  are  dying  into  silence. 

These  cold  and  damp  and  gloomy  prison  walls 

Are  my  protection.     And  few  hours  ago 

My  presence  would  have  made  a  holiday 

In  Antioch.     .'\s  I  've  moved  along  the  streets, 

I  've  heard  the  mother  chide  her  sportive  child 

For  breaking  the  admiring  stillness  round  me. 

There  was  no  work  so  precious  or  so  dear 

But  they  deserted  it  to  gaze  on  me. 

And  now  they  bay'd  at  me,  like  angry  dogs  : 

And  every  brow  was  wrinkled,  every  hand 

Clench'd  in  fierce  menace :   from   their  robes  they 

shook 
The  dust  upon  me,  even  more  loathsome  scorn 
Was  cast  upon  my  path.     And  can  it  be. 
Oh  Christ!  that  I,  whose  tainted  hands  so  late 
Served  at  the  idol's  altar  ;  on  whose  lips 
And  lyre  still  ring  the  idol's  votive  hymns, 
Am  chosen  to  bear  thy  cross,  and  wear  on  high 
The  martyr's  robes  enwoven  of  golden  light  ? 
Callias,  Margarita, 
margarita. 
Alas!  my  father! 

CALLIAS. 

Oh  my  child  !  my  child  ! 
Once  more  I  find  thee.     Even  the  savage  men, 
That  stand  with  rods  and  axes  round  the  gate. 
Had  reverence  for  grev  hairs :  they  let  me  pass, 
And  with  rude  pity  bless'd  me — Thou  alone 
Art  cold  and  tearless  in  your  father's  sorrows. 

MARGARITA. 

Oh  say  not  so! 

CALLIAS. 

And  wilt  thou  touch  me,  then, 
Polluted,  as  thy  jealous  sect  prnrlaims. 
By  idols  ?     Oh,  ye  unrelentine  Gods  ! 
More  unrelenting  daughter,  not  content 
To  make  me  wretched  by  depriving  me 
Of  my  soul's  treasure,  do  ye  envy  me 
31* 


The  miserable  solace  of  her  tears 

Mingling  with  mine  ?   She  quits  the  world,  and  me, 

Rejoicing 

MARGARITA. 

No! 

CALLIAP. 

And  I,  whose  blameless  pride 
Dwelt  on  her— even  as  all  the  lands,  no  more. 
The  sculptor  wrought  his  Goddess  by  her  form, 
Iler  likeness  was  the  stamp  of  its  divinity. 
And  when  I  walk'd  in  Antioch,  all  men  hail'd 
The  father  of  the  beauteous  Margarita, 
And  now  they  '11  fret  me  with  their  cold  compassion 
Upon  the  childless,  desolate 

MARGARITA. 

My  father, 
I  could  have  better  borne  thy  wrath,  thy  curse. 

CALLIAS. 

Alas  !  I  am  too  wretched  to  feel  wrath : 
There  is  no  violence  in  a  broken  spirit. 
Well,  I  've  not  long  to  live :  it  matters  not 
Whether  the  old  man  go  henceforth  alone. 
And  if  his  limbs  should  fail  him,  he  may  seize 
On  some  cold  pillar,  or  some  lintel  post. 
For  that  support  which  human  hands  refuse  him ; 
Or  he  must  hire  some  slave,  with  face  and  voice 
Dissonant  and  strange  ;  or 

MARGARITA. 

Gracious  Lord,  have  mercy, 
For  what  to  this  to-morrow's  scourge  or  stake  ? 

CALLIAS. 

And  he  must  sit  the  livelong  day  alone 
In  silence,  in  the  Temple  Porch.     No  lyre. 
Or  one  by  harsh  and  jarring  fingers  touch'd, 
For  that  which  all  around  distill'd  a  calm 
More  sweet  than  slumber.     Unfamiliar  hands 
Must  strew  his  pillow,  and  his  weary  eyes 
By  unfamiliar  hands  be  closed  at  length 
For  their  long  sleep. 

MARGARITA. 

Alas!  alas!  my  father, 
Why  do  they  rend  me  from  thee,  for  what  crime  ? 
I  am  a  Christian  :  will  a  Chrisiian's  hands 
With  tardier  zeal  perform  a  daughter's  duty? 
A  Christian's  heart  with  colder  fondness  tend 
An  aged  father  ?     Wh.it  forbids  me  still 
To  lead  thy  feeble  steps,  where  the  warm  sun 
Quickens  thy  chill  and  languid  blood  ;  or  where 
Some  shadow  soothes  the  noontide's  burning  heat; 
To  watch  thy  wants,  to  steal  about  thy  chamber 
With  foot  so  light,  as  to  invite  the  sleep 
To  shed  its  balm  upon  thy  lids  ?     Dear  sir. 
Our  faith  commands  )is  even  to  love  our  foes — 
Can  it  forbid  to  love  a  father  ? 

CALLIAS. 

Prove  it. 
And  for  thy  father's  love  forswear  this  faith. 

MARGARITA. 

Forswear  it  ? 

CALLIAS. 

Or  dissemble  ;  any  thing 
But  die  and  leave  me. 

377 


368 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


MARGARITA. 

Who  disown  their  Lord 
On  earth,  will  he  disown  in  heaven. 

CALLIAS. 

Hard  heart! 
Credulous  of  all  but  thy  fond  father's  sorrows, 
Thou  will  believe  each  wild  and  monstrous  tale 
Of  this  fond  faith. 

MARGARITA. 

I  dare  not  disbelieve 
What  the  dark  grave  hath  cast  the  buried  forth 
To  utter:  to  whose  visible  form  on  earth 
After  the  cross  expiring  men  have  written 
Their  witness  in  their  blood. 

CALLIAS. 

Whence  learnt  thou  this? 
Tell  me,  my  child  ;  for  sorrow's  weariness 
Is  now  so  heavy  on  me,  I  can  listen 
JVor  rave.     Come,  sit  we  down  on  this  coarse  straw, 
Thy  only  couch — thine,  that  wert  wont  to  lie 
On  the  soft  plumage  of  the  swan,  that  shamed  not 
Thy  spotless  limbs — Come. 

MARGARITA. 

Dost  thou  not  remember 
When  Decius  was  the  Emperor,  how  he  came 
To  Antioch,  and  when  holy  Babylas 
Withstood  his  entrance  to  the  Christian  church. 
Frantic  with  wrath,  he  bade  them  drag  him  forth 
To  cruel  death  ?    Serene  the  old  man  vvalk'd 
The  crowded  streets;  at  every  pause  the  yell 
Of  the  mad  people  made,  his  voice  was  heard 
Blessing  God's  bounty,  or  imploring  pardon 
Upon  the  barbarous  hosts  that  smote  him  on. 
Then  didst  thou  hold  me  up,  a  laughing  child 
To  gaze  on  that  sad  spectacle.     He  pass'd 
And  look'd  on  me  with  such  a  gentle  sorrow; 
The  pallid  patience  of  his  brow  toward  me 
Seem'd  softening  to  a  smile  of  deejiest  love. 
When  all  around  me  mock'd,  and  howl'd,  and  laugh 'd, 
God  gave  me  grace  to  weep.     In  after  time, 
That  face  would  on  my  noontide  dreams  return  ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  the  night  I  heard 
The  murmur  of  that  voice  remote,  and  touch'd 
To  an  aerial  sweetness,  like  soft  music 
Over  a  tract  of  waters.     My  young  soul 
Lay  wrapt  in  wonder,  how  that  meek  old  man 
Could  suHer  with  such  unre|)ining  calmness. 
Till  late  [  learnt  the  faith  for  which  he  siifler'd, 

And  wonder'd  then  no  more.    Thou  'rt  weeping,  too 

Oh  Jesus,  hast  thou  moved  his  heart  ? 

CALLIAS. 

Away ! 
Insatiate  of  ihy  father's  niiserj', 
Wouldst   have   the   torturers   wring   the   few   chill 

drops 
Of  blood  that  linger  in  these  wither'd  veins  ? 

MARGARITA. 

I  'd  have  thee  with  me  in  the  changeless  heavens, 
Where  we  should  part  no  more ;  reclined  together 
Far  from  the  violence  of  this  wretched  world  ; 
Emparadised  in  bli.ss,  to  which  the  Elysium 
Dream'd  by  fond  poets  were  a  barren  waste. 


CALLIAS. 

Would  we  were  there,  or  anywhere  but  here. 
Where  the  cold  damps  are  oozing  from  the  walls, 
And  the  thick  darkness  presses  like  a  weight 
I'pon  the  eyelids.     Daughter,  when  thou  served'st 
Thy  father's  Gods,  thou  wert  not  thus:  the  sun 
Was  brightest  where  thou  wert — beneath  thy  feet 
Flowers  grew.    Thou  sal'st  like  some  unclouded  star, 
Insphered  in  thine  own  light  and  joy,  and  madest 
The  world  around  thee  beauteous;  now,  cold  earth 

Must  be  thy  couch  to-night,  to-morrow  morn 

What  means  tliat  music  ? — Oh,  I  used  to  love 

Those  evening  harpings  once,  my  child  ! 

MARGARITA. 

I  hear 
The  maids;  beneath  the  twilight  they  are  thronging 
To  Daphne,  and  they  carol  as  they  pass. 

CALLIAS. 

Thou  canst  not  go. 

MARGARITA. 

Lament  not  that,  my  father. 

CALLIAS. 

Thou  must  breathe  here  the  damp  and  sti.ling  air. 

MARGARITA. 

Nay,  listen  not. 

CALLIAS. 

They  call  us  hence. — Ah  me, 
My  gentle  child,  in  vain  wouldst  thou  distract 
My  rapt  attention  from  each  well-known  note, 
Once  hallo w'd  to  mine  ear  by  thine  own  voice, 
Which  erst  made  Antioch  vacant,  drawing  after  thee 
The  thronging  youth,  which  cluster'd  all  around  thee 
Like  bees  around  their  queen,  the  happiest  they 
That  were  the  nearest.     Oh,  my  child  !  my  child  ! 
Thou  canst  not  yet  be  blotted  from  their  memory, 
And  I  '11  go  fijrth,  and  kneel  at  every  foot. 
To  the  stern  Prefect  show  my  hoary  hair, 
And  sue  for  mercy  on  myself,  not  thee. 

MARGARITA. 

Go  not,  my  father. 

CALLIAS. 

Cling  not  round  me  thus; 
There,  there,  even  there  repose  upon  the  straw. 

Nay,  let  me  go,  or  I  '11 but  I  've  no  power : 

Thou  heed'st  not  now  my  anger  or  my  love  ; 

So,  so  farewell,  then,  and  our  Gods  or  thine, 

Or  all  that  have  the  power  to  bless,  be  with  thee! 

[Departs. 

EVEMNG   SO.N'GS   OF   THE   MAIDENS 

{Heard  al  a  distance). 
I. 
Come  away,  with  willing  feet 
Quit  the  close  and  breathless  street: 
Sultry  court  and  chamber  leave. 
Come  and  taste  the  balmy  eve. 
Where  the  grass  is  cool  and  green, 
And  the  verdant  laurels  screen 
All  whose  timid  footsteps  move 
With  the  quickening  stealth  of  love; 
Where  Orontes'  waters  hold 
Mirrors  to  your  locks  of  gold. 
And  the  sacred  Daphne  weaves, 
Canopies  of  trembling  leaves. 

378 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


369 


1 1. 

Come  away,  tlie  heavens  above 
Just  have  hght  enough  for  love; 
And  the  crystal  Hesperus 
Lights  his  dew-fed  lamp  for  us. 
Come,  the  wider  shades  are  fulling, 
And  the  amorous  birds  are  calling 
Each  his  wandering  mate  to  rest 
In  the  close  and  downy  nest. 
And  the  snowy  orange  flowers, 
And  the  creeping  jasmine  bowers, 
From  their  swinging  censers  cast 
Their  richest  odours,  and  their  last. 

III. 
Come,  tne  busy  day  is  o'er, 
Flying  spindle  gleams  no  more  ; 
Wait  not  till  the  twilight  gloom 
Darken  o'er  th'  embroider'd  loom. 
Leave  the  toilsome  task  undone. 
Leave  the  golden  web  unspiin. 
Hark,  along  the  humming  air 
Home  the  laden  bees  repair; 
And  the  bright  and  dashing  rill 
From  the  side  of  every  hill, 
VViih  a  clearer  deeper  sound. 
Cools  the  freshening  air  around. 

Come,  for  though  our  (lod  the  Sun 
Now  his  fiery  course  hath  run ; 
There  the  western  waves  among 
Lingers  not  his  glory  long ; 
There  the  couch  awaits  him  still, 
Wrought  by  Jove-born  Vulcan's  skill 
Of  the  thrice-refined  gold. 
With  Its  wings  that  wide  unfold. 
O'er  the  surface  of  the  deep 
To  waft  the  bright-hair'd  God  asleep 
From  the  Hesperian  islands  blest. 
From  the  rich  and  purple  West, 
To  where  the  swarthy  Indians  lave 
In  the  farthest  Eastern  wave. 

V. 

There  the  Morn  on  tiptoe  stands. 
Holding  in  her  rosy  hands 
All  the  amber-studded  reins 
Of  the  steeds  with  fiery  manes. 
For  the  sky-borne  charioteer 
To  start  upon  his  new  career. 


Come,  for  when  his  glories  break 
Every  sleeping  maid  must  wake. 
Brief  be  then  our  stolon  hour 
In  the  fragrant  Daphne's  bower ; 
Brief  our  twilight  dance  must  be 
Underneath  the  cypress  tree. 
Come  away,  and  make  no  stay. 
Youth  and  maiden,  come  away. 


*This  and  the  followine  slnnzaaro  from  a  beautiful  frast- 
ment  of  Mimtieriiius. —  Poet.  Min.  Graeci.  Edit.  Gaisford. 
Vol.  i.  page  i-2'.i. 

'HAtos  niv  yap  i'^axtv  n6vov  {j/iara  irdvTa' 

tmroiciv  7C  Kat  a^r^,  inrjv  ^oiofaKrvXos  'Hws 

wKtavuv  TTpoXtfffvc'  ciicavuv  ilcavcii). 
Tbv  fitv  yip  (flT  Kt'va  <*tipci  ncXvi'ipaTO^  ttvy 

KofAi},  'UipaiaTov  x^9oiv  iXijXafiivrj 
Xpvaov  r(;iTytVTOS,  inuKTipoi,  nxgov  i'p'  tjdwp 

tt'CovO'  dpnaMtus,  X'''*9°^  '*'^*  '  Kc-Ttj^iTiov, 
yalav  is  AlOiSizmv  rva  ol  ^odv  ftpua  Kal  tiriroi 

iaTair\  f.i*tp*  'HuiJ  ijpiyivua  t^'J^J]' 


Night. 
A  splendid,  illuminated  Palace. 

M.\RGARITA. 

Am  I  brought  here  to  die  ?   My  prison  open'd 

Softly  as  to  an  angel's  touch,  and  hiiher 

Was  I  led  forth  among  tlie  breathing  lutes 

Of  our  blithe  maidens,  as  to  lure  me  on. 

And  still  where'er  I  move,  as  from  the  earth. 

Or  floating  in  the  calm  embosoming  air, 

Sweet  sounds  of  music  seem  to  follow  me. 

I  breathe  as  't  were  an  atmosphere  distill'd 

From  richest  flowers;  and,  lest  the  unwonted  light 

Offend  mine  eyes,  so  late  released  from  gloom, 

'Tis  soothed  and  cool'd  in  alabaster  lamps. 

And  is  it  thus  ye  would  enamour  me 
Of  this  sad  world  '.    Your  luxuries,  your  pomps. 
Your  vaulted  ceilings,  that  with  fond  delay 
Prolong  the  harp's  expiring  sweetness  ;  walls, 
Where  the  bright  paintings  breathe  and  speak,  and 

chambers 
Where  all  would  soothe  to  sleep,  but  that  to  sleep 
Were  to  suspend  the  sense  of  their  soft  pleasures  ; 
They  are  wasted  all  on  me :  as  though  I  trod 
The  parching  desert,  still  my  spirit  longs 
To  spread  its  weary  wings,  and  be  at  rest. 
Ob,  vaiidy  thus  would  ye  enhance  my  loss. 
By  gilding  thus  the  transient  life  I  lose  I 
Were  mine  affections  dead  to  all  things  earthly 
As  to  these  idle  flatteries  of  the  sense. 
My  trial  were  but  light. 

There 's  some  one  comes — 
Is  it  the  ruthless  executioner? 

OlYBIUS,   M.\RGAIIITA. 
OLYBIUS. 

Fairest,  it  is 

.MARGARITA. 

Lord  Prefect,  it  becomes 
The  dying  Christian  to  be  mock'd  in  death; 
But  it  becomes  not  great  Olybius 
To  play  the  mocker. 

OLvnius. 

Mock  thee !  I  had  rather 
Fall  down  and  worship  at  thy  feet. 

MARGARITA. 

My  Lord,      i 
I  said  before  thou  dost  not  well  to  heap 
I  Cold  insult  on  the  head  thou  tramplest  on. 
!  If  that  mine  hour  is  come,  command  thy  slaves 
i  To  lead  me  forth. 

379 


370 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OLYBIUS. 

I  will — but  they  shall  wear 
The  bridal  saffron;  all  their  locks  shall  bloom 
With  garlands;  and  their  blazing  nuptial  torches 
And  hymeneal  songs,  prepare  the  way 
Before  Love's  blushing  martyr. 

MARGARITA. 

Sir,  go  on ; 
I  can  endure  even  this. 

OLYBIU.'?. 

Sweet  Margarita, 
Give  me  thine  hand — for  once — Oh!  snowy  treasure, 
That  shall  be  mine  thus  fondly  cl.isp'd  for  ever. 
Now,  Margarita,  cast  thine  eyes  below — 
What  seest  thou  ? 

MARGARITA 

Here  .^polio's  temple  rests 
Its  weight  upon  its  snow-white  columns.    There 
The  massy  shades  of  Daphne,  with  its  streams. 
That  with  their  babbling  sounds  allure  the  sight. 
Where  their  long  dim-seen  tracts  of  silvery  whiteness 
Now  gleam,  and  now  are  lost  again.     Beyond, 
The  star-lit  city  in  its  wide  repose; 
Each  tall  and  silent  tower  in  stately  darkness 
Distinct  against  the  cloudless  sky. 

OLYEIU.S. 

Beneath  thee. 
Now,  to  the  left  ? 

MARGARITA. 

A  dim  and  narrow  court 
I  see,  where  shadows  as  of  hurrying  men 
Pass  and  repass ;  and  now  and  then  their  lights 
Wander  on  shapeless  heaps,  like  funeral  piles. 
And  there  are  things  of  strange  distorted  shape, 
On  which  the  torches  cast  a  colder  hue, 
As  though  on  iron  instruments  of  torture. 
A  little  farther,  there  are  moving  lamps 
In  the  black  amphitheatre,  that  glance. 
And  as  they  glance,  each  narrow  aperture 
Is  feebly  gilded  with  their  slanted  light. 
It  is  the  quick  and  bu.sy  preparation 
For  the  dark  sacrifice  of  to-morrow. 

OLVBIUS. 

There, 
If  thou  canst  add  the  scorn,  and  shame,  and  pain. 
The  infuriate  joy  of  the  fierce  multitude. 
The  flowing  blood,  and  limbs  that  writhe  in  flame. 
Thou  seest  what  thou  prepares!  for  thyself 
Now  what  Oiybius'  love  prepares  for  thee. 
Fairest,  behold  ! — This  high  irradiate  roof 
Fretted  with  lamps;  these  gorgeous  chambers,  each 
As  it  recedes  of  costlier  splendour,  strew'd 
With  all  the  barliarous  Indian's  loom  hath  wrought. 
Or  all  the  enslaved  ocean  wafts  to  Tyre. 
Arabia's  weeping  groves  are  odourless, 
Her  balmy  wealth  exhausted  o'er  our  couches 
Of  banquet,  where  the  revelling  Syria  spreads 
Her  fruits  and  wines  in  vases  cool  with  snow 
From  Libanus.     Around  are  summer  gardens 
Of  sunny  lawn  and  sweet  secluded  shade. 
Which  waft  into  the  gilded  caspment  airs 
liOaded  with  dewy  fragrance,  and  send  up 


The  coolness  of  their  silver-dashing  fountains, 

As  nature's  self  strove  in  fond  rivalry 

With  art  to  pamper  every  sense.     Behold 

Yon  throne,  whereon  the  Asiarch  holds  his  state, 

Circled  with  kings  and  more  than  kingly  Remans; 

There  by  his  side  shall  Margarita  sit, 

Oiybius'  bride  ;  with  all  the  adoring  city, 

And  every  province  of  the  sumptuous  East, 

Casting  its  lavish  homage  at  her  feet ; 

Her  lifis  one  luxury  of  love,  her  state 

One  scene  of  peerless  pomp  and  pride  ;  her  will 

The  law  of  spacious  kingdoms,  and  her  lord 

More  glorious  tor  the  beauty  of  his  bride 

Than  for  three  triumphs.     Now,  my  soul's  beloved! 

Make  thou  thy  choice. 

MARGARITA. 

'T  is  made — the  funeral  pyie. 

OLYBIUS. 

Dearest,  what  say'st  thou  ?    Wouldst  thou  have  me 

woo  thee 
So  that  the  burning  blushes  should 

MARGARITA. 

Oh !  hear  me, 
Olybius^hould  we  look  to-morrow  eve 
On  that  sad  court  of  death,  the  winds  that  bore 
The  groans  of  anguish  will  have  died  in  silence; 
The  untainted  earth  have  drunk  the  blood,  nor  trace 
Remain  of  all  those  Christian  multitudes, 
Save  some  small  urns  of  dust.     A  few  years  pass'd, 
Could   we  look  round  where  stands  this  spacious 

palace, 
Yon  throne  of  gold,  these  high  and  arching  roofs, 
Even  on  thine  own  majestic  shape,  Oiybius, 
Will  the  distinguish'd  dust  of  these  proud  chambers. 
Or  even  thine  own  embalmed  ashes,  wear 
The  stamp  and  impress  of  their  kingly  lord  ? 
With  the  same  scorn  will  the  coarse  peasant's  foot 
Tread  all  beneath  it.     But  the  soul — the  soul, 
What  then  will  be  its  separate  doom  ?     What  seats 
Of  light  anil  bliss  will  hold  to-morrow's  victims  ? 
On  what  dark  beds  shall  those  recline,  who  have 

shone 
A  little  longer  in  this  cloudy  sphere. 
And  bask'd  within  the  blaze  of  human  glory. 
Ere  yet  the  eternal  night  hath  gather'd  them 
In  darkness  ! — Oh  !  were  this  world  all,  Oiybius, 
With  joy  would  I  become  thy  cupbearer. 
And  minister  the  richest  wine  of  life. 
Long  as  thy  mortal  lips  could  quaff  of  bliss. 
But  now  a  nobler  service  doth  become  me  ; 
I  'II  use  thy  fabling  [M)els'  phrase,  and  be 
Thy  Hebe,  with  officious  hand  to  reach  thee 
The  ambrosial  cup  of  everlasting  gladness. 

OLYHII'S. 

How  doth  the  rapture  of  her  speech  enkindle 
The  brightness  of  her  beauty  !  never  yet 
Look'd  she  so  lovely,  when  her  loosen 'd  locks 
Flow'd  in  the  frantic  grace  of  inspiration 
From  the  burst  fillet  down  her  snowy  neck. 

MARGARITA. 

Roman,  I  know  thy  spirit  pants  for  glory ; 
There  is  a  thirst  within  thine  inmost  soul, 

380 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


371 


Whioh  triumphs  caiinut  satiate,  nor  the  sway 
Of  earth.     I  '11  tell  thee  how  to  win  a  record 
That  shall  be  regisler'd  by  (laming  hands 
In  the  adamantine  heavens. 

oi.vnruf!. 

Bnt  canst  thou  win  me 
An  immortality  of  theo  ? 

.MARG.\R1T.\. 

I  can. 
oi. villi's. 
Name  then  the  price,  and  he  it  the  forfeit  life 
Of  the  most  hardy  in  yon  Christian  crew, 
'T  is  given. 

MARGARITA. 

I  ask  thine  own  eternal  soul — 
Believe  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  I  am  thine. 

Thou  smilest  on  me  as  with  a  scornful  pity; 

I  may  not  scorn,  but  from  my  inmost  soul 
I  pity  thee.     These  tears,  these  bursting  tears, 
Flow  but  for  thee,  Olybius!     Little  know'st  thou 
What  sacrifice  it  were  t'  abandon  now 
The  saintly  quiet  of  the  nnwcdded  state; 
Where  all  the  uridislracled  spirit  dwells 
On  heaven  alone  ;  nor  love,  nor  ho])e,  nor  duty, 
Nor  daily  thought,  nor  nightly  dream  withdrawn 
From  him,  who  is  the  sun  to  thai  pale  flower 
The  virgin's  heart.    Those  silent  stars  above  us 
Are  not  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  far  removed 
From  earth,  as  maidens  dedicate  to  Christ ; 
And  I  would  quit  that  cloudless  course  on  high 
To  wander  in  the  darkling  world  with  thee. 

OLYBIUS. 

There  was  a  time,  I  will  not  say  thv  lips. 

But  thy  full  sparkling  eye  spake  softer  language; 

Then 

MARGARITA. 

Oh  I  reproach  me  not  my  days  of  shame. 
I  will  not  say  I  loved  thee  not,  Olybius, 
With  a  most  fond  and  earthly  love.     In  truth, 
Or  ere  I  learnt  this  unimpassion'd  failh, 
Thou  vvert  my  soul's  idolatry — thy  form 
Usurp'd  Apollo's  pedestal,  diverting 
All  to  thyself  mine  incense  and  my  vows. 
Thou  wert  mine  all  on  earth,  nor  knew  I  aught 
Beyond  to  rival  thee.    Olybius,  gnze  not 
In  wonder  thus ;  learn  thou  this  fiiith,  and  then 
Thy  bride  will  bring  to  thee  a  nobler  dowry 
Than  her  poor  beauty.    Thou  wouldst  bless  me,  then, 
Nor  chide  me  as  an  alien  to  thy  love. 
Or  should  a  darker  destinv  await  us. 
If,  ere  the  twilight  hour  that  pave  me  to  thee. 
We  were  led  forth  to  die  ;  if  funeral  fires 
Were  all  our  bridal  lights,  our  bridal  couch 
The  rack,  niid  scorn  our  hymeneal  sonsr, 
rhou  wouldst  turn  to  me  in  thine  agony, 
In  full  and  unrepinind  fondness  turn. 
And  ble.ss  me  still,  while  thou  hadst  breath  for  blessing ! 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me. 

OLYBIl'S. 

Curse  upon  this  faith. 
That  thus  hath  wrung  the  love  from  thy  pure  soul! 

Curse  on  thy 

2VV 


MARGARITA. 

ria!  thou  slialt  not  curse  the  Saviour. 
.Alas !  and  there  's  no  hope — he  's  lost — he  's  lost — 
So  now  farewell  for  ever,  proud  Olybius  ! 
Henceforth  our  way  along  this  world  of  woe 
Must  be  far  separate  to  our  separate  graves, 
And  separate  too  our  everlasting  d^\ellings — 
Though  my  voice  fail,  I  Ml  weep  a  last  farewell .' 

OLYBIUS. 

jVow  whither  goest  thou  ? 

MARGARITA. 

To  my  prison,  sir. 

OLYBIUS. 

Ay,  and  thou  shall.    But  hast  tlinu  thought,  fond  maid, 
To  what  my  wrath  may  doom  thee  ?  Will  those  limbs. 
Wont  once  to  tremble  at  the  zephyr's  breath. 
That  lightly  disarranged  thy  bashful  robes — 
Thou,  that  didst  blush,  like  morning,  when  the  eyes 
Of  men  beheld  thy  half  veiled  face — wilt  thou 
Endure  thy  unrobed  loveliness  to  be 
The  public  gaze  ? 

MARGARITA. 

Will  great  Olybius  take 
Such  poor  revenge  ? 

OLYBIUS. 

By  heaven  !  but  I  must  leave  her, 
Or  she  will  tempt  me  to  unmanly  violence, 
Or  melt  within  me  all  my  Roman  virtue. 
By  all  the  Gods!  I  '11  find  a  way  to  tame 
This  wayward  fawn. — So,  since  thou  wilt,  proud  wo- 
man. 
Return  to  solitude  and  gloom,  to-morrow 
Thou  wakest  to  the  bridal  or  to  death  I 

MARGARITA. 

lie  's  gone — how  suddenly  ! — and  still  I  hoped, 
And  surely  't  was  no  sin  to  hope  so  fond  I  v. 
That  He,  who  made  the  proud  rebellious  wavea 
Of  the  vex'd  sea  in  smooth  obedient  calmness 
Sink  down,  might  yet  rebuke  his  haughty  spirit. 

Callias,  Margarita. 

CALLIAS. 

Queen  of  the  F.ast !  thy  father  doth  thee  homage. 
The  F-gyptian  that  quaflf'd  off  the  liquid  pearl. 
That  changed  her  beauty's  slaves  but  as  the  world 
lis  lords,  shall  pass  into  the  oblivious  Lethe, 
And  my  bright  daughter  be  henceforth  the  proverb 
Of  loveliness 

MARGARITA. 

What  mean'st  thou  ? 

CALLIAS. 

And  Orontes 
Shall  put  to  shame  pale  Cydnus,  when  thou  sailest 
In  gilded  galley  down  the  obsequious  tide. 
The  air  all  music,  and  the  heavens  all  brightness; 
And  all  the  shores  alive  with  .Autioch's  sons, 
Yea,  those  of  utmost  .Asia,  that  shall  hear 
The  thought  of  thee,  like  precious  merchandise, 
Back  to  their  homes,  henceforward  held  in  honour 
For  having  gazed  on  queenly  Margarita. 

MARGARITA. 

Ah  !  how  to  check  this  frantic  rapture  ? 

381 


372 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She, 
The  haughty  mistress  of  the  Palmy  City, 
Whom  great  Aurelian  and  the  arras  of  Rome 
Scarce  bow'd,  no  more  shall  fill  Fame's  brazen  trump, 
That  shall  devote  alone  to  Margarita 
The  fulness  of  its  sound. 

MARGARITA. 

Why  so,  sir  ? 

CALLIAS. 

Why  ? 
Doth  not  Olybius,  great  Oiybius, 
The  Emperor's  second  self,  the  Lord  of  Asia, 
Whose  triumphs  gild  our  late  degenerate  days 
With  splendour  worthy  elder  Rome  ;  whose  form 
Were  fittest  by  imperial  Juno's  side 
To  walk  the  clouds,  her  chosen  mate ;  to  lacquey 
Whose  royal  state  barbaric  monarchs  vie — 
Hath  he  not  deign'd  to  call  thee  bride! 

MARGARITA. 

My  father, 
Thou  know'st  the  way  I  'm  going,  and  canst  lead  me. 

CAI.LIAS. 

Whither,  my  child  ?    Are  not  these  chambers  thine. 
That  with  their  splendour  load  my  unwonted  eyes  ? 
Is  not  the  banquet  and  the  couch  of  rest 
Prepared  ? 

MARGARITA. 

It  is  : — the  prisoner's  bitter  bread, 
And  earth-strewn  couch. 

CALLIAS. 

Hath  he  deceived  me,  then? 

MARGARITA. 

No;  thou  'st  deceived  thyself 

CALLIAS. 

What !  and  to-morrow 
No  bridal  pomp,  no  hymenean  song .' 

MARGARITA. 

Oh  yes,  my  father,  I  shall  wed  to-morrow. 

But  with  no  earthly  bridegroom ;  songs  there  will  be. 

But  of  this  sinful  world  unheard. 

CALLIAS. 

Thou  mean'st  not 
That  thou  shalt  die  ? 

MARGARITA. 

I  shall  begin  to  live 
To-morrow — P'ather,  I  would  have  thee  with  me, 
That  I  may  .say,  Adieu 

CALLIAS. 

Liars  and  murderers  ! 
Did  they  not  tell  me,  with  a  flattering  smoothness 
Of  voice,  like  spaniels  fawning  at  my  feet. 
That  they  were  leading  ihee  to  be  their  queen, 
Olybius's  bride?    And  will  they  cast  thee  back 
Into  the  loathsome  dungeon,  to  come  forth 
And  bow  this  neck,  this  soft  and  ivory  neck, 
To  the  fierce  headsman  ? 

MARGARITA. 

It  was  the  truth  they  spake. 

CALLUS. 

Well,  then ! — Ah,  now 't  is  clear — 't  is  age  hath  crazed 
me. 


And  made  this  dim  confusion  in  my  brain, 

And  hence  such  strange  things  seem  to  be  and  are 

not. 
Come,  I  '11  go  with  thee  where  thou  wilt ;  I  know 
Old  doting  age  should  be  obedient.     Thou 
Wilt  tell  me  what  this  hurrying  alternation 
Of  light  and  gloom,  and  palaces  and  prisons. 
Of  nuptials  and  of  murders,  means: — in  truth, 
I  do  begin  to  hope  it  is  a  dream. 
Life's  dying  flame,  they  say,  like  waning  lamps, 
Casts  oft  unreal  shadows,  that  perplex 
The  parting  soul — But  this  is  certain;  yet 
I  have  not  lost  thee,  for  I  feel  thine  hand 
Trembling  and  warm  in  my  cold  palm.    Go  on, 
But  hold  me  thus,  I  '11  follow  thee  for  ever. 


Another  Chamber. 


OLYBIUS. 

Put  out  those  dazzling  lights,  nor  weary  me 
With  that  incessant  music. 

Cruel  Fates ! 
Have  ye  thus  pamper'd  my  insatiate  soul. 
Preventing  all  my  wishes  by  fulfilment; 
And  led  me  step  by  step  unto  the  Capitol 
Of  man's  felicity,  to  laugh  me  there 
To  scorn,  by  setting  up  a  golden  crown 
Of  all  my  toils,  that  withers  in  my  grasp? 
Th'  inured  to  misery  are  inured  to  suffering ; 
But  he  on  whom  Success  hath  ever  waited, 
The  thunder-bearing  eagle  of  his  war. 
In  peace  his  busy  minister  of  pleasure, 
To  him  the  thought  of  one  thing  unpossess'd 
Casts  back  a  gloomy  shadow,  that  o'erclouds 
All  his  pass'd  tract  of  glory  and  of  bliss. 
Oh!  that  the  barren  earth  had  borne  to  me 
But  shame  and  sorrow's  bitter  fruits. 

But  I, 
That  boasted  in  my  single  soul  to  centre 
The  rigid  virtues  of  old  Rome,  myself 
The  nobler  Scipio  of  a  looser  age. 
Am  I  thus  sunk  ?     There  were  in  elder  days 
Who  from  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  have  pluck'd 
Rooted  afl'ection,  and  have  proudly  worn 
Their  lives,  thus  self-despoil'd  of  their  best  treasures — 

Fathers  have  led  their  gallant  sons  to  th'  axe 

Oh!  but  to  doom  that  neck,  round  which  I  thought 
Mine  arms  should  grow,  upon  the  block  ; — that  face 
Which  oft  my  dreams  presented  me,  composed 
In  loving  rest  upon  my  slumbering  bosom. 

Convulsed! The  heavens   and  earth  shall   fuU 

together 
Ere  this  shall  be! — But  how  to  save  her — how — 
And  must  Olybius  stoop  to  means  beyond 
His  own  high  will  ? 

This  pale  and  false  Vopiscus 
Hath  from  great  Probus  wrung  his  easy  mandate: 
Ilim  Asia  owns  her  Prelect,  if  Olybius 

Obey  not  this  fell  edict. 1  must  plunge 

The  world  in  civil  strife,  uplift  the  banner 
Of  arm'd  rebellion  'gainst  mine  Emperor, 
The  fiiiher  of  my  fortunes — trample  down 

My  solemn  oaths  sworn  to  th'  assembled  people ■ 

382 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


373 


What  then  ? — howl  war,  nnd  to  the  dust  ray  glory. 
Shall  it  be  so  ? Who  comes  ? — Vopiscus ! 

Olybius,  Vopiscus,  Macer,  Romans. 


See, 
My  friends,  that  empire's  weight  is  no  light  burthen  : 
The  nightly  sleep  may  seal  the  vulgar  eye  ; 
The  public  weal  denies  to  great  Olybius 
Thai  base  plebeian  blessing. 

OLYBIUS. 

Is  the  night 
So  nearly  pass'd  ? 

VOPISCUS. 

The  purple  dawn  begins 
To  tip  with  light  the  misty  eastern  hills. 

MACER. 

Already  doth  the  wakeful  people  throng 
In  gay  and  holiday  attire;  even  now 
I  heard  the  clamour  of  the  baser  sort, 
In  merry  conflict,  for  their  foremost  seats 
In  the  Amphitheatre,  and  around  the  piles 
On  which  the  Christians  are  to  burn. 

VOPISCUS. 

'T  is  time, 
Great  Prefect,  that  we  too  prepare.    Olybius 
Were  doubtless  loth  to  check  the  people's  zeal. 
That  shout  for  death  on  every  Christian  head. 

OLVBIUS. 

When  I  am  bow'd  beneath  thy  rule,  mine  acts 
Shall  render  their  accompt  to  thee. 

MACER. 

Olybius, 
Beseech  thee  hear  me  these  few  words  apart. 
Whom  thou  wouldst  save,  I  know,  nor  speak  of  it 
But  in  officious  love — But,  on  thy  life, 
1  pray  thee. 

OLVBIUS. 

On  my  life ! 

MACER. 

This  night  I  have  heard 
Along  the  streets  and  in  the  noisy  taverns. 
All  Antioch,  madden'd  by  the  angry  priests. 
Even  thine  own  soldiers,  swear  to  glut  their  eyes 
With  the  apostate  maiden's  blood.     Shouldst  thou, 
All  loved,  and  fear'd,  and  honour'd  as  thou  art. 
Outspread  thy  purple  mantle  over  her. 
They'll  pluck  her  hence,  and  rend  her  limb  from 
limb. 

OLYBIUS. 

What !  dare  the  rabble  menace  him  whose  wrath 
The  royal  Parthian  fled  ? 

MACER. 

But  yield  thus  far — 
Let  her  be  led  forth  with  the  rest ;  to  me 
Entrust  the  order  that  she  suflTer  last. 
My  life  upon  't  she  yields,-  the  soul  of  woman 
Fears  not  in  thought  the  anguish,  which,  if  seen, 
Appals  her  back  into  her  nature's  softness  ; 
They  can  defy  the  pain  they  cannot  gaze  on. 

OLYBIUS. 

Excellent!  excellent!  my  noblest  friend. 
To  thee  I  trust  my  more  than  life. 


Lead  on ; 
Ere  one  hour  pass  we  meet  before  the  temple. 
Away ! 

VOPISCUS. 

'Tis  time. 

OLYBIUS. 

Thou,  Macer,  stay  with  me. 
To  each  and  all,  till  morn  hath  broken,  farewell! 


The  Prison. 


MARGARITA. 

Oh  Lord  !  thou  oft  hast  sent  thy  plumed  angels, 

And  with  their  silent  presence  they  have  awed 

The  Heathen's  violence  to  a  placid  peace. 

The  ravening  beasts  have  laid  their  lawning  heads 

In  love  upon  the  lap  of  him,  whom  man 

Had  cast  them  for  their  prey :  and  fires  have  burn'd, 

Unharming,  like  the  glory  of  a  star. 

Round  the  pale  brows  of  maidens;  and  the  chains 

Have  dropt,  like  wither'd  flax,  from  galled  limbs; 

And  whom  the  infuriate  people  led  to  death, 

They  have  fallen  down,  and  worshipp'd  as  a  deity. 

But  thou  hast  sent  a  kindlier  boon  to  me, 
A  soft  prophetic  peace,  that  soothes  my  soul, 
Like  music,  to  an  heavenly  harmony. 
For  in  my  slumoer  a  bright  being  carne. 
And  with  faint  steps  my  father  foUow'd  him. 
Up  through  the  argent  fields,  and  there  we  met 
And  felt  the  joy  of  tears  without  the  pain. 

What 's  here  ?  the  bridal  vestments,  and  the  veil 
Of  saffron,  and  the  garland  flowers.     Olybius, 
Dost  think  to  tempt  me  now,  when  all  my  thoughts, 
Like  the  soft  dews  of  evening,  are  drawn  up 
To  heaven,  but  not  to  fall  and  taint  tliemselves 
With  earth  again  >.    IVIy  inmost  soul  labt  night 
Was  wrung  to  think  of  our  eternal  parting  ; 
But  now  my  voice  may  tremble,  while  I  say, 
"  God's  will  be  done  I"  yet  I  have  strength  to  say  it. 

But  thou,  oh  morn !  tlie  last  that  e'er  shall  dawn 
Through  earthly  mists  on  my  sad  eyes — Oh  blue. 
And  beautiful  even  here,  and  fragrant  morn, 
Mother  of  gentle  airs  and  blushing  hues! 
That  bearest,  too,  in  thy  fair  hand  the  key 
To  which  the  harmonious  gates  of  Paradise 
Unfold  ; — bright  opening  of  immortal  day  ! 
That  ne'er  slialt  know  a  setting,  but  shall  shine 
Round  me  for  ever  on  the  crystal  floors 
Where  Blessed  Spirits  tread.     My  bridal  morn, 
In  which  my  soul  is  wedded  to  its  Ixjrd, 
I  may  not  hail  thee  in  a  mourner's  garb : 
Mine  earthly  limbs  shall  wear  their  nuptial  robes. 
And  my  locks  bloom  once  more  wilh  flowers  thai  fade. 
But  I  must  haste,  I  hear  the  trumpei's  voice. 
Acclaiming  thousands  answer — yet  I  lisar  iioL 
Oh  Lord  I  suj)port  me,  nnd  I  shall  not  fear. 
But  hark  !  the  maidens  are  abroad  to  hail 
Their  (iod ;  we  answer  through  our  prison  grates. 
Hark ! 

383 


374 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CHORUS   OF   HEATHEN  MAIDENS. 

Now  glory  to  the  God,  who  breaks, 
The  monarch  of  the  reahns  on  high; 

And  with  his  trampling  chariot  shakes 
The  azure  pavement  of  the  sky. 

The  steeds,  fitr  human  eyes  too  bright, 

Before  tiie  yoke  of  chrysolite 

Pant,  while  lie  springs  upon  his  way, 
The  beardless  youth  divine,  who  bathes  the  world  in 
day. 

CHORUS  OF  CUR^STIANS  {from  t/ie  prison.) 
Now  glory  to  the  Cod,  whose  throne. 

Far  from  this  world  obscure  and  dim, 
Holds  its  eternal  state  alone 

Beyond  tlie  (light  of  Seraphim  : 
The  God,  whose  one  omnific  word 
Yon  orb  of  flame  obedient  heard. 
And  from  the  abyss  in  fulness  sprang, 
While  all  the  blazing  heavens  with  shouts  of  triumph 

rang. 

HEATHENS. 

Now  glory  to  the  God,  that  still 

Through  the  pale  Signs  his  car  hath  roll'd. 
Nor  aught  but  his  imperious  will 

E'er  those  rebellious  steeds  controU'd. 
Nor  ever  from  the  birth  of  time 
Ceased  he  from  forth  the  Eastern  clime, 
Heaven's  loftiest  steep,  his  way  to  make 
To  where  his  flaming  wheels  the  Hesperian  waters 

slake. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Now  glory  to  the  God,  that  laid 
His  mandate  on  yon  king  of  day  ; 

The  master-call  the  Sun  obey'd. 

And  forced  his  headlong  steeds  to  stay. 

To  pour  a  long  unbroken  noon 

O'er  the  red  vale  of  Ajalon  : 

By  night  uncheck'd  fierce  Joshua's  sword 
A  double  harvest  reaji'd  of  vengeance  for  the  Lord. 

HEATHENS. 

Now  glory  to  the  God,  whose  blaze 
The  scatter'd  hosts  of  darkness  fly; 

The  stars  befiire  his  contjuering  rays 
Yield  the  dominion  of  the  sky  ; 

Nor  e'er  doth  ancient  Night  presume 

Her  gloomy  state  to  re-assume  ; 

While  he  the  wide  world  rules  alone. 
And  high  o'er  rnen  and  Gods  drives  on  his  fire-wheel'd 
throne. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord,  whose  Cross 
Consenting  Nature  shrinking  saw; 

Mourning  the  dark  world's  heavier  loss. 
The  conscious  Sun  in  silent  awe 

Withdrew  into  the  depths  of  gloom; 

The  horror  of  that  awful  doom 

Quench'd  for  three  hours  the  noontide  light, 
And  wrapt  the  guilt-shaken  earth  in  deep  nntiraely 
night. 


HEATHENS. 

Now  glory  to  the  God,  that  wakes 

With  vengeance  in  his  flery  speed, 
To  wreak  his  wrath  impatient  breaks 

On  every  guilty  godless  head  ; 
Hasty  he  mounts  his  early  road. 
And  pours  his  brightest  beams  abroad  ;         ' 
-And  looks  down  fierce  with  jocund  light 
To  see  his  fane  avenged,  his  vindicated  rite. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Now  glory  to  the  Christ,  whose  love 
Even  now  prepares  our  seats  of  rest, 

And  in  his  golden  courts  above 
Enrolls  us  'mid  his  chosen  Blest; 

Even  now  our  martyr  robes  of  light 

Are  weaving  of  heaven's  purest  white ; 

And  we,  before  thy  course  is  done. 
Shall  shine   more   bright  than  thou,  oh  vainly-wo:- 
shipp'd  Sun! 


The  Front  of  llie  Temple. 

On  one  liand  the  Prefect's  Palace,  on  the   other  th 
Amphitheatre. 

Many  Citizens. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

Didst  e'er  behold  a  spectacle  so  rich 

And  sumptuous?   How  yon  strong  Centurion 

With  all  his  band  are  labouring  to  advance 

Toward  the  temple;  like  to  rolling  rivers 

The  people  flood  around  them.     Lords  and  slaves, 

Gown'd  senators,  and  artisans  in  doublets, 

Mothers  with  infants,  and  old  tottering  men. 

All  reverence  lost  for  state  or  rank  or  age. 

Swell  the  vast  uproar. 

SECOND  CITIZEN. 

Antioch  doth  not  hold 
Such  multitudes  ;  all  Syria  hath  pour'd  in. 
Choking  the  roads  with  tumult. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

I  beheld 
The  Amphitheatre,  its  spacious  circle, 
From  the  arena  to  the  highest  seat. 
One  mass  of  living  turbulence. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

No  wonder ; 
For  him  who  linger'd  in  the  city  all 
Assail'd  as  they  pass'd  by  with  imprecation, 
.And  hurl'd  huge  stones  at  his  devoted  head. 
Deeming  him  guilty  of  this  faith  accursed. 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

On  every  tree  they  hang  like  birds ;  the  courts 
Around  the  Prefect's  palace  are  as  throng'd 
As  here  before  the  temple.    But  for  that 
Beyond,  wherein  the  executioners 
Stand  with  bare  arms  around  their  dreadful  engines, 
Men  struggle  for  the  entrance  as  fiir  life  ; 
He  that  hath  won  it  looks  back  on  his  comrade 
More  proud  than  if  he  had  storm'd  an  enemy's  camp. 

384 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


375 


FIRST   CITIZEN. 

How  noble  is  this  racre!    Like  one  wild  fire 
The  zeal  of  vengeance  for  their  fathers'  Gods 
Wraps  all  these  nivriads. 

KOL'RTII   CITIZEN. 

Ay.  those  stormy  clouds, 
To  which  these  galher'd  hosts  may  best  be  liken'd, 
Are  pregnant  with  the  thunderbolts  of  heaven. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

Thought  ye  all  Aniioch  still  so  sound 

FOURTH    CITIZEN. 

I  know  not ; 
But  this  I  know,  't  were  ill  for  him  who  wore 
A  face  of  sorrow  in  an  hour  like  this  ; 
'Twere  treason  'gainst  the  tyrant  of  the  day — 
The  assembled  people. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Back  !  fall  back !  the  Prefect ! 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

Hark,  friends !  as  now  the  brazen  clarions  cease, 

How  sweetly  shrill  the  silver  trumpets  pierce 

The  eager  ear.     .Again  that  general  shout 

From  all  that  vast  and  boundle.ss  multitude  .' 

It  peals  up  all  the  Amphitheatre, 

And  every  court  takes  up  and  multiplies 

The  exulting  clamour,  like  the  thunders  rolling 

Amid  the  rugged  mountains. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Would  not  .Tove 
Now  almost  change  his  high  immortal  state. 
Where  Gods  before  his  footstool  bow,  to  win 
The  homage  round  the  great  Olybius  pour'd  I 

FOURTH    CITIZEN. 

'T  were  worth  a  life  to  be  one  hour  as  he  is. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Behold  I  the  priests  of  all  the  temples  bear 

Their  Gods  in  state  to  see  themselves  avenged  : 

.\s  they  sweep  on,  the  reverent  crowd  falls  back. 

Lo,  first  the  lonse-hair'd  Bacchanals  dance  on 

In  \vanton  Thiasus,  their  cymbals  catch 

The  radiant  light,  that  falls  in  glancing  flakes 

O'er  their  while  robes,  and  freshening  ivy  wreaths. 

Lo,  now  the  beardless  youths  of  Dyndymene! 

Half  timorous,  the  yoked  lions  drag  along 

The  golden  car,  where  sits  the  tower-crown'd  Queen. 

Now  the  Kgypiian  timbrels  ring  the  praise 

Of  Isis;  and  behind  Jove's  flamen  walks 

In  state  supreme,  like  his  own  (Jod. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Fall  down, 
Ye  men  of  Antioch  !  lo,  your  ancient  Gods ! 
Astarte,  diadem'd  with  her  crescent  moon, 
.\nd  him  whom  by  the  side  of  Lebanon 
The  maidens  yearly  weep,  soft  Thamuz. 

THIRD  CITIZEN. 

Seel 
The  high  tiara'd  Magian  bears  his  fire. 

FOURTH    CITIZEN. 

Oh,  proud  a.ssembly  of  Divinity  ! 
I/>,  all  the  earth's  conspiring  Gods  in  league! 
The  rulini  powers  of  heaven  and  hell  are  met 
T'  exterminate  this  all-abhorred  faith. 
32 


SECOND   CITIZEN. 

But  think  ye  that  Apollo's  aged  priest 
Will  come? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

I  have  been  gazing  toward  the  vestibule 
In  anxious  hope  lo  see  his  reverend  face. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

What,  know'st  thou  not  how  yesterday 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

Peace,  peace! 
lie  's  here — Give  place. 

The  above.    Callias. 

CAI.LIAS 

All  true,  and  real  all : 
My  sleep  is  fled,  but  not  my  hideous  dreams. 
Ah  !  there  they  stand,  their  baskets  full  of  flowers. 
The  censers  trembling  in  their  timid  hands, 
i  All,  all  the  dedicated  maids,  but  one. 

I  SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Why  doth  he  gaze  around  ?  he  seems  to  seek 
What  he  despairs  of  finding. 

I  CALLIAS. 

I                                                 No,  there  's  none 
j  That  taller  than  the  rest  draws  all  regards; 
I  And  if  they  touch  their  lyres,  they  will  but  wake. 
With  all  their  art,  the  memory  of  that  voice 
;  Which  is  not  of  their  choir 

I  SECOND  CITIZEN. 

Ah,  poor  old  man ! 

I  CALLIAS. 

1  What!  who  art  thou  that  dost  presume  to  pity 
i  The  father  of  the  peerless  Margarita  ? 

I  tell  thee,  insolent!  even  beside  the  stake 

I  shall  be  prouder  of  my  single  child 

Than  if  my  wife  had  teem'd  like  Niobe 

With  such  as  thine. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

He  hath  no  children,  sir. 

CALLIAS. 

Would  I  were  like  him! — .\h,  no — no, — my  child  ! 
I  know  that  I  'm  come  forth  to  see  thee  die 
For  this  strange  God,  thy  father  never  worshipp'd ; 
!  Yet  all  my  wrath  is  gone,  and  half  my  sorrow. 

But  nothing  of  my  love.     Whaie'er  thou  dost 
I  Is  sanctified  by  being  done  by  thee — 
I  Thy  crime  hath  lost  its  hatefulness.     I  pass'd 
i  By  Phoebus'  shrine,  and,  or  his  angry  form 
Wore  less  of  terror,  or  my  soul  had  learn'd 
To  scorn  a  God,  that  could  not  save  his  faithful 
From  misery,  or  teach  them  to  endure  it. 

I  FOURTH   CITIZE.N. 

1  Heard  ye 

CALLIAS. 

Alas!  what  hath  the  old  man  said, 
That  ye  lower  on  me  with  reproachful  browns  ? 
I  Oh  friends!  I  have  been  dreaming  of  my  |iaughter, 
\  Dreaming  in  sleep,  which  but  the  soft  remembrance 
Of  her  bewitching  ways  shed  o'er  mine  eyes, 
I  And  know  not  what  I  think,  or  what  I  say. 

I  THE   MULTITUDE. 

I  Olybius!  Back — back — Olybius! 

385 


o76 


INIILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


FIRST  CITIZEN. 

Rend,  rend  the  heaven  with  shouts.rast  high  your  caps. 
And  wave  your  garlands  as  the  autumn  wind 
Waves  the  vine-tendrils. 

SECOND  CITIZEN. 

Citizens,  behold  him! 
With  how  serene  a  step  he  mounts  the  throne, 
As  't  were  his  birthright  to  o'erawe  mankind 
With  his  superior  stale. 

FOURTH   CITIZF.N. 

How  like  to  Neptune ! 
That  sits  upon  his  lofty  car,  and  rules 
All  ocean  with  the  shaking  of  his  trident; 
The  .iEgean  and  the  barbarous  Pontic  seas, 
The  Tyrrhene  and  the  stormy  Adriatic, 
And  the  wide  surface  of  the  Libyan  main, 
To  where  it  breaks  on  Calpe's  rock,  rise  up 
In  tumult,  or  lie  strewn  in  breathless  peace 
Beneath  his  nod, — even  thus  Olybius  sways 
The  surges  of  yon  boundless  multitudes. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

If  Caesar's  self  looks  from  his  Capitol 

With  nobler  and  more  Jove-like  brow,  mankind 

Must  shrink  into  the  earth  before  him. 

OLYBIUS. 

Callias! 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

Thou  'rt  beckon'd  from  the  crowd  by  great  Olybius. 
Happy  old  man ! 

CALLIAS. 

Accursed  happiness ! 
And  will  he  set  my  childless  misery  up 
To  be  a  wider  gaze  ? — My  Lord,  I  'm  here. 

OLYEIUS. 

Sit,  Callias,  here,  beneath  our  feet. 

CALLIAS. 

'T  is  well : 
He  from  whose  heart  ye  rend  the  sacrifice 
Should  have  an  eminent  station  to  behold  it. 

OLVnius  (apart). 
Forbear  thy  bitter  speech — there  's  hope 

CALLIAS. 

What  hope  ? 
Alas!  I  'm  now  so  sunk  in  misery, 
I  know  not  what  to  hope,  or  what  to  fear. 
Will  it  offend  thee  should  I  veil  my  face. 
Lest  my  weak  tears  reprove  thy  sterner  justice  ? 

OLYBIUS. 

Rack  me  not  thus — hut — peace ! — Let  the  rites  begin. 

MACER. 

The  maids  lift  up  their  hymn  around  the  temple. 

HYMN  TO   APOLLO. 

I. 

lo  Paean !  as  we  sing 

Light  our  fragrant  censers  swing, 

And  each  laden  basket  showers 

All  its  painted  store  of  flowers. 

lo  Paian  !    Clarian  God  ! 

Come  and  fdl  thy  proud  abode. 

To  Paean !    we  behold 

Nought  but  walls  that  flame  with  gold ; 


Long  retiring  colonnades 
Crowded  with  the  sacred  maids: 
lo  Paean!    youth  divine, 
Opes  not  yet  thy  secret  shrine  ? 

lo  Psean !  't  is  not  vain  ; 
Far  be  every  foot  profane ! 
Lo,  the  golden  tripod  shakes. 
And  the  marble  pavement  quakes: 
Spare,  oh  spare  our  dazzled  sight, 
Lo,  unveil'd  the  Lord  of  Light ! 

II. 

The  God  I  the  God  !  behold  him  come 
Down  through  the  round  and  sky-like  dome, 
In  one  wide  flood  of  radiant  gold 
O'er  all  the  kindling  statue  roll'd ; 
From  his  unclouded  throne  on  high 
Rushes  the  effulgent  Deity. 

The  God  !   the  God  !    in  every  vein 
The  panting  marble  lives  again  : 
The  cheeks  with  beauteous  anger  glow, 
And  burns  the  high  exulting  brow : 
The  motion  of  the  irradiate  hair 
Proclaims  Latona's  offspring  there. 

IIL 

lo  Pa3an !   we  adore  thee, 
Phffibus,  low  we  bow  before  thee. 
lo  Paean!  Lycian  king! 
Syria's  crowding  myriads  sing : 
lo  Pa;an!   Heaven  and  earth 
Mingle  in  our  holy  mirth. 

OLYBIUS. 

Now  lead  the  captives  forth  to  hear  their  doom — 
To  worship  at  yon  sumptuous  shrine,  or  die. 

VOPISCUS. 

They  come!  they  come  !  the  universal  yell 
Of  execration  follows  them  along, 
Deepening  as  it  approaches,  like  the  roar 
Of  thunders  travelling  up  the  cloudy  heavens. 
Till  o'er  our  heads  it  bursts. 

OLYBIUS. 

What  sounds  are  these, 
So  melancholy,  yet  so  full  of  joy. 
Like  songs  of  victory  round  some  aged  chief. 
That  in  the  war  hath  lost  his  only  son  ? 

Tke  above.     The  Chrisiianit. 

CHRISTIAN   HYMN. 

Oh  Jesus !  by  the  mortal  pains  we  bear. 
And  by  the  galling  chains  and  garbof  siiame  we  wear, 
Sad  son  of  Mary  !  are  thy  children  known  : — 
And  by  our  flesh  with  ruthless  scourges  torn. 
By  unrelenting  man's  insatiate  hate  and  scorn, 
Crucified  Sufferer !  are  we  not  thine  own  ? 
Oh  man  of  sorrows !  and  with  grief  acquainted. 
Along  the  path  of  woe,  like  thine,  our  feet  have 
fainted  : 
.'^nd  anguish  soon  shall  choke  our  parting  breath, 
And  soon  our  tortured  limbs,  like  thine,  be  cold  in 
death. 

386 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


377 


Oh  Jesus!  by  the  strength  thou  givest  slill, 
And  by  our  cheerful  scorn  of  infamy  and  ill, 

Son  of  the  Highest,  are  thy  children  known. 

By  all  the  exulting  joy  we  inly  feel 
Beneath  the  lictor's  rod,  or  headsman's  biting  steel, 

Triumphant  Saviour!  are  we  not  thine  own? 

Oh  Lord  of  glory,  to  the  Sire  ascended, 
Like  thine,  our  anguish  soon  shall  be  in  rapture  ended, 

And  we  shall  stand  thy  starry  host  among, 
And  round  the  sapphire  throne  swell  high  the  IIo- 
sanna  song ! 

MACER. 

What,  madmen!  hath  the  scourge  and  torture  taught 
No  wisdom  ? 

OLYBIUS. 

By  the  Gods!  look  there,  look  there, 
Callias !  she  wears  the  bridal  robe,  and  holds 
The  sacred  lyre. 

VOPISCUS. 

All  Aniioch  waits  the  doom 
Of  great  Olybius  !  wherefore  doth  he  pause, 
And  bend  to  that  old  priest  ? 

MACER. 

He  rises — Peace ! 

OLVBIUS. 

Hear  me  once  more,  ye  proud  rebellious  men. 
Or  never  hear  again  the  voice  of  man. 
Behold  the  temple,  where  all  Antioch  serves! 
Behold  the  God  himself,  whose  dreadful  brow 
Awe-strikes  the  soul  to  speechless  homage  !   Serve 
And  live,  or  die  in  earth  in  fiery  anguish, 
And  be  thrust  down  t'  infernal  Nemesis, 
For  Hell's  dark  Gods  t'  avenge  insulted  Heaven. 

CHRISTIANS. 

The  Lord  our  God  is  with  us,  and  we  fear  not. 

OLVBIUS. 

The  Lord  your  God — where  ? 

FABIUS. 

Every  where — the  worlds 
Are  all  his  chambers  ;  this  capacious  earth 
Is  but  the  footstool  of  his  throne,  the  heavens 
Hang  in  their  folds  of  light  t'  o'ercanopy 
The  Omnipresent. 

CHARINUS. 

Where  ? — in  thunderclouds 
Of  vengeance,  which  but  wait  our  voice  to  lanch 

them 
Upon  thine  head. 

OLVBIUS. 

We  call'd  you  not  before  us 
To  stun  our  ears  with  this  unholy  madness. 
The  hour  of  mercy  's  o'er — or  sacrifice 
Or  die. 

CHRISTIANS. 

We  will  not  sacrifice  to  Gods 
Wrought  by  man's  hands. 

CHARI.NUS. 

Ye  laugh,  but  j'our  mad  laughter, 
Proud  Heathens,  shall  be  changed  to  scalding  tears. 

OLVBIUS. 

Diodotns!  brave  soldier,  wilt  thou  fall 
In  this  Ignoble  warfare  ? 


DIODOTUS. 

Rather  call  it 
The  noblest  conquest  Roman  ever  won. 

OLVBIUS. 

Charinus!  dost  accept  the  profFer'd  mercy? 

ClIARINUS. 

False  infidel ! 

OLVBIUS. 

'T  is  enough. — Calanthias  I 

CALANTHIAS. 

I  thought  t'  have  seen,  even  in  my  flesh,  the  Lord 
Come  down  t'  avenge  his  own  ;  but  I  shall  see  him 
A  blazing  follower  in  his  kingly  train. 

OLVBIUS. 

Fabius !  thine  age  should  teach  thee  w'isdom. 

FABIUS. 

Youth, 

Mine  age  would  only  make  me  fondly  mourn, 
That  I  have  but  the  dregs  and  lees  of  life 
To  pour  for  my  Redeemer. 

OLYBIUS. 

What !  are  all 
So  full  of  frenzy  ? 

CHRISTIANS. 

All  so  full  of  faith. 

OLVBIUS. 

Last  then  to  thee,  fair  Priestess!  Art  thou  still 
Resolved  with  this  ungodly  crew  to  share 
Our  vengeance,  or  declares  that  bridal  dress 
A  soft  revolt,  and  falling  ofT  to  love  ? 

MARGARITA. 

To  love — but  not  of  man.     Oh  !  pardon  me, 
Olybius,  if  my  wedding  garb  afflict 
Thy  soul  with  hope  ;  I  had  but  robes  of  sadness. 
Nor  would  I  have  my  day  of  victory  seem 
A  day  of  mourning.     But  as  the  earthly  bride 
Lingers  upon  the  threshold  of  her  home, 
And  through  the  mist  of  parting  tears  surveys 
The  chamber  of  her  youth,  even  so  have  I 
With  something  of  a  clinging  fondness  look'd 
Upon  the  flowers  and  trees  of  lovely  Daphne. 
Sweet  waters,  that  have  murmur'd  to  my  prayers  ; 
Banks,  where  my  hand  hath  cuU'd  sweet  chaplcts, 

once 
For  rites  unholy,  since  to  strew  the  graves 
Of  buried  saints ;  and  thou,  majestic  temple  ! 
That  wouldst  become  a  purer  worship,  thou. 
How  oft  from  all  thine  echoing  shrines  hast  answer'd 
To  my  soft  lyre — P'arewell !  for  heaven  I  quit  you. 
But  yet  nor  you,  nor  these  my  loved  companions 
Once  in  the  twilight  dance  and  morning  song. 
Though  ye  are  here  to  hymn  my  death,  not  you 
Can  I  forsake  without  a  bleeding  spirit. 

OLVBIUS. 

She  weeps!  Wise  Macer — such  a  melting  nature 
Will  ne'er  fendure 

MARGARITA. 

Olybius,  wilt  thou  scorn 
A  criminal's  blessing?     God  repay  thy  love. 

Forgive  thy  cruelty  ! But  thou — oh  thou  ! 

That  livest  but  in  my  life,  no  parting  bride 
But  in  her  ecstasy  of  sorrow  clasps 
Her  father's  knees,  and  sobs  upon  his  bosom, 

387 


378 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  is  no  more  to  be  her  place  of  refuge. 
Father!  my  fetter'd  arms  are  stretch'd  in  vain, 
But  haply  they  are  merciful,  and  prevent 
A  keener  pang. 

CALLIAS. 

Let  me  approach  her ! 

OLYBIUS. 

Never, 
Till  she  accept  our  mercy.     Sacrifice ! 
Nor  aught  of  bridal  joy  or  bridal  sorrow 
Shall  be  denied  thee. 

Beautiful !  what  mean'st  thou  ? 
Why  dost  thou  look  to  yon  bright  heaven  ?  what  seest, 
That  makes  ihy  full  eyes  kindle  as  they  gaze, 
Undazzied,  on  the  fiery  sky  ? — Give  place — 
Strike  off  those  misplaced  fetters  from  her  limbs  : 
The  sunshine  falls  around  her  like  a  mantle, 
The  robes  of  saffron  flame  like  gold — Give  place. 

MACER. 

Great  Phcebus  conquers!  See,  she  strikes  the  lyre 
With  his  ecstatic  fervour. 

CALLIAS. 

Peace — oh  peace ! 
And  I  shall  hear  once  more  before  I  die 
That  voice  on  which  I  've  lived  these  long,  long  years. 
Ilark,  even  the  winds  are  mute  to  hear  her — Peace! 

MARGARITA. 

What  means  yon  blaze  on  high  ? 
The  empyrean  sky 
Like  the  rich  veil  of  some  proud  fane  is  rending. 
I  see  the  star-paved  land. 
Where  all  the  angels  stand. 
Even  to  the  highest  height  in  burning  rows  ascending. 
Some  with  their  wings  dispread. 
And  bow'd  the  stately  head. 
As  on  some  mission  of  God's  love  departing. 
Like  flames  from  midnight's  conflagration  starting  ; 
Behold  the  appointed  messengers  are  they, 
And  nearest  earth  they  wait  to  waft  our  souls  away. 

Higher  and  higher  still 
More  lofty  statures  fill 
The  jasper  courts  of  the  everlasting  dwelling. 
Cherub  and  Seraph  pace 
The  illimitable  space. 
While   sleep  the  folded    plumes   from  their   white 
shoulders  swelling. 

From  all  the  harping  throng 
Bursts  the  tumultuous  song 
Like  the  unceasing  sounds  of  cataracts  pouring, 
Hosanna  o'er  hosanna  louder  soaring; 
That  faintly  echoing  down  to  earthly  ears. 
Hath  seem'd    the  concert  sweet  of  the  harmonious 
spheres. 

Still  my  rapt  spirit  mounts 
And  lo!  beside  the  founts 
Of  flowing  light  Christ's  chosen  saints  reclining; 
Distinct  amid  the  hlnze 
Their  palm-crown'd  heads  they  raise. 
Their  white  robes  even  through  that  o'erpowering 
lustre  shining. 
Each  in  his  place  of  state. 
Long  the  bright  Twelve  have  sate, 


O'er  the  celestial  Sion  high  uplifted  ; 
While  those  with  deep  prophetic  raptures  gif\ed. 
Where  Life's  glad  river  rolls  its  tideless  streams, 
Enjoy  the  full  completion  of  their  heavenly  dreams. 

Again — I  see  again 
The  great  victorious  train. 
The  Martyr  Army  from  their  toils  reposing; 
The  blood-red  robes  they  wear 
Empur|)ling  all  the  air. 
Even  their  immortal  limbs,  the  signs  of  wounds  dis- 
closing. 

Oh,  holy  Stephen,  thou 
Art  there,  and  on  thy  brow 
Hast  still  the  placid  smile  it  wore  in  dying. 
When  under  the  heap'd  stones  in  anguish  lying 
Thy  clasping  hands  were  fbndiv  spread  to  heaven, 
And  thy  last  accents  pray'd  thy  foes  might  be  forgiven. 

Beyond  !  ah,  who  is  there 
With  the  white  snowy  hair  ? 
'T  is  he — 't  is  he,  the  Son  of  Man  appearing! 
At  the  right  hand  of  One, 
The  darkness  of  whose  throne 
That  sun-eyed  seraph  Host  behold  with  awe  and 
fearing. 

O'er  him  the  rainbow  springs, 
And  spreads  its  emerald  wings, 
Down  to  the  glassy  sea  his  loftiest  seat  o'erarching. 
Hark — thunders  from  his  throne,  like  steel-clad  armies 
marching — ■ 
The  Christ !  the  Christ  commands  us  to  his  home! 
Jesus,  Redeemer,  Lord,  we  come,  we  come,  we  come ! 

THE    ML'LTITUDE. 

Blasphemy !  blasphemy  !     She  doth  profane 
Great  Phoebus'  raptures — tear  her  off! 

OLYBIUS. 

Ila !  slaves, 
Would  ye  usurp  our  judgment-throne  ? 

MACER. 

Be  calm. 

CALLIAS. 

Alas!  what  mean  ye,  friends?  can  such  a  voice 

Oflfend  )^ou  >.  O  my  child  I  thou  'rt  forced  to  leave  me. 

But  not  to  leave  me  with  averted  eye, 

.As  though  thy  father's  face  were  hateful  to  thee. 

But  yet  I  dare  not  chide  thee,  and  I  will  not. 

I  do  remember,  when  thy  mother  pa.><s'd 

I  hid  mv  face  in  my  cold  shuddering  hands, 

But  still  I  gaze  on  thee,  and  gaze  as  though 

There  were  a  joy  in  seeing  thee  even  thus. 

OLYBIUS. 

Macer,  thou  know'st  their  separate  doom.     Lead  off 
'J'he  victims,  each  to  his  appointed  place. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Glory!  Glory!  Glory!  the  Lord  Almighty  liveih, 
The  Lord  Almighty  doth  but  take  the  mortal  life  he 

giveth. 
Glory!  Glory!  Glory!  the  Lord  .Almighty  reigneth. 
He  who  forfeits  earthly  life,  a  life  celestial  gaineth. 

CALLIAS. 

Why  do  ye  hold  me  back  ? — My  child  I  they  bind  me 
With  the  hard  fetters  of  their  arms — thou  hear'st  not. 


THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


379 


Speak!  have  ye  children?  have  ye  ever  heard 
An  infant  voice  that  murmur'd  to  you  "Father!" 
Ye  Gods,  how  have  ye  peopled  this  lierce  Antioch, 
That  the  fond  natural  love  of  child  and  parent 
Is  made  a  crime. 

Howl,  howl !  ay,  bloody  men. 
Howl  in  your  Amphitheatre  with  joy  ; 
Glut  your  insatiate  hearts  with  human  blood. 
— Nay,  ruthless  Prefect,  thou  'st  not  sent  her  there 
To  perish  :  not  to  have  her  tender  limbs 

Rent— torn 

The  above.  Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Great  Prefect,  he  is  dead 

CALLIAS. 

He— he— 

'T  was  he,  thou  said'st  ? 

OFFICER. 

Diodotus,  great  Prefect, 
In  the  arena,  as  became  a  soldier, 
He  stood  w  ith  undiscolour'd  cheek,  while  lay 
The  crouching  lion  stiffening  all  his  mane, 
With  his  white-gleaming  teeth,  and  lashing  tail. 
Scourging  to  life  the  slumbering  wrath  within  him. 
But  the  calm  victim  look'd  upon  the  people. 
Piled  o'er  each  other  in  the  thronging  seats. 
And  utter'd  these  strange  words — "  Alas!  lost  souls. 
There  's  one  that,  fiercer  than  yon  brinded  lion, 

Is  prowling  round,  insatiate  to  devour " 

Nought  more  we  heard,  but  one  long  savage  howl 
Of  the  huge  monster  as  he  sprung,  and  then 
The  grinding  of  his  ravenous  jaws. 

The  above.  Second  Officer. 

CALLIAS. 

Another — 
And  what  hast  thou  to  say  ? 

second  officer. 

Calanthias  died 
Beneath  the  scourge  ;  his  look  toward  the  sky, 
As  though  he  thought  the  golden  clouds  conceal'd 
Some  slow  avenger  of  his  cause. 

OLYBIUS. 

What  now  ? 

vopiscu.?. 
The  voice  of  triumph  clamours  up  the  skies, 
And  PhoBbus'  name  is  mingled  with  the  shouts 
Of  transport. 

CALLIAS. 

Can  it  be  ? 
The  above.    Third  Officer, 
third  officer. 

Apollo  triumphs! 

CALLIAS. 

Thou  say'st  not  so,  she  will  not  sacrifice — 
My  child  !  I  look'd  not  yet  (or  this. 

What  *s  here  ? ' 
The  above.    Charinus. 

CALLIAS. 

Back,  thou  foul  wretch!  I  rush'd  not  forth  to  thee. 

OHARINDS. 

Foul  wretch  indeed!  I  have  forsworn  my  God. 
The  bliniling  flames  scorch'd  up  into  mine  eyes; 
32*  2X 


And  the  false  devils  murmur'd  all  around  me 
Sofl  sounds  of  water. 


On  to  the  altar  I 


OLYBIUS. 

Hurry  him  away  I 


the  multitude. 
lo!  lo!  Paean! 
lo  Triumphe ! 

CHARINUS. 

Hah  !  they  point  at  me, 
The  angels  from  the  clouds,  my  blissful  brethren. 
That  mount  in  radiance :  ere  they  're  lost  in  light, 
With  sad,  and  solemn,  and  reproachful  voices 
They  call  me  Judas — Judas,  that  betray 'd, 
That  murder'd  his  blest  master — and  himself — 
Accurst  of  men — and  outcast  from  thy  fold, 
Oh  Christ !  and  for  my  pride  ?  why  then  I  '11  wrap 
My  soul  in  stern  obduracy  and  live 
As  jocund  as  the  careless  heathen  here. 
No  Peter's  tears  fill  my  dry  eyes ;  no  beam 
Of  mercy  on  my  darkening  soul — On,  on — 
And  I  will  laugh,  and  in  my  laughter  sing 
lo  Triumphe !  lo  Paean ! 

OLYBIUS. 

Now 
Give  him  the  knife  of  sacrifice. 

CHARINUS. 

Down  !  down ! 
'T  is  wet,  and  reeks  with  my  Redeemer's  blood. 

OFFICER. 

He  's  fled. 

OLYBIUS. 

Go  after— drag  him  back. 

OFFICER. 

'T  is  vain 
He  cried  aloud — "The  devil  hath  wrestled  with  me. 
And  vanquish'd  !" — and  he  plunged  the  sacred  knife 
To  his  unhallow'd  heart. 

OLYBIUS. 

Ignoble  wretch ! 
Who  dared  not  die — yet  fear'd  lo  live. 

But  pause — 
What  means  this  deathlike  stillness  ?  not  a  sound 
Or  murmur  from  yon  countless  multitudes. 
A  pale  contagious  horror  seems  to  creep 
Even  to  our  presence.     Men  gaze  mutely  round. 
As  in  their  neighbour's  face  to  read  the  secret 
They  dare  not  speak  themselves. 

Old  man !  whence  comest  thou  ? 
What  is 't? 

CALLIAS. 

I  know  not !  I  approach 'd  the  place 
Of  sacrifice,  and  my  spirit  shrank  within  rae; 
i  And  I  came  back,  I  know  not  how. 

OLYBIUS. 

Still  rnute! 
Even  thus  along  his  vast  domain  of  silence 
Dark  Pluto  gazes,  where  the  sullen  spirits 
Speak  only  with  fix'd  looks,  and  voiceless  motions — 
And  ye  are  like  them. — Speak  to  me,  I  charge  you; 
Nor  let  mine  own  voice,  like  an  evil  omen. 
Load  the  hot  air,  unanswer'd. 

389 


380 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CALLIAS. 

Gazing  ujwn  that  almost  orphan'd  child — 

Hark! 

Oh  !  by  its  dear  ami  precious  memory. 

VOPISCUS. 

I  do  be.seech  thee,  slay  me  first  and  (juickly : 

Didst  hear  it  ? 

'T  is  that  ray  father  may  not  see  my  death." 

That  shriek,  as  though  some  barbarous  foe  had  scaled 

CALLIAS. 

The  city  walls. 

Oh  cruel  kindness!  and  I  would  have  closed 

OLYBIUS. 

Thine  eyes  with  such  a  fond  and  gentle  pressure; 

Is 't  horror  or  compassion  ? 

I  would  have  smooih'd  thy  beauleous  limbs,  and  laid 

Or  both  ? 

My  head  upon  thy  breast,  and  died  with  thee. 

The  above.    Fouuth  Officer. 

OLYBIUS. 

OLYBIUS. 

Good  father!  once  I  thought  to  call  thee  so, 

What  means  thy  hurried  look?  Speak— speak! 

How  do  I  envy  thee  this  her  last  fondness ! 

Though  thy  words  blast  like  lightning. 

She  had  no  dying  thought  of  me.— Go  on. 

OFFICER. 

OFFICER. 

Mighty  Prefect, 

With  that  the  headsman  wiped  from  hissvvarth  cheeks 

The  apostate  Priestess  Margarita 

A  moisture  like  to  tears.     But  she,  meanwhile. 

OLYBIUS. 

On  the  cold  block  composed  her  head,  and  cross'd 

IIow? 

Her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  that  scarce  heaved. 

Where  's  Macer  ? 

She  was  so  tranquil ;  cautious,  lest  her  garments 

OFFICER. 

Should  play  the  traitors  to  her  modest  care. 

By  the  dead. 

And  as  the  cold  wind  toiich'd  her  naked  neck. 

OLYBIUS. 

And  fann'd  away  the  few  unbraided  hairs. 

What  dead? 

Blushes  o'erspread  her  face,  and  she  look'd  up 

OFFICER. 

As  softly  to  reproach  his  tardiness  : 

Remove 

And  some  fell  down  upon  their  knees,  some  clasp'd 

Thy  sword,  which  thou  dost  brandish  at  my  throat, 
And  I  shall  answer. 

Their  hands,  enamour'd  even  to  adoration 

Of  that  half-smiling  face  and  bending  form. 

OLYBIUS. 

CALLIAS. 

Speak,  and  instantly, 

But  he— but  he— the  savage  executioner 

Or  I  will  dash  thee  down,  and  trample  from  thee 

OFFICER. 

Thy  hideous  secret. 

He  trembled.                                                               '^ 

OFFICER. 

CALLIAS.                                                j 

It  is  nothing  hideous — 

Ha  !  God's  blessing  on  his  head ! 

'T  is  but  the  enemy  of  our  faith — She  died 

And  the  axe  slid  from  out  his  palsied  hand  ? 

Nobly,  in  truth— but 

OFFICER. 

CALLl.\S. 

He  gave  it  to  another. 

Dead  !  she  is  not  dead  ! 

CALLIAS. 

Thou  liest !  I  have  his  oath,  the  Prefect's  oath; 

And 

I  had  forgot  it  in  my  fears,  but  now 

OFFICER. 

I  well  remember,  that  she  should  not  die. 

It  fell. 

Faugh!  who  will  trust  in  Gods  and  men  like  these? 

CALLIAS. 

OLYBIUS. 

I  see  it, 

Slave !  Slave !  dost  mock  me  ?  Better  't  were  for  thee 

I  see  it  like  the  lightning  flash— I  see  it, 

That  this  be  false,  than  if  thou  'dat  found  a  treasure 

And  the  blood  bursts  —  my  blood! — my  daughter's 

To  purchase  kingdoms. 

blood! 

OFFICER. 

Off— let  me  loose. 

Hear  me  but  a  while. 

OFFICER. 

She  had  beheld  each  sad  and  cruel  death,  . 

Where  goest  thou  ? 

And  if  she  shudder'd,  't  was  as  one  that  strives 

CALLIAS. 

With  nature's  soft  infirmity  of  pity, 

To  the  Christian, 

One  look  to  heaven  restoring  all  her  calmness  ; 

To  learn  the  faith  in  which  my  daughter  died. 

Save  when  that  dastard  did  renounce  his  faith. 

And  follow  her  as  quickly  as  I  may. 

And  she  shed  tears  for  him.    Then  led  they  forth 

Old  Fabius.     When  a  quick  and  sudden  cry 

Olybius,  Macer,  mxd  the  rest. 

Of  Callias,  and  a  parting  in  the  throng, 

OLYBIUS. 

Proclaim'd  her  father's  coming.     Forth  she  sprang. 

Macer!  is  this  thy  faithful  service? 

And   dasp'd   the   frowning   headsman's  knees,  and 

said — 
"Thou  know'st  me,  when  thou  laid'st  on  thy  sickbed 

macer. 

Ah. 

So  rapid 

Christ  sent  me  there  to  wipe  thy  burning  brow. 

OLYBIUS. 

There  was  an  infant  play'd  about  thy  chamber. 

Not  a  word  !  Thou  think'st  I  '11  stoop 

And  thy  pale  cheek  would  smile  and  weep  at  once, 

To  dash  thee  to  the  earth— But  I  'm  so  sick 

390 

THE  MARTYR  OF  ANTIOCH. 


381 


Of  this  accursed  pomp,  I  will  not  use 
Its  privilege  of  vengeance. 

Fatal  trappings 
Of  proud  authority,  that  like  the  robe 
Of  iVessus  shine  and  burn  into  the  entrails  I — 
Supremacy !  whose  great  prerogative 
Is  to  be  blasted  by  superior  misery  ! 
]Vo  more  will  I  possess  the  fatal  power 
Of  murdering  those  I  love.     All-ruling  sceptre  ! 
That  wert  mine  instrument  of  bloodshed,  down! 
Mine  hand  shall  never  grasp  thee  more.     V'opiscus, 
.Assume  the  vacant  Prefect's  seat,  and  be 
Curst  like  myself — with  sway  :  I  cannot  wish  thee 
A  doom  more  hateful — 

Who  comes  here  ? 

OFFICER. 

Great  Prefect ! 
The  enchantress  Margarita  by  her  death 
Hath  wrought  upon  the  changeful  populace. 
That  they  cry  loudly  on  the  Christians'  Cod. 
Embolden'd  multitudes  from  every  quarter 
Throng  forth,  and  in  the  face  of  day  proclaim 
Their  lawless  faith.    They  have  ta'en  up  the  body. 
And  hither,  as  in  proud  ovation,  bear  it 
With  clamour  and  with  song.     All  Antioch  crowds 
Applauding  round  them — they  are  here,  behold  them. 

CHRISTI.\N    nV.MN. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  let  harp,  and  lute,  and  voice 
Up  to  the  expanding  gates  of  Heaven  rejoice, 

While  the  bright  Martyrs  to  their  rest  are  borne ; 
Sing  to  the  Lord  !  their  blood-stain'd  course  is  run, 
And  every  head  its  diadern  hath  won. 

Rich  as  the  purple  of  the  summer  morn  ; 
Sing  the  triumphant  champions  of  their  God, 
While  burn  their  mounting  feet  along  their  sky-ward 
road. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  for  her  in  lieauty's  prime 
Snatch'd  from  this  wintery  earth's  ungenial  clime, 

In  the  eternal  spring  of  Paradise  to  bloom  ; 
For  her  the  world  display "d  its  brightest  treasure, 
And  the  airs  panted  with  the  songs  of  pleasure. 

Before  earth's  throne  she  chose  the  lowly  tomb, 
The  vale  of  tears  with  willing  footsteps  trod. 
Bearing  her  Cross  with  thee,  incarnate  Son  of  God  I 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  it  is  not  shed  in  vain. 

The  blood  of  martyrs  !  from  its  freshening  rain 

High  springs  the  Church  like  .some  fount-shadow- 
ing palm  ; 
The  nations  crowd  beneath  its  branching  shade. 
Of  its  green  leaves  are  kingly  diadems  made. 

And  wrapt  within  its  deep  embasoming  calm 


Earth  shrinks  to  slumber  like  the  breezeless  deep. 
And  war's  tempestuous  vultures  fold  their  wings  and 
sleep. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  no  more  the  Angels  fly 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  stainless  sky 

The  sound  of  fierce  licentious  sacrifice. 
From  shrined  alcove,  and  stately  pedestal, 
The  marble  (iods  in  cumbrous  ruin  fall. 

Headless  in  dust  the  awe  of  nations  lies ; 
Jove's  thunder  crumbles  in  his  mouldering  hand, 
And    mute    as    sepulchres    the    hymnle.ss    temples 
stand. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  from  damp  prophetic  cave 
No  more  the  Inose-hair'd  Sibyls  burst  and  rave; 

Nor  watch  the  augurs  pale  the  wandering  bird: 
No  more  on  hill  or  in  the  murky  wood, 
'Mid  frantic  shout  and  dissonant  music  rude. 

In  human  tones  are  wailing  victims  heard; 
Nor  fathers  by  the  reeking  altar  stone 
Cowl  their  dark  heads  t'  escape  their  children's  dying 
groan. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  no  more  the  dead  are  laid 
In  cold  despair  beneath  the  cypress  shade. 

To  sleep  the  eternal  sleep,  that  knows  no  morn; 
There,  eager  still  to  burst  death's  brazen  bands. 
The  .Angel  of  the  Resurrection  stands; 

While,  on  its  own  immortal  pinions  borne, 
Following  the  Breaker  of  the  imprisoning  tomb. 
Forth  springs  the  exulting  soul,  and  shakes  away  its 
gloom. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  the  desert  rocks  break  out. 
And  the  ihrong'd  cities,  in  one  gladdening  shout ; 

The  farthest  shores  by  pilgrim  step  explored  ; 
Spread  all  your  wings,  ye  winds,  and  waft  around, 
Even  to  the  starry  cope's  pale  waning  bonnd. 

Earth's  universal  homage  to  the  Lord; 
Lift  up  thine  head,  imperial  Capitol, 
Proud  on  thy  height  to  see  the  banner'd  Cross  unroll. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  when  Time  itself  shall  cease. 
And  final  Ruin's  desolating  peace 

Knwrnp  this  wide  and  restless  world  of  man  ; 
When  the  Judge  rides  upon  the  enthroning  wind, 
And  o'er  all  generations  qf  mankind 

Eternal  Vengeance  waves  its  winnowing  fan; 
To  vast  Infinity's  remotest  space. 
While  ages  run  their  everlasting  race. 
Shall  all  the  Beatific  Hosts  prolong. 
Wide  as  the  glory  of  the  Lamb,  the  Lamb's  triumph- 
ant song ! 

391 


?62 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A   DRAMATIC    POEM. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Though,  in  the  following  Poem,  I  have  adhered 
strictly  to  the  outline  in  Scripture,  I  have  availed  my- 
self of  whatever  appeared  to  my  purpose  in  the  profane 
historians.  My  general  authorities,  where  I  do  not 
follow  the  Book  of  Daniel,  are  Herodotus  and  Diodorus 
Siciilus;  but,  perhaps,  the  best  English  account  of 
Babylon  is  to  be  found  in  Prideaux's  Connexion  of  the 
Old  and  New  Testament. 

The  publication  of  the  Martyr  of  Antioch  was  con- 
siderably delayed  by  unforeseen  circumstances.  I  take 
the  liberty  of  mentioning  this  for  two  reasons.  In  the 
first  place,  because  a  coincidence  in  several  circum- 
stances between  that  Poem  and  the  Novel  of  Valerius, 
has  led  to  a  charge  of  plagiarism ;  when,  in  fact,  the 
Poem  was  written,  and  had  been  seen  by  some  of  my 
friends,  before  the  publication  of  the  prose  work.  Se- 
condly, [  am  unwilling  that  my  Poems  should  appear 
to  follow  each  other  with  a  haste  and  rapidity  incon- 
sistent with  that  deference  for  public  opinion,  which 
the  manner  of  their  reception  would  rather  increase 
than  diminish. 

May  I  presume  to  hope  that  this,  as  well  as  the  pre- 
ceding works  of  the  same  nature,  may  tend  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  those  interests,  in  subservience  to  which 
alone  our  time  and  talents  can  be  worthily  employed — 
those  of  piety  and  religion  ? 


CHARACTERS. 


The  Destroyi.ng  Angel. 
Belshazzar. 

Arioch,  Captain  of  the  Guard. 
Sabaris,  Chief  Eunuch. 
Kalassan,  High  Priest  of  Bel. 
Daniel,  J 

Jmlah,  >  Jev)S. 

Adon'ijaii,     ) 

NiTOCRis,  Mother  of  Belshazzar. 
Naomi. 
Benina. 
Babylonian  Nobles,  Priests,  Diviners,  Astrologers,  etc. 
Scene  Babylon. 

BELSHAZZAR. 


The  City  of  Babylon — Morning. 
THE  destroying  angel. 
Within  the  cloud-pavilion  of  my  rest, 
Amid  the  Thrones  and  Princedoms,  that  await 


Their  hour  of  ministration  to  the  Lord, 
I  heard  the  summons,  and  I  stood  with  wings 
Outspread  for  flight,  before  the  Eternal  Throne. 
And,  from  the  unapproached  depth  of  light 
Wherein  the  Almighty  Father  of  the  worlds 
Dwells,  from  seraphic  sight  of  glory  veil'd, 
Came  forth  the  soundless  mandate,  which  I  felt 
Within,  and  sprung  upon  my  obedient  plumes. 
But  as  I  sail'd  my  long  and  trackless  voyage 
Down  the  deep  bosom  of  unbounded  space, 
The  manifest  bearer  of  Almighty  wrath, 
I  saw  the  Angel  of  each  separate  star 
Folding  liJs  wings  in  terror,  o'er  his  orb 
Of  golden  fire  ;  and  shuddering  till  I  pass'd 
To  pour  elsewhere  Jehovah's  cup  of  vengeance. 

And  now  I  stand  upon  this  world  of  man, 
My  wonted  resting-place. — But  thou,  oh  Earth  I 
Thou  only  dost  endure  my  fatal  presence 
Undaunted.    As  of  old,  I  hover  o'er 
This  haughty  city  of  Chaldean  Bel, 
That  not  the  less  pours  forth  her  festal  pomp 
To  do  unholy  worship  to  her  Gods, 
That  are  not  Gods,  but  works  of  mortal  hands. 

Behold !  the  Sun  hath  burst  the  Eastern  gates. 
And  all  his  splendour  floods  the  tower'd  walls, 
Upon  whose  wide  immeasurable  circuit 
The  harness'd  chariots  crowd  in  long  array. 
Down  every  stately  line  of  ptillar'd  streets, 
To  each  of  the  hundred  brazen  gates,  young  men 
And  flower-crovvii'd  maidens,  lead  the  mazy  dance. 
Here  the  vast  Palace,  whence  yon  airy  gardens 
Spread  round,  and  to  the  morning  airs  hang  forth 
Their  golden  fruits  and  dewy  opening  flowers; 
While  still  the  low  mists  creep,  in  lazy  folds, 
O'er  the  house-tops  beneath.     In  every  court, 
Through  every  portal,  throng,  in  servile  haste. 
Captains  and  Nobles.     There,  before  the  Temple, 
On  the  far  side  of  wide  Euphrates'  stream. 
The  Priests  of  Bel  their  impious  rites  prepare  : 
And  cymbal  clang,  and  glittering  dulcimer. 
With  shrill  melodious  salutation,  hail 
The  welcome  morn,  awakening  all  the  City 
To  the  last  dawn  that  e'er  shall  gladden  her. 

Babylon  !  Babylon  !  that  wakest  in  pride 
And  glory,  but  shall  sleep  in  shapeless  ruin. 
Thus,  with  my  broad  and  overshadowing  wings, 
I  do  embrace  thee  for  mine  own  ;  forbidding. 
Even  at  this  instant,  yon  bright  orient  Sun, 
To  shed  his  splendours  on  thy  lofty  streets. 
Oh,  Desolation's  sacred  place,  as  now 
Thou  'rt  darlven'd,  shall  the  darkness  of  the  dead 
Enwrap  thee  in  its  everlasting  shade  .' 

392 


BELSHAZZAR. 


383 


Babylon!  Babylon!  upon  the  wreck 
Of  that  most  impious  tower  your  Fathers  rear'd 
To  scale  the  crystal  battlements  of  heaven, 
I  set  my  foot,  here  take  my  gloomy  rest 
Kven  till  that  hour  be  come,  that  comes  full  soon. 


Before  the  Temple. 
Kalassan — The  Priests. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Didst  thou  behold  it  ? 

SECOND   PRIEST. 

What  ? 

FIRST    PRIEST. 

'T  is  gone,  't  is  past — 
And  yet  but  now  't  was  there,  a  cloudy  darkness. 
That,  swallowing  np  the  rays  of  the  orient  Sun, 
Cast  back  a  terrible  night  o'er  all  the  City. 

THIRD   PRIEST. 

Who  stands  aghast  at  this  triumphant  hour? 
I  tell  thee  that  our  Dreamers  have  beholden 
Majestic  visions.    The  besieging  Mede 
Was  cast,  with  all  his  chariots,  steeds,  and  men. 
Into  Euphrates'  bosom. 

KALASSAN. 

Do  ye  marvel 
But  now  that  it  was  dark?  yon  orient  Sun, 
The  Lord  of  Light,  withdrew  his  dawning  beams, 
Till  he  could  see  the  glory  of  the  world, 
Belshazzar,  in  his  gilded  galley  riding 
Across  Euphrates. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Give  command  that  all 
The  brazen  gates  along  the  river  side. 
Stand  open  to  receive  the  suppliant  train. 

SECOND    PRIEST. 

Hark!  with  the  trumpet  sound  their  strong  recoil 
Upon  their  grating  hinges  harshly  mingles. 

THIRD    PRIEST. 

Lo!  how  the  bridge  is  groaning  with  the  gifts 
Of  the  great  King.     The  camels  bow  their  heads 
Beneath  the  bright  and  odorous  load  they  bear ; 
The  proud  steeds  loss  their  flovver-enwoven  manes. 
And  the  cars  rattle  with  their  p(jnderous  sound  ; 
While,  silent,  the  slow  elephants  pursue 
Their  wondering  way,  and  bear  their  crowded  towers, 
Widely  reflected  on  the  argent  stream. 

FOCRTH    PRIEST. 

How  proudiv  do  the  waters  toss  and  foam 
Before  the  barges,  that  with  gilded  prows 
Set  the  pale  spray  on  fire !   The  rowers,  clad 
In  Egypt's  finest  tunics,  as  they  strike 
The  waters  with  their  palmy  oars,  awake 
Sweet  music,  as  it  seems,  from  all  the  tide; 
So  exquisitely  to  the  dashing  stmkes 
Are  the  sweet  lutes  and  floating  hautboys  timed. 

FIRST    PRIEST. 

Von  bark,  in  which,  at  times,  the  silken  curtains 
Are  by  the  courteous  breezes  fann'd  aside. 
Is  that  in  which  the  Mother  of  the  mightiest, 
Kitocris,  sits.     Her  presence  seems  to  awe 
2Z 


At  once,  and  give  a  pride  to  those  who  row 
Her  queenly  state 

KALASSAN. 

Behind — 'l  is  he ! — 't  is  he  ! 
Belshazzar's  self^ — the  waters  crowd  around. 
As  though  ambitious  to  relied  their  Sovereign; 
And  all  the  throng'd  and  living  shores,  that  now 
To  the  iiir  limits  of  the  City,  pass'd 
His  name  in  one  long  shout,  have  paused  to  hear 
Our  loftier  homage. .-Vre  the  Seventy  here  ? 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

All. 

KALASSAN. 

Lift  we,  then,  the  solemn  strain,  in  praise 
Of  the  great  King,  and  all  the  suppliant  court 
Will  answer  us  in  praise  of  mightiest  Bel. 

SONG    OF    THE    PRIESTS. 

Where  are  the  thousand-throned  kings. 
Beneath  whose  empires'  spacious  wings, 
The  wide  earth  lay  in  mule  repose? 
He  rose — Chaldea's  King  arose  ! 
And  bow'd  was  every  crowned  head. 
And  every  marshall'd  army  fled; 
Before  his  footstool  bow'd  they  down. 
The  all-conquering  Lord  of  Babylon  ! 

SONG    OF    THE   SUPPLIANTS. 

Where  are  the  thousand-shrined  Gods, 
Within  whose  temples'  proud  abodes 
The  nations  crowded  to  invoke  ? 
He  woke,  Chaldea's  God  awoke! 
And  mute  was  every  sumptuous  feast. 
And  rite,  and  song,  and  victim  ceased ; 
And  every  Fane  was  overthrown, 
Before  the  God  of  Babylon! 

PRIESTS. 

Ammon's  crested  pride  lay  low, 
And  broke  was  Flam's  horned  bow ; 
Damascus  heurd  the  |Kjiulerous  fall 
Of  old  Benhadad's  palace  wall ; 
'J'he  ocean  redden'd  wilh  the  (ire 
From  the  rock-built  strengths  of  Tyre. 
False  was  fierce  Fhilisiia's  trust, 
Desert  i\Iuab  mourns  in  dust. 
Lo!  in  chains  our  Captains  bring 
Haughty  Zion's  eyeless  King. 
Kedar's  tents  are  struck,  her  bands 
Scatler'd  o'er  her  burning  sands. 
And  Egypt's  Pharaoh  quails  before 
The  Assyrian  Lion's  coiuiuering  roar. 

THE   SUPPLIANTS. 

From  his  high  Philisiine  liine. 
Sea-born  Dagon  fled  amain  ; 
Moloch,  he  whose  valley  slood 
Deep  with  infants'  blameless  blood: 
Chemos,  struck  with  pale  alTright, 
Left  his  foul  unlinish'd  rile. 
Her  waning  moon  .Astarle  veil'd. 
When  the  Tynan's  sea-wall  liiil'd. 
In  vain  Damascus'  children  meet 
At  lolly  Riraraon's  molten  leet. 

393 


384 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  vain  were  Judah's  prayers  to  him, 
Between  the  golden  Cherubim; 
In  vain  the  Arab,  in  his  flight, 
Call'd  on  the  glittering  stars  of  night; 
And  vain  Osiris'  timbrels  blew 
Over  Egypt's  maddening  crew. 

KALASSAN. 

Lord  of  the  world,  and  of  the  eternal  city, 
That  wear'st  Chaldea's  regal  diadem 
Wreath'd  with  Assyria's,  wherefore  art  thou  here 
Before  the  Temple  of  all-powerful  Bel  ? 

BELSIIAZZAR. 

Chief  of  the  Seventy  chosen  Priests,  that  serve 
Within  the  Temple  of  our  God,  thou  know'st 
That  the  rebellious  Mede,  confederate 
With  Ashkenaz  and  Elam,  and  the  might 
Of  Persia,  hath  begirt  with  insolent  siege 
Our  city  walls,  and  I  would  know  what  swift 
And  terrible  vengeance  is  ordain'd  on  high 
For  the  revolted  from  Chaldea's  sway  ? 

KALASSAN. 

Live  thou,  O  King,  for  ever!     We  are  holding 
This  day  our  solemn  rite.    Our  Priests  and  Seers 
Each  at  his  office  stands  throughout  the  Temple ; 
And  all  our  eight  ascending  towers  that  rise. 
Each  above  each,  in  heavenward  range,  are  throng'd 
With  those  that  strike  the  cymbal,  and  with  voice 
And  mystic  music  summon  down  the  Gods 
To  give  us  answer. 

BELSIIAZZAR. 

Priests  of  Bel,  and  thou 
High  mitred  Chief,  Kalassan !  Lo,  I  bring 
Gifts  worthy  of  the  Gods  .and  of  Belshazzar : 
All  that  the  world  in  its  vast  homage  casts 
Before  our  royal  feet ;  the  gold  that  flows 
In  the  red  waters  of  the  farthest  East ; 
The  fragrant  balm  that  weeps  from  glittering  trees; 
The  ivory,  and  the  thin  and  snowy  robes 
Of  Egypt;  and  the  purple  merchandise 
Of  Sidon;  and  the  skins  of  beasts  that  far 
In  the  dark  forests  fly  the  sight  of  man. 
Yet  not  so  far  but  that  Assyria's  servants 
Track  them,  and  rend  away  their  bloody  tribute  ; 
And  slaves  of  every  hue,  and  every  age. 
From  all  the  kingdoms  of  our  rule. 

KALASSAN. 

Great  King, 
What  answer  wouldst  thou,  which  such  sumptuous 

oflTerings 
May  not  compel ! 

BELSIIAZZAR. 

Declare  ye  to  our  Gods, 
Thus  saith  Belshazzar:  wherefore  am  I  call'd 
The  king  of  Babylon,  the  soepter'd  heir 
Of  Nabonassar's  (l)sway,  if  still  my  sight 
Must  be  infested  with  rebellious  arms 
That  hem  my  city  round  ;  and  frantic  cries 
Of  onset,  and  the  braying  dm  of  battle 
Disturb  my  sweet  and  wonted  festal  songs? 

NITOCRIS. 

In  the  God's  name,  and  in  mine  own,  I  answer! 
When  Nabonassar's  heir  shall  lake  the  sword 
Of  Nabonassar  in  his  valiant  hand  ; 


With  the  inborn  awe  of  majesty  appal 
Into  the  dust  Rebellion's  crested  front: 
When  for  the  gliding  bark  on  the  smooth  waters, 
Whose  motion  doth  but  lull  his  silken  couch, 
He  mounts  the  rushing  chariot,  and  in  arms 
Asserts  himself  the  lord  of  human  kind. 

SABARIS. 

Will  he  endure  it  ? 

NITOCRIS. 

Oh,  my  son  !  my  son ! 
Must  I  repent  me  of  that  thrill  of  joy 
I  felt,  when  round  my  couch  the  slaves  proclaim'd 
I  had  brought  forth  a  man  into  the  world, 
A  child  for  empire  born,  the  cradled  Lord 
Of  Nations — oh,  my  son  ! — and  all  the  pride 
With  which  1  saw  thy  fair  and  open  brow 
Expand  in  beauteous  haughtiness,  commanding 
Ere  thou  could'st  speak  ?    And  with  thy  growth,  thy 

greatness 
Still  ripen'd  :  like  the  palm  amid  the  grove, 
Thou  sioodst,  the  loftiest,  at  once,  and  comeliest 
Of  all  the  sons  of  men.     And  must  I  now 
Wish  all  my  pangs  upon  a  shapeless  offspring, 
Or  on  a  soft  and  dainty  maiden  wasted, 
That  might  have  been,  if  not  herself,  like  her 
Thy  martial  ancestress,  Semiramis, 
Mightiest — at  least  the  mother  of  the  Mighty  ? 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Queen  of  Assyria,  Nabonassar's  daughter ! 

Wife  of  my  royal  father,  Merodach  ! 

Greater  than  all,  from  whom  myself  was  born ! 

The  Gods  that  made  thee  mother  of  Belshazzar, 

Have  arm'd  thee  with  a  dangerous  license.    Thou, 

Secure,  mayst  utter  what  from  meaner  lips 

Had  call'd  upon  the  head  the  indignant  sword 

Of  Justice.     But  to  thee  we  deign  reply. 

Is't  not  the  charge  of  the  great  Gods  t'  uphold 

The  splendourof  (he  world  that  doth  them  homage? 

As  soon  would  they  permit  the  all-glorious  Sun 

To  wither  from  their  palace  vault  in  heaven, 

As  this  rich  empire  from  the  earth. 

NITOCRIS. 

And  therefore 
Be  as  the  Gods,  Belshazzar,  and  stand  forth 
To  sweep  away  the  desolating  foe  ! 
As  when  the  thunders  scatter  all  abroad 
The  lowering  clouds  at  midnight,  all  the  stars 
Look  glittering  through  the  bright  pellucid  sky. 
And  in  the  glorious  calm  themselves  have  strevv'd, 
Repose  triumphant  the  great  Gods. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

O  queen ! 
The  mother  of  Chaldea's  royal  lord 
Ne'er  ask'd  in  vain.     Myself  this  day  will  mount 
The  car  of  battle,  and  along  the  walls 
Display  my  terrors,  f()r  Assyria's  hosts 
To  kindle  into  valour  at  my  presence  ; 
And  the  pale  rebels  fmm  their  distant  camp. 
Like  hunters  that  have  roused  the  sleeping  lion, 
Snatch  up  their  toils  and  fly 

NITOCRIS. 

Along  the  walls, 
And  not  along  the  dusty  battle  plain  ? 

394 


BELSHAZZAR. 


385 


Yet 't  is  enough — the  fire  but  sleeps  wiihii)  thee. 
And  as  the  war-liorse  that  hath  sported  long 
On  the  green  meads,  beholds  the  Hash  of  arms 
Bright  on  the  fountain  where  he  bathes,  and  hears 
The  martial  trumpet  sounding,  start  erect 
His  kindling  ears,  his  agitated  mane 
Trembles  ;  already  on  his  back  he  feels 
The  gorgeous  trappings  and  the  armed  rider. 
And  treads  the  sward  as  though  he  trampled  down 
Whole  hosts  before  him  :  thus  Belshazzar's  soul. 
At  sight  of  Babylon's  exulting  foes. 
Shall  waken  to  the  warrior's  noble  wrath. 


BELSilAZZAR. 


Give  instant  order ! 


NITOCRIS. 

Oh,  tiara 'd  Mede ! 
And  thou  fierce  Persian,  that  dosi  boast  thyself 
As  hardy  as  thy  native  mountains!   Thou, 
The  shepherd's  nursling,  Cyrus  I  feel  ye  not 
A  prescient  terror  of  your  coming  conqueror? 
The  towers  with  which  ye  have  girt  your  spacious 

camp, 
Do  they  not  rock  even  to  their  deep  foundations. 
In  conscious  awe  ?   But  thou,  my  noble  son ! 
Thy  mother's  heart,  that  beat  but  in  thy  presence, 
Even  when  thou  laid'st  in  soft  inglorious  dalliance. 
When  home  thou  com'st,  high  plumed  with  victory, 

hosts 
In  chains  around  thee,  and  the  routed  armies 
Crowding  to  gaze  upon  their  conqueror. 
As  though  it  were  a  solace  in  their  fall 
That  great  Belshazzar  stoop'd  to  overthrow  them  ; 
When  all  the  myriads  of  vast  Babylon 
Shout  in  the  triumph  of  their  kingly  lord  ; 
That  heart,  my  son,  with  such  excess  of  pride 
Will  swell,  that  it  will  burst.     F.ven  now  it  fills 
My  woman's  eyes  with  tears:  when  I  should  wear 
A  brow  all  rapture,  I  can  only  weep. 

KAI.ASSAN. 

Lord  of  the  Nations!  with  our  richest  rites 

Do  we  propitiate  the  eternal  Gods. 

Upon  the  golden  aliar,  never  wet 

Save  with  the  immaculate  blood  of  yearling  lambs  (2) 

We  sacrifice — and  on  our  topmost  tower, 

Where,  on  his  couch,  amid  his  native  clouds, 

The  God  reposes,  must  the  chosen  Virgin,  (3) 

Whom  to  our  wandering  search  he  first  presents 

Await  the  bright  descending  Deity. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

What  then! — the  Gods  hold  festival  to-night! 
And  shall  the  courts  of  great  Chaldea's  palace 
Be  silent  of  the  festal  song  ?    At  eve 
Our  banquet  shall  begin;  and  dusky  night. 
Astonish 'd  at  our  splendour,  think  his  reign 
Usurp'd  as  by  a  brighter  day.     Kala.'^an  I 
Whence  are  those  golden  vessels  richly  carved 
And  bossy  with  eneha.scd  fruits  and  flowers; 
Goblets,  and  lavers,  and  tall  chandeliers. 
That,  like  to  blossoming  almond  trees,  branch  out 
In  knots  of  glittering  silver? — meet  were  they 
To  minister  at  great  Belshazzar's  feast. 


KALASSAN. 

King  of  the  Universe!  those  vessels  stood 
F.rst  in  the  Temple  of  the  Hebrew's  God; 
But  when  Chaldea's  arms  laid  waste  the  City, 
.And  from  their  Temple,  with  destroying  fire. 
Scared  the  iniresisting  Deiiy,  the  s|)oils 
Were  seized,  and  consecrate  to  mightier  Bel. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Let  them  be  borne  to  grace  our  feast ! 

KALASSAN. 

Most  honour'd 
Were  they  by  such  a  noble  profanation ! 

Give  ye  the  order 

Ha!  what  frantic  shriek 
Peals  through  the  courts? 

PRIEST. 

The  slaves  that  girt  themselves 
To  bear  those  vessels,  on  a  sudden,  all, 
.As  though  by  viewless  lightnings  struck  to  earth. 
Lie  groveling  on  the  pavement,  and  they  clench 
Their  vacant  hands  in  horror. 

KALASSAN. 

Raise  them  up, 
And  lash  them  to  their  duty. 

SECOND   PRIEST. 

King  of  Earth ! 
The  armed  statue  of  thy  ancestor. 
Great  Nabonassar,  on  its  firm-set  pedestal 
Shakes,  and  its  marble  panoply  resounds 
Like  distant  thunder! 

KALASSAN. 

How !  the  pavement  rocks 
Beneath  our  feet,  like  a  tempestuous  sea! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

What!  are  Belshazzar's  mandates  thus  delay'd 
For  the  pale  fears  of  slaves,  and  idle  sounds 
That  shake  the  earth,  but  not  his  kingly  soul? 
Away  with  them!  we  will  not  brook  remonstrance 
I'rom  vanquish'd  men  or  Gods! — Away  !  I  say — 

cnoRi's. 
Sovereign  of  all  the  streams  that  flow 
From  hills  of  everlasting  snow. 
Through  vast  Chaldea's  fertile  reign, 
Down  to  the  red  and  pearly  (4)  main  ; 
And  ere  thy  giant  course  is  done. 
Through  all  imperial  Babylon  ; 
By  stately  towers  and  palace  fair. 
And  blooming  gardens  hung  in  air; 
By  every  glowing  bnzen  gate, 
Rolling  Iliy  fidi  exulting  slate. 
Proud  River!  strew  thy  waves  to  rest. 
And  smooth  to  peace  thy  azure  breast. 
While  slowly  o'er  thy  willing  tide, 
Belshazzar's  gilded  galleys  ride. 
Hear,  King  of  Floods!    Euphrates,  hear! 
And  pay  the  homage  of  thy  fear 

CHORUS    OF   SUPPLIANTS. 

Sovereign  of  all  the  lamps  tliat  shine 
In  yon  empyreal  arch  divine. 
That  roH'st  through  half  the  fiery  day. 
O'er  realms  that  own  Chaldea's  sway ; 
395 


386 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O'er  thrones  whose  monarchs  wear  her  yoke, 

And  cities  by  her  conquests  broke  ; 

Thou  Sun,  whose  morning  splendours  dwell 

Upon  the  Temple  towers  of  Bel, 

The  quiver  of  thy  noontide  rays 

Exhaust  in  all  their  fiery  blaze. 

Upon  the  cloud-aspiring  throne 

Where  rests  the  Cod  of  Babylon ! 

So  shall  the  God  in  glory  come 

Down  to  his  sumptuous  earthly  home. 

Hear !  Monarch  of  the  Planets  I  hear — 

And  pause  upon  thy  fleet  career. 


The  Quarter  of  the  Jewish  Slaves. 
Imlah,  Naomi,  Benina. 

EENINA. 

Father!  dear  Father!  said'st  thou  that  our  feet 
Shall  tread  the  glittering  paths  of  Sion's  hill  ; 
And  that  our  lips  shall  breathe  the  fragrant  airs 
That  blow  from  dewy  Ilermon,  and  the  fount 
Of  Siloe  flow  in  liquid  music  by  us? 

IMLAH. 

Oh,  daughter  of  captivity,  and  born 
To  eat  the  bitter  bread  of  servitude, 
Benina,  child  of  sadness! — yet  the  dearer 
Because  thou  art  the  joy  of  desolate  liearts 
That  have  no  joy  but  thee ! — what  knowest  thou 
Of  that  fair  city,  where  our  Fathers  dwelt 
While  unforsaken  by  their  God  ? 

BEXIXA. 

My  father! 
Have  I  not  seen  my  mother  and  thyself 
Sit  by  the  river  side,  and  dwell  for  ever 
On  Salem"s  glories,  and  the  Temple's  pride, 
Till   tears  have   choked  your  sad  though  pleasant 

speech  ? 
In  the  deep  midnight,  when  our  lords  are  sleeping, 
I  've  seen  the  Brethren  from  the  willows  take 
Their  wind-caressed  harps,  their  hall-hrealhed  sounds 
Scarce  louder  than  liie  rippling  river's  dash 
Around  the  matted  sedge;  and  still  they  pour'd 
Their  voices  down  the  stream,  as  though  they  wish'd 
Their  songs  to  pass  away  to  other  lands 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  their  captivity. 
I  've  listen'd  in  an  ecstasy  of  tears, 
Till  purer  waters  seem'd  to  wander  near  me, 
And  sweeter  flowers  to  bloom  beneath  my  feet, 
And  towers  of  fairer  structure  to  arise 
Under  the  moonlight ;  and  I  felt  the  joy 
Of  freedom  in  my  light  and  siwrtive  limbs. 

iMt.Air. 
My  sweetest  child,  and  thou  that  gavest  to  mo 
This  dearest  treasure,  Naomi,  thyself, 
Even  as  thou  wert  in  virgin  loveliness 
My  plighted  bride,  renew'd  to  tenderest  youth! 
I  will  not  say  I  hope  not  (though  my  fears 
And  conscience  of  our  ill  desert  reprove  me) 
That  (iod  even  now  prepares  the  promised  hour. 
When  Israel  shall  shake  ofT  .Assyria's  chains, 
And  build  long-wasted  Sion's  lovely  walls. 
The  sands  of  the  a[)pointed  years  are  run ; 


The  signs  break  out,  as  in  the  cloudy  night 
The  stars;  and  buried  Prophets'  voices  seem 
As  from  their  graves  to  cry  aloud,  and  mark 
The  hour  that  lal)ours  with  our  Israel's  glory; 
And,  more  than  all,  but  yesterday  I  saw 
The  holy  Daniel 

NAOMI. 

Daniel !  what  of  him, 
Dear  Imlah  ? 

IMLAH. 

Till  but  lately  he  was  girt 
With  sackcloth,  with  the  meagre  hue  of  fasting 
On  his  sunk  cheek,  and  ashes  on  his  head  ; 
When,  lo!  at  once  he  shook  from  his  grey  locks 
The  attire  of  woe,  and  call'd  for  wine;  and  since 
He  hath  gone  stately  through  the  wondering  streets 
With  a  sad  s(;orn.    Amid  the  heaven-piercing  towers, 
Through  cool  luxurious  courts,  and  in  the  shade 
Of  summer  trees  that  play  o'er  crystal  fountains, 
He  walks,  as  though  he  trod  o'er  moss-grown  ruins, 
'Mid  the  deep  desolation  of  a  city 
Already  by  the  almighty  wrath  laid  waste. 
And  sometimes  doth  he  gaze  upon  the  clouds. 
As  though  he  recognized  the  viewless  forms 
Of  arm'd  destroyers  in  the  silent  skies. 
And  it  is  said,  that  at  the  dead  of  night 
He  hath  pour'd  forth  thy  burden,  Babylon, 
And  loud  proclaim'd  the  bowing  down  of  Bel, 
The  spoiling  of  the  spoiler.     Even  our  lords. 
As  conscious  of  God's  glory  gathering  round  him. 
Look  on  him  with  a  silent  awe,  nor  dare 
To  check  his  motion,  or  reprove  his  speech. 

NAO.MI. 

Oh,  Imlah!  shall  our  buried  bones  repose 
In  our  own  land  ? 

BENI.\A. 

Speak  on,  my  dearest  Father, 
Thy  words  are  like  the  breezes  of  the  west. 
That  breathe  of  Canaan's  honey-flowing  land. 

IMI.AII. 

My  child !  my  child  !  thy  nuptials  shall  not  be 
With  song  suppress'd,  and  dim  half  curtain'd  lamp, 
Stol'n  from  tlie  observance  of  our  jealous  lords, 
As  mine  and  thy  fond  mother's  were. — Who  's  here  ? 

BENINA. 

'T  is  Adonijah :  he  hath  heard  thee  name  him, 
And  he  will  see  the  burning  on  my  cheek. 
And  so  delect  our  cause  of  fond  discourse. 

IMI.AII. 

I  named  hiin  not 

BEXINA. 

Nay,  father,  now  thou  mock'st  me. 

IMI.AII. 

Alas  !  poor  deer,  thou  'rt  deeply  stricken !  Well — 

It  is  a  noble  boy,  that  dares  to  fear 

His  God,  nor  makes  his  youth  a  privilege 

For  license,  and  intemperate  scorn  of  rule. 

The  above.    Adonijah. 

IMLAH. 

Whence  comest  thou,  Adonijah,  with  thy  brow 
Elate,  and  full  of  pride,  that  scarce  beseems 
A  captive? 

396 


BELSHAZZAR. 


387 


ADOMJAII. 

Imlali!  from  llic  dawn  of  day 
I  have  been  gazing  from  the  walls,  and  saw 
The  Persian  reining  in  his  fiery  squadrons. 
Like  ostriches  ihey  swept  the  sandy  plain. 
As  though  they  would  outstrip  the  tardy  winds; 
And  paused  and  wheel'd,  and  tiirough  the  clouds  of 

dust 
That  rose  around  them,  as  round  terrible  Angels, 
Their  scimitars  in  silver  radiance  (lash"d. 
Oh,  will  it  ever  be,  that  once  again 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  will  lift  the  Lion  banner 
Of  Judali,  and  her  sons  go  forth  to  war 
Like  Joshua,  or  like  him  wiiose  beardless  strength 
O'erthrew  the  giant  Philistine  I 

BENIXA. 

Ah,  rae ! 
And  wouldst  thou,  Adonijah,  seek  the  war, 
The  ruthless,  murtherous,  and  destroying  war  ? 

AnOXIJAH. 

Why,  yes!  nor  would  Benina  love  me  less 

For  bringing  home  the  spoil  of  God's  proud  foes, 

To  hang  within  his  vindicated  Temple. 

DEMXA. 

So  thou  didst  bring  thyself  unharmV,  unchanged, 
Eenina  were  content. 

ADONIJAH. 

Heaven's  blessing  on  thee ! 

IMLAIl. 

Hear  me.  young  Adonijah  ;  thou  dost  love 
My  child  :  Benina,  shall  I  say,  or  leave  it 
To  thine  own  lips  or  eloquent  eyes  to  tell. 
How  well  thou  lovest  the  noble  Adonijah? 
But,  youth,  I  seek  not  to  delay  thv  joy 
With  the  cold  envious  prudence  of  old  age. 
That  never  felt  the  boiling  blood  of  j-outh  ; 
For  if  I  did,  there  's  one  would  chide  me  here 
For  mv  forgctfulness  of  hours  like  these. 
But  yet  I  would  not  have  ray  daughter  wed 
With  the  sad  dowry  of  a  master's  stripes ; 
T  would  not.  Adonijah,  on  the  eve 
Of  our  deliverance,  that  the  wanton  Gentile 
Should  p.ass  his  jest  on  our  cold  entertainment, 
.And  all  the  cheerless  joy  when  captives  v^ed. 
To  breed  a  race,  whose  sole  inheritance 
Shall  be  their  parent-s'  tasks  and  heavy  bondage. 
Our  father  Jacob  served  seven  tardy  years 
For  beauteous  Rachel,  but  I  tax  not  thee 
With  such  a  weary  service. 

ADOMJAII. 

Be  they  ages. 
So  the  life  beat  within  this  bounding  heart. 
The  love  shall  never  fail  I 

I. ML  A II. 

Here  's  one  would  trust  thee. 
Youth,  should  my  cautious  age  be  slow.   Come  hither, 
Thou  tender  vine,  that  need'st  a  noble  stem  : 
Thou  not  repinest  because  I  wed  thee  not 
To  this  fair  elm,  until  the  gentle  airs 
Of  our  own  land,  and  those  delicious  dews 
That  weep  like  angels'  tears  of  love,  o'er  all 
The  hill  of  Sion,  gladden  your  sweet  union. 
And  make  you  bear  your  clustering  fruits  in  joy. 

33  2y 


So  now,  enough,  thou  dost  accept  the  terms ; 
And  in  the  name  of  him  that  rules  on  high, 
I  thus  betroth  the  noble  Adonijah 
To  soft  Benina. — 

Now,  to  him  that  hears 
The  captive's  prayer.  How  long — oh.  Lord  I — how  long 
Shall  strangers  trample  down  thy  beauteous  Sion? 
How  long  shall  Judah's  hymns  arise  to  thee 
On  foreign  winds,  and  sad  Jerusalem 
On  all  her  hills  be  desolate  and  mute? 

God  of  the  Thunder!  from  whose  cloudy  seat 

The  fiery  winds  of  Desolation  flow  : 
Father  of  Vengeance  !  that  with  purple  feet. 

Like  a  full  wine-press,  tread'sl  the  world  below. 
The  embattled  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay, 
]\or  springs  the  beast  of  ha\  oc  on  his  prey, 
jVor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blasted  way. 

Till  thou  the  guilty  land  hast  seal'd  for  woe. 

God  of  the  Rainbow  I  at  whose  gracious  sign 

The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  suppress: 
Father  of  Mercies  I  at  one  word  of  thine 

An  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wilderness! 
And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  sands. 
And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens'  glancing  hands. 
And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lands, 
And  pillar'd  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  thunders  broke — oh.  Lord! 

The  chariots,  rattled  o'er  her  sunken  gate. 
Her  sons  were  wasted  by  the  Assyrian  sword, 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state  ; 
And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became, 
Her  Princes  wore  the  captive's  garb  of  shame. 
Her  Temple  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame. 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest  cloud  of  fate. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  rainbow.  Lord,  shall  beam, 

And  the  sad  City  lift  her  crownless  head  : 
And  songs  shall  wake,  and  dancing  footsteps  gleam. 
Where  broods  o'er  fallen  streets  the  silence  of  the 
dead. 
The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers, 
On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers. 
To  deck,  at  blushing  eve,  their  bridal  bowers. 
And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger's  hand. 

And  Abraham's  children  were  led  fijrlh  for  slaves; 
With  fetter'd  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land. 

Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves. 

The  stranger's  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  steep. 

And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 

'iVeath  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep. 

Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphrates'  waves. 

The  born  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy  ; 

Thy  mercy,  Ijord,  shall  lead  thy  children  homo; 
He  that  went  forth  a  tender  yearling  boy. 

Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem's  streets  shall  come. 
And  Canaan's  vines  for  us  their  fruits  shall  bear, 
And  Hermon's  bees  their  honied  stores  prepare  ; 
And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer. 

Where,  o'er  the  cherub-seated  God,  full  blazed  tli' 
irradiate  dome. 

397 


388 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Walls  of  Babylon. 

Belshazzar  in  his  Chariot,  Nitocris,  Arioch,  Sa- 

BARIS,  elc. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

For  twice  three  hours  our  stately  cars  have  roll'd 

Along  the  broad  highway  ihat  crowns  the  walls 

Of  mine  imperial  (-'ity,  nor  complete 

Our  circuit  by  a  long  and  ample  space. 

And  still  our  eyes  look  down  on  gilded  roofs, 

And  towers  and  temples,  and  the  spreading  tops 

Of  cedar  groves,  through  which  the  fountains  gleam ; 

And  every  where  the  countless  multitudes. 

Like  summer  insects  in  the  noontide  sun, 

Come  forth  to  bask  in  our  irradiate  presence. 

Oh,  thou  vast  Babylon !  what  mighty  hand 
Created  Ihee,  and  spread  thee  o'er  the  plain 
Capacious  as  a  world ;  and  girt  thee  round 
With  high  tower'd  walls,  and  bound  thy  gates  with 

brass ; 
And  taught  the  indignant  river  to  endure 
Thy  bridge  of  cedar  and  of  palm,  high  hung 
Upon  its  marble  piers  ? — What  voice  proclaim'd, 
Amid  the  silence  of  the  sands,  "Arise! 
And  be  earth's  wonder  ?"    Was  it  not  my  fathers  ? 
Yea,  mine  entombed  ancestors  awake. 
Their  heads  uplift  upon  their  marble  pillows ; 
They  claim  the  glory  of  thy  birth.     Thou  hunter. 
That  didst  disdain  the  quarry  of  the  field, 
ChooBing  thee  out  a  noijler  game  of  man, 
Nimrod !  and  thou  that  with  unfeminine  hand 
Didst  lash  the  coursers  of  thy  battle-car 
O'er  prostrate  thrones,  and  necks  of  captive  kings, 
SemiramisI  and  thou  whose  kingly  breath 
Was  like  the  desert  wind,  before  its  coming 
The  people  of  all  earth  fell  down,  and  hid 
Their  humble  faces  in  the  dust!  that  madest 
The  pastime  of  a  summer  day  t'  o'erthrovv 
A  city,  or  cast  down  some  ancient  throne ; 
Whose  voice  each  ocean  shore  obey'd,  and  all 
From  sable  Ethiopia  to  the  sands 
Of  the  gold-flowing  Indian  streams  ;^-oh !  thou 
Lord  of  the  hundred  thrones,  high  Nabonasser! 
And  thou  my  ftither,  Merodach  !  ye  crown'd 
This  City  with  her  diadem  of  towers — 
Wherefore  ? — but  prescient  of  Belshazzar's  birth, 
And  conscious  of  your  destined  son,  ye  toil'd 
To  rear  a  meet  abode.    Oh,  Babylon ! 
Thou  hast  him  now,  fi)r  whom  through  ages  rose 
Thy  sky-exalted  towers — ff)r  whom  yon  palace 
Rear'd  its  bright  domes,  and  groves  of  golden  spires ; 
In  whom,  secure  of  immortality 
Thou  sland'st,  and  consecrate  from  time  and  ruin. 
Because  thou  hast  been  the  dwelling  of  Belshazzar! 

NITOCUIS. 

I  hear  thy  words:  like  thine,  thy  mother's  heart 
Swells,  oh,  my  son  !  to  see  thy  seat  of  empire. 
But  will  the  I,ord  of  Babylon  endure, 
What  in  yon  plain  beneath  offends  our  sight, 
The  rebel  Persian  ? 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Gave  we  not  command, 
To  Tartan  and  to  .'Vrtamas,  to  sweep 


Yon  tribes  away,  or  ere  our  car  approach'd 
The  northern  wall  ? 

ARIOCH. 

They  hasted  forth,  O  King! 
But  Tartan  came  not  back,  nor  Artamas. 

BEI^SHAZZAR. 

Slaves  !  did  they  dare  fall  off  from  their  allegiance  t 

ARIOCH. 

To  the  dominion  they  fell  ofT  of  him 
That  hath  the  empire  o'er  departed  souls. 

NITOCRIS. 

Look  down  !  look  down !  where,  proud  of  his  light 

conquest. 
The  Persian  rides — it  is  the  youthful  Cyrus ; 
How  skilfully  he  winds  through  all  the  ranks 
His  steed,  in  graceful  ease,  as  though  he  sate 
Upon  a  firm-set  throne,  yet  every  motion 
Obedient  to  his  slack  and  gentle  rein, 
As  though  one  will  controU'd  the  steed  and  rider; 
Now  leaps  he  down,  and  holds  a  brief  discourse 
With  yon  helm'd  captain  ;  like  a  stooping  falcon, 
Now  vaults  he  to  the  patient  courser's  back. 
Happy  the  mother  of  ihat  noble  youth ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Now,  by  great  Bel !  thou  dost  abuse  our  patience. 
Is  that  the  rebel  king  to  whom  Belshazzar 
Should  vail  his  pride,  and  stoop  to  be  his  foe ; 
Him  with  the  brazen  arms,  that,  dimly  bright, 
Scarce  boast  distinction  from  the  meaner  host  ? 
Where  are  his  golden  attributes  of  power, 
The  glorious  ensigns  of  his  sovereignty  ; 
The  jewel'd  diadem,  the  ivory  sceptre. 
The  satrap-circled  throne,  the  kneeling  hosts  ? 

NITOCRIS. 

Dost  ask,  my  son,  his  marks  of  sovereignty  ? 
The  armies  that  behold  his  sign,  and  trust 
Their  fate  upon  the  wisdom  of  his  rule. 
Confident  of  accustom'd  victory  ; 
The  unconquerable  valour,  the  proud  love 
Of  danger,  and  the  scorn  of  silken  ease; 
The  partnership  in  suffering  and  in  want, 
Even  with  his  meanest  follower;  the  disdain 
Of  wealth,  that  wins  the  spoil  but  to  bestow  it, 
Content  with  the  renown  of  conquering  deeds. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

By  all  our  Gods ! 

SABARIS. 

Great  Queen!  it  ill  beseems 
The  lovi'est  of  Chaldea's  slaves  to  oppose 
The  mother  of  our  king  with  insolent  speech; 
But  my  bold  zeal  for  him  that  rules  the  world 
Has  made  me  dauntless.     Is  it  not  heaven's  will, 
Written  in  the  eternal  course  of  human  things. 
Some  kings  are  born  to  toil,  and  some  to  enjoy ; 
Some  to  build  up  the  palace  domes  of  power. 
That  in  their  glowing  shade  their  sons  may  sit 
Transceiulcnt  in  luxurious  ease,  as  they 
In  conquest?   'Tis  the  privilege  of  the  chosen. 
The  mark'd  of  fate,  and  favourites  of  the  Gods, 
To  find  submissive  earth  deck'd  out,  a  fair 
And  summer  garden  house,  for  one  long  age 
Of  toilless  pleasure,  and  luxurious  revel. 

398. 


BELSHAZZAR. 


389 


nEI-S!lA7.ZAR. 

The  slave  speaks  well :  and  lliee,  O,  queon  Xiiocris! 

■  This  eve  will  we  compel,  wiili  gracious  violence, 
To  own  our  loftier  fate.     This  sacred  eve 

1    We  '11  have  an  army  wide  as  yon  thai  spreads 
'    Its  tents  on  the  hot  sands  ;  and  they  shall  feast 
!    Around  me,  all  reclined  on  ivory  couches, 
'    Sirew'd  with  Sidunian  purple,  and  soft  webs 
Of  f'g>'pt ;  fann'd  by  bright  and  glittering  plumes 
Held  in  the  snowy  hands  of  virgin  slaves; 
And  o'er  their  turban'd  heads  shall  lightly  wave 
(   The  silken  canopies,  that  softly  tremble 
'    To  gales  of  liquid  odour:  all  the  courts 
I    Shall  breathe  like  groves  of  cassia  and  of  nard. 

And  every  paradise  of  golden  fruits, 
!    The  forests  and  the  tributary  streams, 

In  this  one  banquet  shall  exhaust  their  stores 
'   Of  delicates;  the  swans  and  Phasian  birds, 
'    And  roes  and  deer  from  otf  a  thousand  hills, 
'    Served  in  the  spices  of  the  farthest  East. 
And  we  will  feast  to  dulcimers  and  lutes. 
And  harps  and  cymbals,  and  all  instruments 
Of  rapturous  sound,  till  it  shall  seem  the  stars 
Have  stoojVd  the  nearer  to  our  earth,  to  crown 
Our  banquet  with  their  heavenly  concert.    There, 
I   Our  captains  and  our  counsellors,  our  wives 
And  bright-eyed  concubines,  through  all  the  palace 
Th'  array  of  splendour  shall  prolong — while  I, 
In  state  supreme,  and  glory  that  shall  shame 
The  setting  sun  amid  his  purple  clouds, 
.    Will  on  my  massy  couch  of  gold  recline  : 
,  Then  shalt  thou  come,  and  seeuig  thy  son  the  orb 

And  centre  of  this  radiance,  even  thyself 
,   Shalt  wonder  at  thy  impious  speech,  that  dared 
;  To  equal  aught  on  earth  to  great  Belshazzar. 
'  And  now,  lead  on  I — 

I       The  above,  Bemna,  Imlah,  Adoxijah,  Priests. 

BEXIXA. 

Ah,  save  me  .'  save  me  I 

ARIOCH. 

Peace ! 

i  Before  the  king  I — 
BELSHAZZAR. 
What  frantic  maid  is  this, 

■  Thatshrieksand  flies,  with  loose  and  rending  garments, 
And  streaming  hair  >. — And  who  are  these  that  circle 

her, 
.^nd  sing  around  her  ? 

SABARIS. 

Live,  O  king,  for  ever! 
Chaldea's  priests,  that  seek  this  evening's  bride 
^  For  mightiest  Bel. 

PRIESTS. 

Beauteous  damsel !  chosen  to  meet 
First  our  wandering  heaven-led  feet. 
Spotless  virgin !  thee  alone 
The  great  God  of  Babylon, 
From  his  starry  seat  above, 
Hath  beheld  with  Wik-s  of  love. 
Bride  of  him  tnat  rules  the  sky  I 
Cast  not  down  thy  weeping  eye. 


Daughter  of  the  captive  race! 
For  thine  high  and  blissfiil  place. 
In  the  heaven-himg  chamber  laid, 
Mair/  a  Babylonian  maid 
To  the  voiceless  midnight  air. 
Murmurs  low  her  bashful  [jrayer. 
With  enamour'd  homage  see. 
Round  and  round  we  circle  thee  ; 
Round  and  round  each  dancing  foot 
Glitters  to  the  breathing  lute. 

SABARIS. 

Why  dost  thou  struggle  thus,  fond  slave? 

BEXINA. 

Rly  father  .'— 
My  dearest  Adonijah  !  speak  to  him —  ' 

The  panting  breath  swells  in  my  throat,  ray  v^'ords 
Can  find  no  utterance,  save  to  thee. 

IJILAH. 

Great  king! 
They  rend  away  my  child,  mine  only  child  I — 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Peace !  she  is  borne  to  serve  the  God  of  Babylon : 
.And  ye  should  fall,  and  kiss  their  garment  hems, 
And  bless  them  for  the  glory  that  awaits 
The  captive  maiden 

ADOXLTAH. 

Glory  !  call  ye  it, 
To  be  the  lustful  prey 

BEXINA. 

Sweet  youth!  no  more. 
Oh,  speak  not ! — by  the  love  thou  bearest  me — 
By  all  our  hopes — alas!  what  hopes  have  we? — 
Let  me  endure  no  sufferings  but  my  own. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Priests,  to  your  office ! — 

BEXIXA. 

Oh !  no  mercy — none — 
Not  even  in  thee,  thou  wear'st  a  woman's  form. 
But  all  the  cold  relentless  pride  of  man — 
Mightiest  of  queens ! — would  I  might  add  most  gra- 
cious— 

IJILAH. 

God  of  our  fathers!  that  alone  canst  save 

Look  down  upon  this  guileless  innocent. 

Lo !  pale  and  fainting,  like  a  wounded  fawn 

She  hangs  upon  their  arms — death  scarce  could  throw 

A  sadder  paleness,  or  more  icy  torpor, 

Over  that  form,  whose  loveliness  is  now 

Its  bane,  and  stamps  it  for  the  worst  of  misery. 

ADOXIJAH. 

Oh,  for  a  Median  scimitar !  , 

ARIOCH. 

What  said  he  ? 

BENIXA. 

Nought — nought — 

ARIOCH. 

The  slave  forgets  that  scourges  hong 
LTpon  our  walls — 

LMLAH. 

And  we  had  fondly  thought 
The  bitter  dregs  of  our  captivity 

399 


390 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Drank  out !  Farewell,  my  child !  thou  dost  not  hear 
me — 

Thou  liest  in  cold  and  enviable  senselessness. 
And  we  might  almost  fear,  or  hope,  that  death — 
Compassionate  death — had  freed  thee  from  their  vio- 
lence. 
What  now,  my  child  ? 

ADO.VlJAfl. 

Oh,  beautiful  Benina! 
Why  do  thy  timorous  dove-like  eyes  awake. 
And  glow  with  scorn  ?  why  dost  thou  shake  away 
The  swoon  of  bashful  fear,  and  stand  erect. 
Thou,  that  didst  hang,  but  now,  like  a  loose  woodbine, 
Trading  its  beauteous  clusters  in  the  dust  ? 

BENINA. 

Give  place,  and  let  me  speak  unto  my  father, 

And  to  this  youth. 

Fierce  men  !  your  care  is  vain — 
I  will  not  stoop  to  fly. 

IMLAH. 

My  soul  is  lost 
In  wonder  ;  yet  I  touch  thee  once  again. 
And  that  is  rapture. 

BENINA. 

Did  ye  not  behold  hira 
Upon  the  terrace  top  ? — the  Man  of  God  ! 
The  anointed  Prophet ! 

I.MLAH. 

Daniel ! 

BEMXA. 

He  whose  lips 
Burn  with  the  fire  from  heaven!  I  saw  him,  fiither: 
Alone  he  stood,  and  in  his  proud  compassion 
Look'd  down  upon  this  pomp  that  blazed  beneath  him, 
As  one  that  sees  a  stately  funeral. 

IMLAH. 

lie  spoke  not  ? — 

BENINA. 

No :  like  words  articulate. 
His  looks  address'd  my  soul,  and  said — oh,  maid, 
Be  of  good  cheer — and,  like  a  robe  of  light, 
A  rapture  fell  upon  me,  and  I  caught 
Contagious  scorn  of  earthly  power;  and  fear 
And  bashful  shame  are  gone,  and  in  the  might 
Of  God,  of  Abraham's  God,  our  fathers'  God, 
I  stand,  superior  to  the  insulting  heathen. 

BE/.SIIAZZAR. 

What!  wait  ye  still  to  lead  the  Gods  their  slave. 
And  thus  delay  Belshazzar's  course  ? 

BENINA. 

Your  Gods! 
Whom  I  di.sdain  to  honour  with  my  dread. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Off  with  her !  and  advance  our  royal  car; — 
Set  forward. — 

[BEL.SHAZZAR  departs  with  his  train. 

BENINA. 

Ye  shall  need  no  force  to  drag  me. 
My  father! — Adonijah! — gaze  not  thus, 
Blaspheming,  with  your  timorous  doubts,  the  arm 
Of  the  Most  High,  that  waves  above  mine  head 
In  silent  might  unseen ! 


And  thou — go  on, 
Go  on  thy  stately  course — Imperial  Lord 
Of  golden  Babylpnl  the  scourge  that  lash'd 
The  Nations,  from  whose  mantling  cup  of  pride 
Earth  drank,  and  with  the  fierce  intoxication 
ScofT'd  at  the  enduring  heavens. 

Go  on,  in  awe 
And  splendour,  radiant  as  the  mormng  star. 
But  as  the  morning  star  to  be  cast  down 
Into  the  deep  of  deeps.     Long,  long  the  Lord 
Hath  bade  his  Prophets  cry  to  all  the  world. 
That  Babylon  shall  cease!   Their  words  of  fire 
Flash  round  my  soul,  and  lighten  up  the  depllis 
Of  dmi  futurity!  I  hear  the  voice 
Of  the  expecting  grave! — I  hear  abroad 
The  exultation  of  unfetler'd  earth  ! — 
From  East  to  West  they  lilt  their  trampled  necks, 
Th'  indignant  nations:  earth  breaks  out  m  scorn; 
The  valleys  dance  and  sing;  the  mountains  shake 
Their  cedar-crowned  tops !   The  strangers  crowd 
To  gaze  upon  the  howling  wilderness. 
Where  stood  the  Queen  of  Nations.    Lo!  even  now 
Lazy  Euphrates  rolls  his  sullen  waves 
Through  wastes,  and  but  reflects  his  own  thick  reeds 
I  hear  the  bitterns  shriek,  the  dragons  cry ; 
I  see  the  shadow'  of  the  midnight  owl 
Gliding  where  now  are  laughter-echoing  palaces! 
O'er  the  vast  plain  I  see  the  mighty  tombs 
Of  kings,  in  sad  and  broken  whiteness  gleam 
Beneath  the  o'ergrown  cypress — but  no  tomb 
Bears  record,  Babylon,  of  thy  last  lord  ; 
Even  monuments  are  silent  of  Belshazzar ! 

PRIEST. 

Still  must  we  hear  it? — 

BENINA. 

Yea,  ye  must ! — the  words 
Of  God  will  find  a  voice  in  every  wind  ; 
The  stones  will  speak,  the  marble  walls  cry  out! 

PRIEST. 

Maid,  in  Bel's  appointed  bride 
We  must  brook  the  words  of  pride  ; 
Mortal  voice  may  ne'er  reprove 
Whom  the  bright  ininKirtals  love  ; 
Nor  hand  of  mortal  violate 
Her,  the  chosen  immortal's  mate. 

BENINA. 

Oh,  Adonijah  !  soothe  my  mother's  tears  ; 

Be  to  my  frither  what  I  should  have  been  ; 

And  now  farewell!   Forget  not  her  whose  thoughti. 

In  terror  and  in  rapture,  still  will  dwell 

On  thee  :  in  prayer,  at  morn  and  eve,  forget  not 

Her  who  will  need  prayers  worthier  than  her  own. 


Before  the  House  of  Imlah. 
Imlaii,  Adonijah, 

I.MLAH. 

We  are  here  at  length : — we  two  have  glided  on 
Like  voiceless  ghosts,  along  the  crowded  streets. 
The  miserable  pour  their  tale  of  anguish 
Into  the  happy  ear,  and  feel  sweet  solace 

400 


BELSHAZZAR. 


391 


From  his  compassion  ;  but  the  wretched  find 
IVo  comfort  from  imparting  mutual  bitterness. 
I  know  1  ought  10  feci  that  (!od  protects 
My  child — I  can  but  think  that  heathen  arms 
Have  torn  her  from  my  bleeding  heart  I  1  know 
I  ought  to  kindle  with  the  heavenly  fire 
Of  her  rajit  spirit,  to  dauntlessness  like  hers. 
I  can  but  tremble  for  her  tender  loveliness, 
That  used  to  cling  to  me  for  its  supiiort, 
Like  a  soft  lily,  for  the  world's  rude  airs 
Too  frail. 

ADONIJ.Mt. 

Scarce  dare  I  s[^ak,  lest  I  speak  rashly. 
I  have  rebuked  and  struggled  with  my  sorrow, 
Till  I  detected  in  my  secret  heart 
A  proud  reproach,  that  I  was  born  a  son 
Of  .Abraham,  to  be  trampled  in  the  dust 
Like  a  base  worm,  that  dare  not  turn  to  sting 
The  insulting  foot. 

I.MLAH. 

Oh  cool  decline  of  day, 
That  wert  the  captive's  hour  of  joy,  his  tasks 
Fulfill'd,  his  master's  wayward  pride  worn  out, 
How  wert  thou  wont  to  lead  my  weary  foot 
To  such  a  blissful  home  1 — I  've  oft  forgot 
It  was  a  captive's.    Naomi,  my  wife, 
I  never  fear'd  to  meet  thy  loving  looks 
Till  now. 

The  above,  Nao.mi. 

NAOMI. 

So,  Imlah,  thou  'rt  return'd  : — and  thou. 
My  son,  I  "11  call  thee. — Sweet  it  is  t'  anticipate, 
And  make  the  fond  tongue  thus  familiar 
With  words  that  it  so  oft  must  use.     Stay,  stay. 
Beloved  I  and  I  'II  call  forth,  or  ere  ye  enter. 
My  child,  whose  welcome  will  be  sweeter  to  you 
Than  the  cold  babbling  of  her  aged  mother : — 
I  had  forgot — she  went  abroad  with  you. 

IMLAII. 

Have  mercy,  Heavep ! 

NAO.MI. 

Now,  whither  is  she  gone  ? 
To  seek  for  thee  the  cup  of  sparkling  water 
With  which  she  used  to  lave  thy  burning  brow ; 
Or  gather  thee  the  rosy  fruit,  that  gain'd 
Fresh  sweetness  to  thy  taste,  from  that  dear  hand 
That  offer'd  it.     She  ever  thought — though  weary 
Herself  and  wanting  food — of  ministering 
First  to  the  ease  and  joy  of  those  she  loved. — 
Ha  I  tears  upon  thy  brow,  thy  noble  brow, 
Which  I  have  seen  endure 

I.MLAH. 

Go  in  I — no,  stay 
Without!  I  cannot  venture  where  .some  mark 
Of  her  fjnd  duty  and  ofTicious  care. 
Will  be  the  first  thing  mine  eyes  see. — My  wife. 
Why  dost  thou  tear  thine  hair,  and  cla.sp  thy  brain  ? 
I  have  not  told  thee 

NAOMI. 

What  hast  thou  to  tell  me  ? 
Thou  'rt  here  without  her: — thou  and  this  brave  youth 
Have  eye.' that  burst  with  tears.  She's  lost!— she's  dead! 
33* 


IMLAH. 

Would  that  she  were ! 

NAOMI. 

Unnatural  father !  wretch. 
Thou  hast  no  touch  of  human  pity  in  thee, 
To  tell  a  mother  thou  canst  wish  her  child 
Where  her  li)nd  arms  can  never  fiild  her  more ! — 
Oh,  Imlah  I  Imlah  I  tell  me — tell  me  all — 
Ye  cannot  tell  me  more  than  what  I  lisar. 

I.MLAH. 

They  tore  her  from  us,  for  a  paramour 
For  their  false  Gods 

NAO.MI. 

'T  is  ever  thus  : — most  bless 'd 
But  to  be  made  most  wretched  ! 

I.MLAH. 

Pardon  her, 
Oh  Lord!  oh,  we  can  chide  on  others"  lips. 
What  our  own  burn  to  utter ! 

NAOMI. 

All  my  care, 
My  jealo'us,  vigilant,  and  restless  care. 
To  veil  her  from  the  eyes  of  man,  to  keep  her 
Like  a  sweet  violet,  that  the  airs  of  heaven 
Scarcely  detect  in  its  secluded  shade, 
All  waste  and  vain !  I  was  so  proud,  to  think 
I  had  conceal'd  our  treasure  from  the  knowledge 
Of  our  rude  masters— and  I  thought  how  envied 
I  should  return  among  our  barren  mothers, 
To  Salem. 

I.MLAH. 

Dearest !  she  beheld — she  felt 
The  arm  of  Israel's  God  protecting  her. 
Thou  canst  not  think  with  what  a  beauteous  scorn 
Our  soft  and  timorous  child  o'erawed  the  spoiler — 
How  nobly  she  reproved  our  fears. 

NAO.MI. 

Poor/ool! 
To  be  deluded  by  those  tender  arts 
She  ever  used — her  only  arts — lo  spare 
Our  bleeding  hearts  from  knowing  when  she  suffer'd. 
What!  she  look'd  fearless,  did  she  ?   She  in  the  arms 
Of  sinful  men,  that  trembled  at  heaven"s  airs. 
When  they  came  breathing  o'er  her  blushing  cheek. 
And  ye — thou,  Adonijah,  that  dost  know 
Her  timorous  nature,  wert  deceived  I — cold  comfort . 
Have  ye  no  better  ? 

IMLAH. 

Oh,  weep  I  weep,  my  wife ! 
Look  not  upon  me  with  those  stony  eyes ! 
Oh,  think — the  cup  is  bitter,  but  the  Lord 
May  change  it ; — think  of  him  that  lost  so  many. 
His  sons  and  daughters,  at  their  jocund  feast. 
All  at  one  blow — and  said — CJod  gave,  and  God 
Hath  taken  away.* 

NAO.MI. 

Had  he  but  one,  like  ours  ; 
One  that  engross'd  his  undivided  love; 
One  such  as  ne'er  before  blest  human  heart, 
Would  he  have  said  so  ? 


'Job  i,  21. 


401 


392 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wilt  not  tell  me,  too, 
How  Sarah  in  her  old  age  bore  a  child, 
To  be  a  joy  within  her  desolate  house. 
Go  on — go  on — recount  each  act  of  love, 
Each  merciful  miracle,  that  we  may  know 
How  gracious  God  hath  been  to  all — but  us. 

IMLAH. 

Hear  her  not,  God  of  Israel ! — oh,  my  son  I 

We  must  distract  this  frenzy,  or  't  will  blight 

Heaven's  hoped  for  blessings  to  a  barren  cdrse, 

And  intercept  some  soft  descending  mercy. 

What  shall  we  do  ? — what  say  ? — to  dissipate 

Her  brooding  thoughts  ?    We  '11  take  the  harps  that 

hang 
Around  us,  and  are  used  to  feel  the  hand 
Of  sorrow  trembling  on  their  mournful  strings. 
When  ye  demand  sweet  Sion's  songs  to  mock  them. 
Proud  strangers,  our  right  hands  forget  their  cunning. 
But  ye  revenge  you,  wringing  from  our  hearts 
Sounds  that  might  melt  your  senseless  stones  to  pity. 

HYMN. 

Oh,  thou  that  wilt  not  break  the  bruised  reed, 
Nor  heap  fresh  ashes  on  the  mourner's  brow, 

Nor  rend  anew  the  wounds  that  inly  bleed, 
The  only  balm  of  our  afflictions  thou. 

Teach  us  to  bear  thy  chastening  wrath,  oh  God ! 

To  kiss  with  quivering  lips — still  humbly  kiss  thy  rod  ! 

We  bless  thee,  Lord,  though  far  from  Judah's  land  ; 
Though  our  worn  limbs  are  black  with  stripes  and 
chains  ; 
Though  for  stern  foes  we  till  the  burning  sand  ; 

And  reap,  for  others'  joy,  the  summer  plains  ;  I 

We  bless  thee.  Lord,  for  thou  art  gracious  still. 
Even  though  this  last  black  drop  o'erflovv  our  cup 
of  ill! 

We  bless  thee  for  our  lost,  our  beauteous  child ; 

The  tears,  less  bitter,  she  halh  made  us  weep; 
The  weary  hours  her  graceful  sports  have  'guiled. 

And  the  dull  cares  her  voice  hath  sung  to  sleep ! 
She  was  the  dove  of  hope  to  our  lorn  ark ;  ' 

The  only  star  that  made  the  strangers'  sky  less  dark  I 

Our  dove  is  fall'n  into  the  spoiler's  net; 

Rude  hands  defile  her  plumes,  so  chastely  white  ; 
To  the  bereaved  their  one  soft  star  is  set,  , 

And  all  above  is  sullen,  cheerless  night ! 
But  still  we  Ihank  thee  for  our  transient  bliss — 
Yet,  Lord,  to  scourge  oursiris  remain'd  no  way  but  this  ? 

As  when  our  Father  to  Mount  Moriah  led 

The  blessing's  heir,  his  iige's  hope  and  joy. 
Pleased,  as  he  roam'd  along  wiih  dancing  tread, 

Chid  his  slow  sire,  the  Ibnd,  ollicious  boy. 
And  laugh'd  in  sport  to  see  the  yellow  fire 
Climb  up  the  lurf-built  shrine,  his  destined  funeral 

pyre- 
Even  thus  our  joyous  child  went  lightly  on  ; 

Bashfully  sportive,  timorously  gay. 
Her  white  foot  bounded  from  the  pavement  stone 

Like  some  light  bird  from  off  the  quiv'ring  spray  ; 


And  back  she  glanced,  and  smiled,  in  blameless  glee. 
The  cars,  and  helms,  and  spears,  and  mystic  dance 
to  see. 

By  thee,  O  Lord,  the  gracious  voice  was  sent 

That  bade  the  Sire  his  murtherous  task  forego: 
When  to  his  home  the  child  of  Abraham  went 
His  mother's  tears  had  scarce  begun  to  flow. 
Alas!  and  lurks  there,  in  the  thicket's  shade, 
i  The  victim  to  replace  our  lost,  devoted  maid  l 
I 

I  Lord,  even  through  thee  to  hope  were  now  too  bold ; 
I      Yet  't  were  to  doubt  thy  mercy  to  despair. 
'T  is  anguish,  yet  't  is  comfort,  faint  and  cold. 

To  think  how  sad  we  are,  how  blest  we  were  I 
To  speak  of  her  is  wretchedness,  and  yet 
It  were  a  grief  more  deep  and  bitterer  to  forget  I 

O  Lord  our  God !  why  was  she  e'er  our  own  ? 

Why  is  she  not  our  own — our  treasure  still  ? 
We  could  have  pass'd  our  heavy  j'ears  alone. 

Alas!  is  this  to  bow  us  to  ihy  will  ? 
Ah!  even  our  humblest  prayers  we  make  repine, 
?Nor  prostrate  thus  on  earth,  our  hearts  to  thee  resign 

Forgive,  forgive — even  should  our  full  hearts  break. 
The  broken  heart  thou  wilt  not.  Lord,  despise: 

Ah!  thou  art  siill  too  gracious  to  forsake. 
Though  thy  strong  hand  so  heavily  chastise. 

Hear  all  our  prayers,  hear  not  our  murmurs.  Lord; 

And,  though  our  lips  rebel,  still  make  thyself  adored 


The  Front  of  the  Temple. 

PRIESTS    WITHIN. 

Hark !  what  dancing  footsteps  fall 
Light  before  the  Temple  wall  ? 
Who  are  ye  that  seek  to  pass 
Through  the  burnish'd  gate  of  brass  ? 
Come  ye  with  the  gifts  of  Kings, 
With  the  peacock's  bright-eyed  wings? 
With  the  myrrh  and  fragrant  spice '. 
With  the  spotless  sacrifice  ? 
With  the  spoils  of  contjuer'd  lands  ? 
With  the  works  of  maidens'  hands. 
O'er  the  glittering  loom  that  run. 
Underneath  the  orient  sun  ? 
Bring  ye  pearl,  or  choicest  gem, 
From  a  plunder'd  diadem  ? 
Ivory  wand,  or  ebony 
From  the  sable  Indian  tree  ? 
Purple  from  the  Tyrian  shore ; 
Amber  cup,  or  coral  store. 
From  the  branching  trees  that  grow 
Under  the  salt  sea-water's  flow  ? 

PRIESTS,   WITH   BEXIN.\. 

With  a  fairer  gift  we  come 
To  the  God's  majestic  home 
Than  the  pearls  the  rich  shells  weep 
In  the  Erythrean  deep. 
All  our  store  of  ebony 
Sparkles  in  her  radiant  eye. 
Whiter  IJir  her  spotless  skin 
Than  the  gauzy  vestures  thin, 

402 


BELSHAZZAR. 


393 


Bleach 'd  uiion  the  shores  of  Nile; 
Grows  around  no  i«ilmy  isle 
Coral  like  her  swelling  lips, 
Whence  the  gale  its  sweetness  sips, 
That  u|K)n  tiie  spice-tree  blown 
Seems  a  fragrance  all  its  own  ; 
TS'ever  yet  so  fair  a  maid 
On  the  bridal  couch  was  laid ; 
Never  form  beseem'd  so  well 
The  immortal  arms  of  Bel. 

PRIESTS,    LEADING    HER    IX. 

'Mid  the  dashing  fountains  cool, 
In  the  marble  vestibule. 
Where  the  orange  branches  play, 
Freshen'd  by  the  silver  spray, 
Heaven-led  virgin,  take  thy  rest, 
While  we  bear  the  silken  vest 
And  the  purple  robe  of  pride 
Meet  for  Bel's  expected  bride. 

ALL  THE  PRIESTS. 

Bridelike  now  she  stands  array'd  ! 
Welcome,  welcome,  dark-hair'd  maid  I 
Lead  her  in,  with  dancing  feet. 
Lead  lier  in,  with  music  sweet. 
With  the  cymbals'  glancing  round. 
And  the  hautboy's  silver  sound. 
See  the  golden  gates  expand, 
And  the  Priests,  on  either  hand. 
On  their  faces  prone  they  fall 
Entering  the  refulgent  Hall. 
With  the  tread  that  suits  thy  state. 
Glowing  cheek,  and  look  elate. 
With  thine  high  unbending  brow. 
Sacred  maiden,  enter  thou. 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

Chosen  of  Bel,  thou  stand's!  within  the  Temple, 

Witliin  the  first  and  lowest  of  our  Halls, 

Yet  not  least  sumptuous.    On  the  jasper  pavement, 

Each  in  his  deep  alcove,  Chaldea's  Kings 

Stand  on  their  carved  pedestals.     Behold  them  ! 

Their  marble  brows  still  wear  the  conscious  awe 

Of  sovereignty— the  mightiest  of  the  dead. 

As  of  the  living.     Eminent,  in  the  cenire, 

The  golden  statue  (^)  stands  of  Nabonassar, 

That  in  the  plain  of  Dura,  to  the  sound 

Of  harp,  and  lute,  and  dulcimer,  received 

The  homage  of  the  world.    The  Scythian  hills, 

The  margin  of  the  Syrian  sea,  the  Isles 

Of  Ocean,  their  adoring  tribes  cast  down ; 

And  the  high  sun,  at  noonday,  saw  no  face 

Of  all  mankind  turn'd  upward  from  the  dust. 

Save  the  imperial  brow  of  Nabonassar, 

That  rose  in  lonely  loftiness,  as  now 

Yon  awe-crown'd  image. 

BEXINA. 

Have  ye  wrought  him  too, 
As  when  he  prowl'd  the  plain,  ih'  associate 
Of  the  brute  herd  that  browsed  around,  nor  own'd 
The  dread  of  a  superior  presence,  beat 
By  the  uncoiirlly  rains  and  wintry  winds 
L'lion  the  undiadem'd  head  ? 


PRIEST. 

Cease,  cease,  nor  tempt 
The  loving  patience  of  the  God  too  far ! 
Advance!  and  wind  along  the  aspiring  stair. 

PRIEST.S. 

Haste!  the  fading  light  of  day 
Scarce  will  gild  our  lolly  way. 
Haste,  nor  treinlile,  tender  maid! 
To  the  sculptur'd  balustrade 
Cling  not  thus  with  snowy  hand  ; 
None  but  slaves  around  thee  stand, 
On  thy  footsteps  proud  to  wait : 
Hark!  the  slow-recoiling  gate 
Opens  at  our  trumpets'  call; 
Enter  now,  our  second  Hall. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Well  mayst  thou  hold  thine  alabaster  hand. 
Through  which  the  rosy  light  so  softly  shines. 
Before  thine  eyes,  oh  !  maiden,  as  thou  enterest 
The  Chamber  of  the  Tribute.     Here  thou  seest 
The  wealth  of  all  the  subject  world,  piled  up 
In  order — from  its  multitude  that  seems 
Confusion  :  in  each  deep,  receding  vault. 
O'er  all  the  spacious  pavement,  't  is  the  same  ; 
The  flaming  gold,  and  ivory,  and  the  gems— 
If  all  mankind  were  Kings,  enough  to  crown 
Each  brow  with  an  imperial  diadem! 

BENIXA. 

Oh,  rapt  Isaiah,  were  they  not  thy  words- 
How  hath  she  ceased— the  golden  city  ceased  ! 
Will  all  that  wealth  but  ransom  thee  an  hour, 
Or  bribe  the  impartial  and  undazzled  Ruin 
One  instant  to  suspend  its  swooping  wing  ? 

PRIESTS. 

Breathe  again  the  clear  blue  air; 
Mount  again  the  marble  stair: 
Still  we  mount — on  high — on  high. 
To  the  exulting  harmony! 
Hark!  the  strain  of  triumph  rings 
In  the  Hall  of  Captive  Kings. 

THIRD    PRIEST. 

Now  pause  again :  yon  chained  images 
Are  those  that  ruled  the  world,  or  ere  the  Lord 
Of  great  Chaldca  took  the  all-ruling  sceptre 
Into  his  iron  hand,  and  laid  the  priilc 
Of  all  the  kingdoms  prostrate  at  his  feet. 

REXIXA. 

O  King  of  Judah,  thou  art  there !  Thy  foes, 

In  charitable  cruelty,  did  t)uench 

Thy  sightless  eyes,  lest  thou  shouldst  see  the  dwelling 

Which  thou  hadst  changed  for  Sion's  beauteous  hill; 

Lest  thou  shouldst  more  than  hear  thy  sorrowing 

people 
Doom'd  by  thy  sins,  and  by  their  own,  to  bondage. 
Thou,  Zedekiah,  (fi)  didst  desert  ihy  God, 
And  wert  of  God  deserted  ; — nor  to  thee 
Is  given,  withdrawn  into  a  f()reign  grave. 
To  feel  again  soft  Canaan's  fragrant  gales 
On  thy  Wind  brow,  almost  persuading  thee 

403 


394 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That,  in  thy  darkness,  thou  canst  still  behold 
Some  once-loved  spot,  or  dim-remember'd  scene. 
The  glad  deliverance  that  eomes  to  Judah 
Comes  not  to  thee.    Alas  I  to  sad  Benina, 
Oh,  gracious  God  of  Abraham,  will  it  come  ? 

PRIESTS. 

Maid,  again  w^e  lift  the  song; 
Thy  soft  feet  have  rested  long; 
Nearer,  nearer  as  we  clirab 
To  the  highest  Hall  sublime, 
Bride  of  the  Immortal,  thee 
All  the  city  throngs  to  see. 
Floating,  like  a  snowy  dove. 
In  the  azure  clouds  above. 
Lo!  the  fourth  of  our  abodes, 
Chamber  of  the  captive  Gods! 

BK.VIXA. 

Oh,  Lord  of  Hosts !  I  dare  not  gaze  around  me, 
Lest  in  yon  heaps  of  monstrous  fi)rms  uncouth 
The  scaly  Dagon  and  the  brute  Osiris, 
Moon-crown'd  .'Vstarte,  or  the  Sun-like  Milhra, 
Some  shape  I  should  behold  by  the  blind  Gentile 
Held  worthy  to  enclose  Ih'  Illimitable 
That  fills  the  Heaven  and  Earth.    The  Cherubim, 
Perchance,  are  here,  behind  whose  golden  wings 
Thy  fiery  presence  dwelt,  but  dwells  no  more. 
I  know  that  danger  waits  me  on  yon  height. 
But  thither  haste  I  rather  than  behold 
Profaning  Heathens  scorn  what  thou  hast  glorified. 
Lead  on 

PRIESTS. 

Half  thy  journey  now  is  past ; 
Who  shall  wonder  at  thine  haste : — 
Dost  not  wish  for  wings  to  fly 
To  thy  blissful  destiny  ? 
Yet,  oh  tread  with  footstep  light 
As  the  falling  dews  of  night; 
Like  the  gliding  serpent  creep 
Where  the  gifted  Dreamers  sleep ; 
Fold  thou  close  thy  fluttering  dress, 
Even  thy  panting  breath  suppress. 
Lest  some  glorious  dream  we  break : — 
Lo!  'tis  vain — they  move — they  wake! 

THE   DREAMERS. 

Hark!  hark!  the  foot — we  hear  Ihe  trembling  foot. 
With  motion  like  the  dying  wind  upon  a  silver  lute: 
Upon  our  sleep  it  came,  as  soft  itself  as  sleep; 
It  shone  upon  our  visions  like  a  star  upon  the  deep. 

Lo!  lo!  the  form,  the  graceful  form  we  see 

That  seem'd,  through  all  the  live-long  night,  before 
our  eyes  to  be : 

Above,  the  eyes  of  sparkling  jet,  the  brow  like  mar- 
ble fair; 

And  down,  anil  o'er  the  snowy  breast,  the  dark  and 
wandering  hair. 

Hark!  hark!  the  song — we  hear  the  bridal  song — 
Amid  the  listening  stars  it  flows  the  sounding  heavens 

along ! 
It  follows  the  Tmmorlnl  dou  m  from  bis  empyreal  sky. 
Descending  to  his  murlal  bride  in  full  di\inily! 


BE.NI.MA. 

What!  are  your  dreams  so  soft ;  and  saw  ye  nought 

Of  midnight  flames,  that  clomb  the  palace  walls. 

And  ran  along  the  terrace  colonnades. 

And  pour'd  the  liquid  walls  in  torrent  flames 

Of  dark  asphaltus  ? — Heard  ye  not  the  wail 

Of  wounded  men,  and  shrieks  of  flying  women ; 

And  the  carved  Gods  dash'd  down  in  cumbrous  ruin 

On  their  own  shrines  ? 

PRIESTS. 

Great  Bel  avert  the  omen! 

PRIESTS. 

Hurry  on,  nor  more  delay; 
Shadows  darken  on  our  way ; 
Only  in  the  hall  we  tread ; 
Ask  of  those  the  stars  that  read. 
Catching  every  influence 
Their  all-ruling  orbs  dispense. 
From  those  silent  Prophets  bright 
That  adorn  the  vault  of  night. 
Watchers  of  the  starry  sky. 
Know  ye,  feel  ye,  who  is  nigh  ? 

ASTROLOGERS. 

What  planet  rolls  its  pearly  car. 

What  orb  of  mild  or  angry  hue  ? 
The  star  of  love,  the  silver  star, 

Glides  lonely  through  yon  depth  of  blue. 
We  see  her  sailing  motion  calm ; 

We  hear  the  music  of  her  sound ; 
We  drink  Wylilta's  (7)  breathing  balm. 

In  odorous  clouds  dislili'd  around. 
And  calm,  and  musical,  and  sweet 

Is  she  that  star's  mild  influence  leads — 
The  maid  that,  with  her  snowy  feet. 

Even  now  the  sacred  pavement  treads. 

BEXI.NA. 

Enough  of  this!  Oh!  chaste  and  quiet  stars. 
And  pure,  as  all  things  from  infecting  Earth 
Removed,  and  near  the  throne  of  God ;  whose  calm 
And  beautiful  obedience  lo  the  laws 
Of  your  great  Maker  is  a  mute  reproach 
To  the  unruly  courses  of  this  world. 
Would  they  debase  you  to  the  ministers 
And  guilty  favourers  of  their  sinful  purpose  ? 

PRIESTS. 

Now  our  toil  is  all  but  done ; 
Now  the  height  is  all  but  won; 
By  the  High  Priest's  lonely  seat, 
By  Kalassan's  still  retreat. 
Where,  in  many  a  brazen  fold. 
The  slumbering  Dragon  lies  butroll'd. 
Pass  we  on,  nor  pause.    Nor  thou 
Gaze,  oh  Priest,  with  wondering  brow  I 
Lovelier  though  her  cheek  appears 
For  her  toil  and  for  her  tears; 
And  the  bosom's  vest  beneath 
Heaves  the  quick  and  panting  breath. 

KALASSAN. 

More  beautiful  ne'er  trod  our  marble  stairs! 

PRlEi^TS. 

None! — but  still  the  maid  dismiss 
To  her  place  of  destined  bliss : — 
404 


BELSIIAZZAR. 


395 


That  no  mortal  eye  may  see — 
On !  we  may  not  follow  thee ; 
Only  witli  our  music  sweet 
We  pursue  thy  mounting  feet. 
Now,  upon  the  topmost  height, 
Thou  art  lost  to  mortal  sight! 
Lol  the  couch  heside  thee  spread. 
Where  tiie  Ileaven-loved  maids  are  wed. 
Till  the  bridal  midniglit  deep 
Bow  thy  head  in  balmy  sleep — 
Sleep  that  shall  be  sweetly  broken 
When  the  God  his  bride  hath  woken. 

BENIXA. 

Alone!  alone  upon  this  giddy  height! 
Yet,  better  thus  than  by  that  frantic  rout 
Encircled  :  yet  a  while,  and  I  shall  breathe 
With  freedom.     Oh  !  thou  cool,  delicious  silence, 
How  grateful  art  thou  to  the  ears  that  ring 
With  that  wild  music's  turbulent  dissonance! 

By  slow  degrees  thastarlight  face  of  things 
Grows  clear  around  my  misty,  swimming  eyes. 
Oh,  Babylon!  hnw  art  thou  spread  beneath  me! 
Like  some  wide  plain,  with  rich  pavilions  set 
'Mid  the  dark  umbrage  of  a  summer  grove. 
Like  a  small  rivulet,  that  from  bank  to  bank 
Is  ruffled  by  the  sailmg  cygnet's  breast, 
Euphrates  seems  to  wind.    Oh  !  thou  vast  city. 
Thus  dwindled  to  our  human  sight,  what  art  thou 
To  Him  that  from  his  throne,  above  the  skies, 
Beyond  the  circuit  of  the  iiolden  Sun, 
Views  all  the  subject  world  ! 

The  parting  day 
To  twilisht  and  the  few  faint  early  stars 
Hath  left  the  city.    On  yon  western  lake 
A  momentary  gleam  is  lingering  still. 
Thou  'rt  purpling  now,  O  Sun,  the  vines  of  Canaan, 
And  crowning,  with  rich  light,  the  cedar  top 
Of  Lebanon,  where but  oh  !  without  their  daugh- 
ter— 
Soon  my  sad  parents  shall  return.    Where  are  ye. 
Beloved  ?  I  seek  in  vain  the  lonely  light 
Of  our  dear  cabin  on  Euphrates'  side, 
Amid  yon  kindling  fires.     And  have  ye  quench'd  it, 
That  all  your  dwelling  be  as  darkly  sad 
As  are  your  childless  hearts? — .And  tho\) — mine  own, 
I  thought  this  morn,  and  called  thee — .Xdnnijah, 
Art  thou,  too,  thinking  of  that  hour  like  this; 
The  balmy,  tranquil,  and  scarce  starlight  hour, 
When  the  soft  Moon  had  .sent  her  harbinger, 
Pale  Silence,  to  foreshow  her  coming  presence; 
To  hush  the  winds,  and  smiwth  the  clouds  before  her? 
That  hour,  that,  with  delicious  treachery,  stole 
The  secret  from  Benina's  lips  she  lonsi'd. 
From  her  full  heart,  t'  unburthen  ?  Better,  now. 
Had  it  been  buried  in  eternal  darkness. 
Than  thus  have  kindled  hopes  that  shone  so  .softly — 
Were  quench'd  so  soon,  so  utterly. — 

Fond  heart. 
These  soft,  despondincr,  yet  delightful  thoughts, 
Must  not  dissolve  thee  to  mistrust  in  him 
That  fill'd  thee  as  with  fire,  and  touch'd  my  lips 
With  holv  scorn  of  all  the  wealth  and  pride 
2Z 


That  blazed  around  my  path.    Even  now  I  feel 

My  trembling  foot  more  firm;  and,  like  the  eagle's, 

Mine  eyes  familiar  with  their  cloudy  height 

What 's  here  ? — a  hurried  tread 

What  art  thou  ?  speak ! 

KAI.ASSAN. 

The  honour'd  of  the  (^od  that  honours  thee. 
Oh,  miracle  of  beauty !  I  beheld  thee. 
And  strove  with  my  impatient  spirit  within 
To  wait  th' appointed  hour;  but,  as  the  pilgrim 
Sees  the  white  fountain  in  the  palmy  shade. 
Nor  brooks  delay,  even  thus  my  thirsty  eyes 
Demand  their  instant  feast. 

BENINA. 

Thou  shouldst  have  brought 
The  sage  Diviners  to  unfold  the  meaning 
Of  this  dark  language. 

KALASSAX. 

Loveliest  bashfulness ! 
Or  is  it  but  the  sportive  ignorance 
That  laughs  beneath  the  dark  and  glittering  eyelids, 
At  the  delighted  dupe  of  its  dissembling? 

Bli.MXA. 

Peace,  and  avaunt ! 

KAI.ASSA.V. 

O  maid  !  thou  art  so  beauteous 
That  yon  bright  Moon  is  rising,  all  in  haste. 
To  gaze  on  thee,  or  to  display  thy  grace 
To  him,  that,  lost  in  wonder,  scarce  hath  melted 
To  love. 

The  snowy  light  falls  where  she  treads, 
As  't  were  a  sacred  place  !  in  her  loose  locks 
It  wanders,  even  as  with  a  sense  of  pleasure! 
And  trembles  on  her  bosom,  that  hath  caught 
Its  gentle  restlessness,  and  trembles,  too, 
Harmonious. 

liENINA. 

Must  mine  ears  endure  thee  still  ? 

KALASSAX. 

And  know'st  thou  not  why  thou  art  here ;  what  bliss, 
What  bridal  rapture  waits  thee? 

BE.M.XA. 

There  are  sins 
Whose  yen,'  dread  infects  the  virgin's  soul. 
Tainting  the  fountain  of  her  secret  thoughts; 
I  'm  here  to  siilTer  evil — what,  I  know  not, 
But  will  remain  in  holy  ignorance, 
Till  my  dark  hour  of  trial. 

KALASSAX. 

Hast  thou  never, 
Soft  maid,  when  fervid  noon  bathes  all  the  world 
In  silence,  in  thy  fiind  and  wandering  thoughts. 
Beheld  a  noble  bridegroom  seated  near  thee, 
.And  heard  him,  'mid  sweet  falls  of  marriage  mu.<ic. 
Whispering  what  made  thy  pale  cheek  burn  ? 

BEXIXA. 

Away ! — 
And  must  he  see  my  tears  ?  and  think  nie  weak. 
And  of  my  God  abandoned  ! 

KAI.ASSAX. 

Lo !  the  couch 
Bestrewn  with  flowers,  whose  fragrance  and  whose 
hues 

405 


396 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Shall  not  have  faded,  till  great  Bel  come  down 
Beneath  that  dimly  canopied  alcove 

BKNINA. 

There  's  that  within  thy  words  I  ought  to  fear  : 
But  it  should  seem,  that  with  the  earth  I  've  left 
All  earthly  fears  beneath  me.     I  defy 
Thee  and  thy  Gods  alike. 

KALASSAX. 

Alike  in  truth; 
For  sometimes  doth  the  Mightiest  not  disdain 
To  veil  his  glories  in  a  mortal  shape. 
Even  great  Kalassan's.    Look  on  me,  and  say 
If  he  could  choose  a  nobler. 

BENI.VA. 

What !  and  fear'st  not 
Thine  own  false  Gods — thou  worse  than  Idol  wor- 
shipper ? 
Why  even  the  senseless  wood  and  stone  might  wake 
To  indignation,  and  their  fiery  vengeance 
Break  forth  from  Heaven.    Alas!  and  what  have  they. 
Whose  name  thou  dost  usurp  to  cloke  thy  sin. 
To  do  with  Heaven  more  than  thy  loathsome  self? 

IvALASSAN. 

Thine  eyes,  albeit  so  full  of  scorn,  survey  not 
My  form  in  vain.     I  tell  thee.  Maid,  I  tread 
This  earth  so  conscious  that  the  best  of  Deity, 
The  power  and  majesty  reside  within  me, 
That  I  but  stoop  to  win  myself  a  bride 
Beneath  another  name :  here  'mid  the  clouds 
I  stand,  as  in  mine  own  appropriate  place. 

BENINA. 

The  darkest  pit  of  Tophet  were  too  light 
For  thine  offence. 

,  KALASSAX. 

Oh !  soft  and  musical  voice, 
Art  thou  so  lavish  of  injurious  words  ? 
Erewhile  thou  'It  be  as  prodigal  of  fondness; 
So  now  prepare  thee:  ere  two  hours  are  past 
Thou  wedd'st  Kalassan,  or  Kalassan's  God, 
Or  both,  or  either,  which  ihou  wilt.    Farewell 
A  little  while :  but  I  beseech  thee,  wear 
When  I  return  this  soft  becoming  pride; 
Nor  imitate,  as  yet,  the  amorous  slaves 
That  weary  with  officious  tenderness. 
Be  as  thou  seem'st,  a  kindred  spirit  withinine. 
And  we  will  mate  like  eagles  in  the  Heavens, 
And  give  our  children  an  immortal  heritage 
To  bathe  their  plumage  in  the  fiery  sun. 

BENINA  (alone). 
Did  the  earth  bear  thee,  monster!  or  art  thou 
Th' Eternal  F.nemy  in  the  human  shape? 
Oh  !  't  IS  the  innocent's  best  security. 
That  the  unrighteous  pluck  the  thunderbolt 
With  such  resistless  violence  on  their  heads. 
Lord  of  the  insulted  Heavens!  thou  canst  not  strike 
This  impious  man,  without  delivering  me; 
^le,  else  unworthy  of  ihy  gracious  mercy. 

But  lo!  what  blaze  of  light  beneath  me  spreads 
O'er  the  wide  city.     Like  yon  galaxy 
Above  mine  head,  each  long  and  spacious  street 
Becomes  a  line  of  silver  light,  the  trees 
In  all  their  silent  avenues  break  out 


In  flowers  of  fire.    But  chief  around  the  Palace 

Whitens  the  glowing  splendour;  every  court 

That  lay  in  misty  dimness  indistinct, 

Is  traced  by  pillars  and  high  architraves 

Of  crystal  lamps  that  tremble  in  the  wind : 

Each  portal  arch  gleams  like  an  earthly  rainbow. 

And  o'er  the  front  spreads  one  entablature 

Of  living  gems  of  every  hue,  so  bright 

That  the  pale  Moon,  in  virgin  modesty, 

Retreating  from  the  dazzling  and  the  tumult. 

Afar  upon  the  distant  plain  reposes 

Her  unambitious  beams,  or  on  the  bosom 

Of  the  blue  river,  ere  it  reach  the  walls. 

Hark !  too,  the  sounds  of  revelry  and  song 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  breeze  come  up 

Even  to  this  height.     No  eye  is  closed  in  sleep; 

None  in  vast  Babylon  but  wakes  to  joy — 

None — none  is  sad  and  desolate  but  I. 

Yet  over  all,  I  know  not  whence  or  how, 

A  dim  oppression  loads  the  air,  and  sounds 

As  of  vast  wings  do  somewhere  seem  to  brood 

And  hover  on  the  winds;  and  I  that  most 

Should  tremble  for  myself  the  appointed  prey 

Of  sin,  am  bow'd,  as  with  enforced  compassion. 

To  think  on  sorrows  not  mine  own,  to  weep 

O'er  those  whose  laughter  and  whose  song  upbraids 

My  prodigality  of  mi.sspcnt  pity. 

I  will  go  rest,  if  rest  it  may  he  call'd — 

Not,  Adonijah — not  to  think  of  thee. 

Oh!  bear  a  brief  unwilling  banishment 

From  thine  own  home,  my  heart ;  I  cannot  cope 

With  thy  subdumg  image,  and  be  strong. 

CHORUS  OF  BABYLONIANS  BEFORE  THE  PALACE. 

Awake !  awake  !  put  on  thy  garb  of  pride. 
Array  thee  like  a  sumptuous  royal  bride, 

O  festal  Babylon ! 

Lady,  whose  ivory  throne 
Is  by  the  side  of  many  azure  waters ! 
In  floating  dance,  like  birds  upon  the  wing. 
Send  tinkling  forth  thy  silver-sandal'd  daughters; 

Send  in  the  solemn  march. 

Beneath  each  [lortal  arch. 
Thy  rich-robed  lords  to  crowd  the  banquet  of  their 
King. 

They  come!  they  come  from  both  the  illumined  shores; 
Down  each  long  street  the  ieslive  tumult  pours  ; 

Along  the  waters  dark 

Shoots  many  a  gleaming  bark. 
Like  stars  along  the  midnight  welkin  (lashing, 
And  galleys,  with  their  masts  enwrealh'd  with  light, 
From  their  quick  oars  the  kindling  waters  dashing ; 

In  one  long  moving  line 

Along  the  bridge  they  shine, 
And  with  their  glad  disturbance  wake  the  peaceful 
night. 

Hang  forth,  hang  forth,  in  all  your  avenues. 
The  arching  lamjis  of  more  than  rainbow  hues. 

Oh !  gardens  of  delight ! 

With  the  cool  airs  of  night 

40G 


BELSHAZZAR. 


397 


Arc  lightly  waved  your  silver-foliaged  frees, 
The  deep-embovver'd  yel  glowing  blaze  prolong 
Height  above  height  the  lofiy  terraces 

Seeing  tins  new  day-break, 

The  nestling  birds  awake, 
The  nightnigale  hath  hush'd  her  sweet  uiilimely  song. 

Lift  up,  lift  lip  your  goldcn-valved  doors. 
Spread  to  the  glittering  dance  your  marble  floors. 

Palace!  whose  spacious  halls. 

And  fur-receding  walls. 
Are  hung  with  purple  like  the  morning  skies; 
And  all  the  living  luxuries  of  sound 
Pour  from  the  long  outstretching  galleries  ; 

Down  every  colonnade 

The  sumptuous  board  is  laid. 
With  golden  cups  and    lamps  and   bossy  chargers 
crown'd. 

They  haste,  they  haste  I  the  high-crovk-n'd  rulers  stand, 
Each  with  his  sceptre  in  his  kingly  hand ; 

The  bearded  KIders  sage. 

Though  pale  with  thought  and  age  ; 
Those  through  whose  bounteous  and  unfailing  hands 
The  tributary  streams  of  treasure  flow 
From  the  rich  bounds  of  earth's  remotest  lands ; 

All  but  the  pomp  and  pride 

Of  battle  laid  asitie, 
Chaldea's  Captains  stand  in  many  a  glittering  row. 

They  glide,  they  glide !  each,  like  an  antelope. 
Bounding  in  beauty  on  a  sunny  slope. 

With  full  and  speaking  eyes, 

And  graceful  necks  that  rise 
O'er  snowy  bosoms  in  their  emulous  pride, 
The  chosen  of  earth's  choicest  loveliness  ; 
Some  with  the  veil  thrown  timidly  aside, 

Some  boastful  and  elate 

In  their  majestic  state 
Whose  bridal  bed  Belshazzar's  self  halh  deign'd  to 
bless. 

Come  forth  I  come  forth !  and  crown  the  peerle.ss  feast. 
Thou  whose  high  birthright  was  the  efl^ulgent  east! 

On  th'  ivory  seat  alone. 

Monarch  of  Babylon ! 
Survey  the  intcrniiiiablc  wilderness 
Of  splendour,  stretching  far  beyond  the  sight; 
Nought  but  thy  presence  wants  there  now  to  bless; 

The  music  waits  for  thee, 

iLs  fount  of  harmony, 
Transcending  glory  thou  of  this  thrice-glorious  night! 

Behold  !  behold  I  each  gem-crown'd  forehead  proud. 
And  every  plume  and  crested  helm  is  bovv'd. 

Each  high-arch'd  vault  along 

Breaks  out  the  blaze  of  song, 
Belshazzar  comes  I  nor  Bel.  when  he  returns 
From  riding  on  his  stormy  tliunder-cloud. 
To  where  his  bright  celestial  palace  burns. 

Alights  with  loftier  tread. 

More  full  of  stately  dread. 
While  under  his  fix'd  feet  the  loaded  skies  are  bow'd. 


The  Hall  of  Banquet. 
ciioRr.s. 
Mightiest  of  the  sons  of  man  ! 
The  lion  in  his  forest  lair, 
The  eagle  in  the  (ields  of  air. 
Amid  ihe  tumbling  waves  Leviathan, 
In  power  without  or  peer  or  mate. 
Hold  their  inviolable  state : 
Alone  Belshazzar  stands  on  earth. 
Pre-eminent  o'er  all  of  human  birth. 
Mightiest  of  the  sons  of  man  ! 

Richest  of  the  sons  of  man  ! 
For  thee  the  mountains  teem  with  gold, 
The  spicy  groves  their  bloom  unfold, 
The  bird  of  beauty  bears  its  feathery  fan, 
And  amber  paves  the  yellow  seas, 
And  spread  the  branching  coral-trees, 
JS'or  shrouds  the  mine  its  deepest  gem. 
Ambitious  to  adorn  Belshazzar's  diadem. 
Richest  of  the  sons  of  man ! 

Fairest  of  the  .sons  of  man! 

Tall  as  the  cedar  towers  thuie  head, 

And  fleet  and  terrible  thy  tread. 
As  the  strong  coursers  in  tlie  battle's  van; 

An  Eden  blooms  upon  thy  fiice; 

Like  music,  thy  majestic  grace 

Holds  the  mute  gazer's  breath  suppressed, 
And  makes  a  tumult  in  the  wondering  breast, 

Fairest  of  the  sons  of  man ! 

Noblest  of  the  sons  of  man  I 
The  flrst  a  kingly  rule  that  won. 
Wide  as  the  journey  of  the  sun. 

From  jN'imrod  thine  high-sceptred  race  began; 
And  gathering  spleniloiir  still,  went  down 
From  sire  to  son  tlic  eternal  crown, 
Till  full  on  great  Belshazzar's  crest 

Its  high  meridian  glory  shone  confest, — 
Noblest  of  the  sons  of  man  I 

Happiest  of  the  sons  of  man  I 

In  wine,  in  revel,  and  in  joy 

Was  softly  nurseil  tiie  im|ierial  boy; 
His  golden  years  like  Indian  rivers  ran, 

And  every  rapturous  hour  surpast 

The  glowing  rapture  of  the  last, 

Even  till  the  pleniimie  of  bliss 
Did  overflow  and  centre  all  in  this. 

Happiest  of  the  sons  of  man! 

SADARIS. 

Peace!  peace!  the  king  vouchsafes  his  gracious  speech. 

Sit  ye  like  statues  silent!  ye  have  (|uaif' d 

The  li(|uid  gladness  of  the  blood-red  wine, 

And  ye  have  eaten  of  the  golileii  fruits 

That  the  sun  rijiens  but  (or  kingly  lips. 

And  now  ye  are  about  to  feast  your  ears 

With  great  Belshazzar's  voice. 

ARIOCII. 

The  crowded  hall 

Suspense,  and  prescient  of  the  coming  joy, 
Is  silent  as  the  cloudless  suiiiraer  skies. 

407 


398 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


BELSHAZZAR. 

Oh  ye,  assembled  Babylon !  fair  youths 

And  hoary  Elders,  Warriors,  Counsellors, 

And  bright-eyed  Women,  down  my  festal  board 

Reclining!  oh  ye  thousand  living  men. 

Do  ye  not  hold  your  charter'd  breath  from  me  ? 

And  I  can  plunge  your  souls  in  wine  and  joy  ; 

Or  by  a  word,  a  look,  dismiss  you  all 

To  darkness  and  to  shame :  yet,  are  ye  not 

Proud  of  the  slavery  that  thus  enthrals  you? 

What  king,  what  ruler  over  subject  man 

Or  was,  or  is,  or  shall  be  like  Beishazzar! 

I  summon  from  their  graves  the  sceptred  dead 

Of  elder  days,  to  see  their  shame.     I  cry 

Unto  the  cloudy  Past,  unfold  the  thrones 

That  glorified  the  younger  world  :  I  call 

To  the  dim  Future — lift  thy  veil  and  show 

The  destined  lords  of  human  kind  :  they  rise. 

They  bow  their  veil'd  heads  to  the  dust,  and  own 

The  throne  whereon  Chaldea's  Monarch  sits. 

The  height  and  pinnacle  of  human  glory. 

Oh  Ancient  Cities,  o'er  whose  streets  the  grass 
Is  green,  whose  name  hath  wither'd  from  the  face' 
Of  earth !   Oh  ye  by  rich  o'erflow  ing  Nile, 
Memphis,  and  hundred-gated  Thebes — and  thou, 
Assyrian  Nineveh,  and  ye  golden  towers 
That  redden  o'er  the  Indian  streams,  what  are  ye 
To  Babylon  —  Eternal  Babylon! 
That 's  girt  with  bulwarks  strong  as  adamant. 
O'er  whom  Euphrates'  restless  waves  keep  watch, 
That,  like  the  high  and  everlasting  Heavens, 
Grows  old,  yet  not  less  glorious  ?     Yes,  to  you 
1  turn,  oh  azure-curlain'd  palaces ! 
Whose  lamps  are  stars,  w  hose  music,  the  sweet  motion 
Of  your  own  spheres,  in  w  hom  the  banqueters 
Are  Gods,  nor  fear  my  Babylonian  halls 
Even  with  your  splendours  to  compare. 

Bring  wine ! 
I  see  your  souls  as  jocund  as  mine  own : 
Pour  in  yon  vessels  of  the  Hebrews'  God 
Belshazzar's  beverage — pour  it  high.     Hear,  earth! 

Hear,  Heaven  !  my  proud  defiance  ! Oh,  what  a 

man. 
What  God 

SABARIS,   AND  MAW   VOICES. 

The  king!  the  king  !  look  to  the  king ! 

ARIOCII. 

Where?  I  can  see  nor  king  nor  people — nothing 
But  a  bewildering,  red,  and  gloom-like  light 
That  swallows  up  the  fiery  canopy 
Of  lamps. 

SARARIS. 

Hath  blindness  smitten  thee  ? 

ARIOCH. 

I  know  not  ,• 
But  all  things  swim  around  me  in  a  darkness 
That  dazzles 

SABARIS. 

See,  his  shuddering  joints  are  loosen'd, 
And  his  knees  smite  each  other :  such  a  face 
Is  seen  in  tombs : — what  means  it  ? 


AIUOCH. 

See'st  not  thou 
That  taunted'st  me  but  now — upon  the  wall 
There — there — it  moves 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Oh  dark  and  bodiless  hand, 
What  art  thou — thus  upon  njy  palace  wall 
Gliding  in  shadowy,  slow,  gigantic  blackness  ? 
Lo !  fiery  letters,  where  it  moves,  break  out  : 
'Tis  there — 'tis  gone  : — 'tis  there  again — no,  nought 
But  those  strange  characters  of  flame,  that  burn 
Upon  the  unkindled  wall : — I  cannot  read  them — 
Can  ye  ? 

I  see  your  quivering  lips  that  speak  not — 
Sabaris — Arioch — Captains — Elders — all 
As  pale  and  horror-stricken  as  myself  I 

Are  there  no  wiser  ?    Call  ye  forth  the  Dreamers, 
And  those  that  read  the  stars,  and  every  priest. 
And  he  that  shall  mterpret  best  shall  wear 
The  scarlet  robe  and  chain  of  gold,  and  sit 
Third  ruler  of  my  realm.  Away! — No — leave  me  not 
To  gaze  alone  ; — alone,  on  those  pale  signs 
Of  destiny — the  unextinguishable, 

The  indelible Strew,  strew  my  couch  where  best 

I  may  behold  what  sears  my  burning  eyeballs 
To  gaze  on — and  the  cold  blood  round  my  heart 
To  stand,  like  snow.  No — ache  mine  eyes,  and  quiver 
My  palsied  limbs — I  cannot  turn  away — 
Here  am  I  bound  as  by  thrice-linked  brass. 
Here,  till  the  burthen  of  mine  ignorance 
Be  from  my  loaded  soul  taken  off,  in  silence 
Deep  as  the  midnight  round  a  place  of  tombs. 


The  Summit  of  the  Temijle. 

BEMNA. 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  must  I  endure 
This  restlessness  of  danger  ? — I  have  wish'd 
That  even  the  worst  were  come,  I  am  so  sick 
And  weary  with  suspense  :  I  have  sate  and  gazed 
Upon  the  silent  moon,  as  she  pursued 
Her  journey  to  yon  blue  celestial  height. 
Pilgrim  of  Heaven  !  the  white  translucent  clouds. 
Through  which  she  wanders,  fall  away,  nor  leave 
A  taint  upon  her  spotless  orb:     .Shall  I, 
O  Lord!  emerge  in  purity  as  stainless 
From  the  dark  clouds  that  dim  mine  earthly  course? 
And  sometimes  as  a  whispering  sound  came  up. 
Though  hut  the  voice  of  some  light  breathing  wind 
Along  the  stair,  I  felt  my  trembling  heart, 
And  I  grew  guilty  of  a  timorous  doubt 
In  Him,  whose  guardian  hand  is  o'er  me. 

Hark! 
Hark !  all  around — above — beneath — it  bursts. 

The  long  deep  roll  of: in  yon  cloudless  skies: 

It  cannot  be  God's  thunder,  and  the  fires. 

Blue  as  the  sulphurous  lightning,  rise  from  earth, 

Not  Heaven.    Oh  madly  impious !  dare  ye  thus 

Mimic  the  all-destroying  arms  that  rage 

Against  the  guilty  ?  the  vast  temple  shakes. 

And  all  the  clouded  atmosphere  is  red 

With  the  hell-born  tempest— like  to  rushing  chariots 

Upon  a  stony  way,  like  some  vast  forest 

408 


BELSHAZZAR. 


399 


Ablaze  with  a  heaven-kindled  conflagration, 

It  comes,  it  comes— as  in  a  tent  of  clouds, 

Bent  at  each  moment  by  the  flashing  light. 

The  gloom  rolls  back — it  bursts.     Speak  I — who  art 

thou. 
Whose  robes  are  woven  as  from  the  starry  Heavens  ? 
What  means  that  sceptre,  and  the  wreaths,  like  mist, 
That  turban  thy  dusk  brow  ? — I  know  thee  now — 
I  see  it  grow  mto  a  hideous  likeness — 
Kalassan ! 

K  A  I,  ASS  AN. 

Oh  most  sweet  humility. 
That  doth  disdain  the  modest  palliation 
Of  being  a  Deity's  enforced  bride  ; 
Her  fond  detection  pierces  every  veil, 
And  springs  in  raptures  to  her  mortal  lover. 

BEM.NA. 

Oh  can  I  wonder  that  thou  dost  belie 

The  innocent  helpless  virgin,  when  thy  falsehood 

Aspires  with  frantic  blasphemy  t'  attaint 

The  immaculate  Heavens  ? 

KALASSAN. 

Roll  on !  I  say,  roll  on 
My  bridal  music .'  the  ear-stunning  tambour  — 
Blaze  forth  my  marriage  fires ! 

BENINA. 

Avauntl — My  cries 

KALASSAN. 

Thy  cries  I  Thou  mightst  as  well,  on  Taurus'  brow- 
Call  to  the  shipnian  on  the  Caspian  Sea ! 
See'st  thou  how  lar  thou  art  from  earth  ? 

BE.MNA. 

See'st  thou 
How  near  to  Heaven  ? 

KALASSAN. 

To  Heaven !  behold  the  stars 
Pierce  not  the  cool  pavilion,  where  soft  Darkness, 
Our  handmaid,  hangs  her  nuptial  canopy, 
At  times  illumin'd  by  the  flashing  light 
That  loves  to  linger  on  thy  kindhng  beauty. 

BENINA. 

'T  is  as  he  says  I — nor  sound,  nor  gleam  of  succour — 

Thy  bride — oh,  Adonijah  I — ah,  no  bride 

Of  thine  I— lost— lost  to  thee — would  'twere  by  death! 

Is't  for  the  sin  of  loving  thee  too  fondly 

I  am  deserted  I — Spare  me,  Man  of  Terror, 

And  prayers  for  thee  (they  say,  God  loves  the  prayers 

Of  the  uridefiled)  shall  rise  as  constantly 

As  summer-dews  at  eve. 

KALASSAN. 

Now  louder!  louder! 
Let  there  be  triumph  in  your  martial  sounds. 

BENINA. 

Oh  God  !  oh  God !  I  have  condemn'd  myself. 
And  fallen  from  the  faith.     Ah,  not  for  me ! 
For  thine  own  glory  suffer  not  the  Heathen 

To  boast  of Ha! — all  silence,  and  all  gloom — 

I  tremble — but  he  trembles  too 

KALASSAN. 

With  wrath ! 
Slaves,  wherefore  have  ye  quench'd  mine  earthly 

light, 
And  still'd  my  storm  ? 

34 


VOICE  BELOW. 

Kalassan ! 

KALASSAN. 


Slaves! 

Kalassan ! 


Thou'rt  call'd- 


VOICE. 

Kalassan !  to  Belshazzar's  presence 
We  are  suramon'd  : — Priest,  Diviner,  Seer,  thyself; — 
If  thou  delay'st,  stern  Arioch's  sword  must  sever 
The  disobedient  head  ! 

BENINA. 

With  tears,  not  words, 
I  bless  thee.  Lord ! 

KALASSAN. 

Is  this  thy  God  I 

BENINA. 

My  God, 
In  his  omnipotence,  doth  make  the  wrath 
Of  hurricanes  and  desolating  fires 
His  ministers — why  not  the  brealh  of  Kings? 

KALASSAN. 

The  hour  will  come  in  which  to  tame  thy  scorn ! 

BENINA. 

The  hour  is  come  that  frees  me  from  thy  presence : 
Haste,  haste 

VOICE. 

Kalassan ! 

KALASSAN. 

Slaves  I  I  come. 

BENINA. 

Away ! 
Thou  'It  pardon  me  my  fond  solicitude, 
Impatient  of  thy  lingering. 

KALASSAN. 

Fare  thee  well 
Till  I  return. 

BENINA. 

Till  thou  return 'st He  's  gone! 

I  did  not  think  that  I  could  hear  his  tread. 

His  angry  tread,  with  such  a  deep  delight. 

Oh!  my  fond  parents!  when  we  meet  again. 

We  shall  not  meet  with  strange,  averted  looks  : 

Ye  will  not,  in  sad  pity,  take  me  back 

A  shamed  and  blighted  child  to  your  cold  bosoms. 

And  thou,  betroth'd,  beloved— I  shall  endure 

To  stand  before  thy  face,  nor  wish  the  earth 

To  shroud  me  from  thine  unreproacliing  gaze ; 

For  were  I  all  I  fear'd,  thou  hadst  ne'er  reproach'd 

me ! 
And  oh,  sweet  Siloe!  oh,  my  fathers'  land  ! 
Land  where  the  feet  may  wander  where  they  will — 
Land  where  the  heart  may  love  without  a  fear! 
I  feel  that  I  shall  tread  thee ;  for  the  Lord 
Pours  not  his  mercies  in  a  sparing  measure. 
This  is  the  earnest  of  his  love — the  seal 
With  which  he  marks  us  for  his  own,  his  blest. 
His  ransom'd  !    Oh  !  fair  Zion,  lift  thou  up 
Thy  crown,  that  glitters  to  the  morning  Sun ! 
They  come — thy  lost,  thy  banish'd  children  come — 
And  thy  streets  rise  to  sounds  of  melody  ! 

409 


400 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Hall  of  Banquet,  with  tJte  Fiery  Letters  on  the 
Wall. 

ARIOCH. 

Hath  the  King  spoken  \ 

SABARIS. 

Aot  a  word  :  as  now, 
He  hath  sate,  with  eyes  that  strive  to  grow  famihar 
With  those  red  characters  of  fire  :  but  still 
The  agony  of  terror  hath  not  pass'd 
From  his  chill  frame.     But,  if  a  word,  a  step, 
A  motion,  from  those  multitudes  reclined 
Down  each  long  festal  board  ;  the  bursting  string 
Of  some  shrill  instrument ;  or  even  the  wind, 
Whispering  amid  the  plumes  and  shaking  lamps. 
Disturb  him — by  some  mute,  imperious  gesture, 
Or  by  his  brow's  stern  anger,  he  commands 
All  the  vast  halls  to  silence. 

ARIOCH. 

Peace !  he  hears 
Our  murmur'd  speech. 

SABARIS. 

No. 

ARIOCH. 

Did  ye  not  observe  him. 
When  his  hand  fell  upon  the  all-ruling  sceptre, 
The  bitter  and  self-mocking  laugh  that  pass'd 
O'er  his  pale  cheek? 

SABARIS. 

His  lips  move,  but  he  speaks  not! 
All  still  again 

ARIOCH. 

They  are  here : — the  Priests  and  Seers ; 
Their  snowy  garments  sweep  the  Hall. 

SABARIS. 

Behold ! 
He  motions  them  to  advance  and  to  retreat 
At  once — and  pants,  yet  shudders,  to  demand 
Their  answer. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Oh  !  Chaldea's  worshipp'd  Sages — 
Oh!  men  of  wisdom,  that  have  pass'd  your  years — 
Your  long  and  quiet,  solitary  years, 
In  tracing  the  dim  sources  of  th'  events 
That  agitate  this  world  of  man — oh !  ye 
That  in  the  tongues  of  every  clime  discourse  ; 
Ye  that  hold  converse  with  the  eternal  stars. 
And  in  their  calm  prophetic  courses,  read 
The  destinies  of  em[)ires,-  ye  whose  dreams 
Are  throng'd  with  the  predestined  images 
Of  things  that  are  to  be ;  to  whom  the  Fates 
Unfold  their  secret  councils;  to  whose  sight 
The  darkness  of  Futurity  withdraws, 
And  one  vast  Present  fills  all  TimC' — behold 
Yon  burning  characters !  and  read,  and  say 
Why  the  dark  Destinies  have  hung  their  sentence 
Thus  visible  to  the  sight,  but  to  the  mind 
Unsearchable? — Ye  have  heard  the  rich  reward; 
And  I  but  wait  to  see  whose  neck  shall  wear 

The  chain  of  glory 

Ha!  each  pale  fallen  lip 
Voiceless!  and  each  upon  the  other  turns 
His  wan  and  questioning  looks. Kalassaiil  thou 


Art  like  the  rest,  and  gazest  on  thy  fellows 

In  blank  and  sullen  ignorance. — Spurn  them  forth! 

Ye  wise !  ye  learned  !  ye  with  Fate's  mysteries 

Entrusted  !  Spurn,  I  say,  and  trample  on  them ! 

Let  them  be  outcast  to  the  scom  of  slaves! 

Let  children  pluck  their  beards,  and  every  voice 

Hoot  at  them  as  they  pass! 

Despair!  Despair! 
This  is  thy  palace  now  !  No  throne,  no  couch 
Beseems  the  King,  whose  doom  is  on  his  walls 
Emblazed — yet  whose  vast  empire  finds  not  one 
Whose  faithful  love  can  show  its  mystic  import! 
Low  on  the  dust,  upon  the  pavement  stone, 
Belshazzar  takes  his  rest! — Ye  hosts  of  slaves, 
Behold  your  King!  the  Lord  of  Babylon ! — 
Speak  not — for  he  that  speaks,  in  other  words 
But  to  expound  those  fiery  characters. 
Shall  ne'er  speak  more! 

NiTOCRis  (entering.) 

As  thou  didst  give  command, 
My  son,  I  'm  here  to  see  the  all-glorious  feast 
That  shames  the  earth,  and  copes  with  Heaven. 

Great  Powers. 
Is 't  thus?  Oh!  look  not  with  that  mute  reproach, 
More  terrible  than  anger,  on  thy  mother! 
Oh,  pardon  my  rash  taunts! — my  son  !  my  son! 
Thou  art  but  now  the  beauteous,  smiling  child, 
That  from  my  bosom  drank  the  flowing  life ; 
By  whom  I  've  pass'd  so  many  sleepless  nights 
In  deeper  joy  than  slumber  e'er  could  give ! 
The  sole  refreshment  of  my  weary  spirit 
To  gaze  on  thee  ! — Alas !  't  was  all  my  crime : — 
I  gave  to  thy  young  lips  the  mantling  cup 
Of  luxury  and  pride;  I  taught  thee  first 
That  the  wide  earth  was  made  for  thee,  and  man 
Bom  for  thy  uses ! 

BEI.SIIAZZAR. 

Find  me  who  will  read  it. 
And  thou  wilt  give  me,  then,  a  life  more  precious 
Than  that  I  once  received  of  thee. 

NITOCRIS. 

'Twas  he; 
I  saw  him  as  I  pass'd  along  the  courts. 
The  Hebrew,  that,  when  visions  of  the  night 
Shook  the  imperial  soul  of  Nabonas.sar, 
Like  one  to  whom  the  dimly-peopled  realms 
Of  sleep  were  clear  as  the  bright  noontide  Heavens, 
Spake 

BELSHAZZAR. 

With  the  speed  of  lightning  call  him  hither. 
No  more,  my  mother — till  he  comes,  no  more. 

ARIOCH. 

i  King  of  the  world,  he  's  here. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Not  yet!  not  yet! 
Delay  him!  hold  him  back !— My  soul 's  not  strung 
1  To  the  dire  knowledge. 

Up  the  voiceless  hall 
He  moves;  nor  doth  the  white  and  ashen  fear. 
That  paints  all  faces,  change  one  line  of  his. 
j  Audacious  slave!  walks  he  erect  and  firm, 
!  When  kings  are  grovelling  on  the   earth?  —  Give 
i  place ! 

410 


BELSHAZZAR. 


401 


Why  do  ye  crovvJ  around  him  ?  Back !  I  say. 
Is  your  king  lieard — or  hath  he  ceased  to  rule  ? 

MTOCRIS. 

Alas!  my  son,  fear  levels  kings  and  slaves 

liEI.SHAZZAi;. 

Art  thou  that  Daniel  of  the  Hehrew  rare, 

In  whom  the  exceilenco  of  wisddni  dwells 

As  in  the  (iods  >.     I  have  heard  thy  fame  ; — behold 

Yon  mystic  letters,  flaming  on  the  wall. 

That,  in  the  darkness  of  their  fateful  import, 

Baffle  the  w  isest  of  C'haldea's  sages ! 

Read,  and  interpret;  and  the  satrap  robe 

Of  scarlet  shall  invest  thy  limbs;  the  chain 

Of  gold  adorn  thy  neck;  and  all  the  world 

Own  thee  third  ruler  of  Chaldea's  realm  I 

DAXIEL. 

Belshazzar,  be  thy  gifts  unto  thyself. 
And  thy  rewards  to  others.     I,  the  servant 
Of  God,  will  read  God's  writing  to  the  King. 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  to  thy  great  Ancestor, 
To  Xabonassar,  gave  the  all-ruling  sceptre 
O'er  all  the  nations,  kingdoms,  languages ; 
Lord  paramount  of  life  and  death,  he  slew 
Where'er  he  will'd  ;  and  where  he  will'd  men  lived ; 
His  word  exalted,  and  his  word  debased  ; 
And  so  his  heart  svvell'd  up  ;  and,  in  its  pride, 
Arose  to  Heaven  I     Bui  then  the  Lord  of  earth 
Became  an  outcast  from  the  sons  of  men  — 
Companion  of  the  browsing  beast.^ !  the  dews 
Of  night  fell  cold  upon  his  crownless  brow, 
And  the  wild  asses  of  the  desert  (ed 
Round  their  unenvied  peer!     And  so  he  knew 
That  God  is  Sovereign  o'er  earth's  sceptred  Lords. 
But  thou,  his  son,  unwarn'd,  untaught,  untamed, 
Belshazzar,  hast  arisen  against  the  Lord, 
And  in  the  vessels  of  his  house  hast  quafT'd 
Profane  libations,  'mid  thy  slaves  and  women. 
To  gods  of  gold,  and  stone,  and  wood  ;  and  laugh'd 
The  King  of  Kings,  the  God  of  Gods,  to  scorn. 
Now  hear  the  words,  and  hear  their  secret  meaning — 
"  A'umber'd !"    twice   "Aumber'dl    Weigh'dl   Divi- 
ded I"  King, 
Thy  reign  is  number'd,  and  thyself  art  weigh'd, 
And  wanting  in  the  balance,  and  thy  realm 
Sener'd,  and  to  the  conquering  Persian  given  I 

ARIOCH. 

What  vengeance  will  he  wreak  ?  The  pit  of  lions — 
The  stake 

EEL.'^IIAZZAR. 

Go — lead  ihe  Hebrew  forth,  array'd 
In  the  proud  robe,  let  all  the  city  hail 
The  honour'd  of  Belshazzar.    Oh !  not  long 
Will  that  imperial  name  command  your  awe ! 
And,  oh  !  ye  bright  and  festal  halls,  whose  vaults 
Were  full  of  sweet  sounds  as  the  summer  groves, 
Must  ye  be  changed  for  chambers,  where  no  tone 
Of  music  sounds,  nor  melody  of  harp. 
Or  lute,  or  woman's  melting  voice  ? — My  mother! — 
And  how  shall  we  two  meet  the  coming  ruin  ? 
In  arms  !  thou  say'st ;  but  with  what  arms,  to  front 
The  Invisible,  that  in  the  silent  air 
Wars  on  us  ?  Shall  we  seek  some  place  of  silence, 


Where  the  cold  cypress  shades  our  Fathers'  tombs, 
And  grow  familiar  with  the  abode  of  Death  ? 

And  yet  how  calm,  how  fragrant,  how  serene 
The  night!  —  When  enijjires  iiill,  and  Fate  thrusts 

down 
The  monarchs  from  their  ancient  thrones,  't  is  said, 
The  red  stars  meet,  with  ominous,  hostile  fires ; 
And  the  dark  vault  of  Heaven  flames  all  across 
With  meteors ;  and  the  conscious  earth  is  rock'd ; 
And  foaming  rivers  burst  their  shores  !   But  now, 
Save  in  my  soul,  there  is  no  prescient  dread  ; — 
Nought  but  my  fear-struck  brow  is  dark  and  sad, 
All  sleeps  in  moonlight  silence :  ye  can  wave. 
Oh  happy  gardens  !  in  the  cool  night  airs 
Your  playful  branches;  ye  can  rise  to  Heaven, 
And  glitter,  my  unconscious  palace-towers; 
No  gliding  hand,  no  Prophet's  voice,  to  you 
Hath  rent  the  veil  that  hides  the  awful  future! 
Well,  we  'II  go  rest  once  more  on  kingly  couches, 
INIy  mother,  and  we  'II  wake  and  feel  that  earth 
Still  trembles  at  our  nod,  and  see  the  slaves 
Reading  their  fate  in  our  imperial  looks  ! 

And  then — and  then Ye  Gods !  that  I  had  still 

Nought  but  my  shuddering  and  distracting  fears  ; 

That  those  dread  letters  might  resume  once  more 

Their  dark  and  unintelligible  brightness  ; 

Or  that  'twere  o'er,  and  I  and  Babylon 

Were — what  a  few  short  days  or  hours  will  make  us 


Above  the  City. 

THE   DESTROVI.VG    ANGEL. 

The  hour  is  come  !  the  hour  is  come  !  With  voice 

Heard  in  thy  inmost  soul,  I  summon  thee, 

Cyrus,  the  Lord's  anointed  !   And  thou  River, 

That  flow'st  exulting  in  thy  proud  approach 

To  Babylon,  beneath  whose  shadowy  walls 

And  brazen  gates,  and  gilded  palaces, 

And  groves,  that  gleam  with  marble  obelisks, 

Thy  azure  bosom  shall  repose,  with  lights 

Fretted  and  checiuer'd  like  the  starry  heavens: 

I  do  arrest  thee  in  thy  stately  course. 

By  Him  that  pour'd  thee  from  thine  ancient  fountain. 

And  sent  thee  forth,  even  at  the  birth  of  Time, 

One  of  his  holy  streams,  to  lave  the  mounts 

Of  Paradise.    Thou  hear'st  me  :  thou  dost  check 

Abrupt  thy  waters,  as  the  Arab  chief 

His  headlong  squadrons.     Where  the  unobserved 

Yet  toiling  Persian  breaks  the  ruining  mound, 

I  see  thee  gather  thy  tumultuous  strength  ; 

And,  through  the  deep  and  roaring  Naharmalcha,  (8) 

Roll  on,  as  proudly  conscious  of  fulfilling 

The  Omnifwtent  command  !     While,  far  away. 

The  lake,  that  slept  but  now  so  calm,  nor  moved 

Save  by  the  rippling  moonshine,  heave.*  on  high 

Its  foaming  surface,  like  a  whirljwol  gulf. 

And  boils  and  whitens  with  the  unwonted  tide. 

But  silent  as  thy  billows  used  to  flow. 
And  terrible  the  hosts  of  Flam  move. 
Winding  their  darksome  way  profound,  where  man 
Ne'er  trod,  nor  light  e'er  shone,  nor  air  from  Heav'n 
Breathed.    Oh!  ye  secret  and  unfalhom'd  depths, 

411 


402 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  are  ye  now  a  smooth  and  royal  way 

For  th'  army  of  God's  vengeance !    Fellow  slaves. 

And  ministers  of  the  Eternal  purpose, 

Not  guided  by  the  treacherous  injured  sons 

Of  Babylon,  but  by  my  mightier  arm. 

Ye  come,  and  spread  your  banners,  and  display 

Your  glittering  arms  as  ye  advance,  all  white 

Beneath  th'  admiring  moon.     Come  on  !  the  gates 

Are  open — not  lor  banqueters  in  blood 

Like  you  ! — I  see  on  either  side  o'erflow 

The  living  deluge  of  arm'd  men,  and  cry 

Begin,  begin,  with  fire  and  sword  begin 

The  work  of  wrath.     Upon  my  shadowy  wings 

I  pause  and  float  a  little  while  lo  see 

Mine  human  in.struments  fulfil  my  task 

Of  final  ruin.    Then  I  mount,  I  fly, 

And  sing  my  proud  song,  as  I  ride  the  clouds, 

That  stars  may  hear,  and  all  the  hosts  of  worlds. 

That  live  along  the  interminable  space, 

Take  up  Jehovah's  everlasting  triumph  ! 


The  Streets  of  Babylon. 
Adonijah,  Imlah. 

ADOMJAH. 

Imlah  I  this  way  he  motion 'd  me  to  pass. 

IMLAH. 

My  son !  (alas  I  I  ever  call  thee  son, 

Though  my  old  childless  heart  but  bleeds  the  more 

At  that  fond  name,)  the  broad  Euphrates  lies 

That  way,  nor  boat  nor  bark  is  wont  lo  moor 

By  that  inhospitable  pier ;  he  meant 

Toward  the  Temple — that  way  leads  not  thither. 

ADONIJAH. 

Father,  the  Lord  will  make  a  way,  where'er 
His  Prophets  do  direct  our  feet.    Thou  saw'st  not 
As  I ;  they  led  him  at  the  king's  command 
Along  the  streets,  in  scarlet  clad,  and  made 
Their  trumpets  clamour,  and  their  voices  shout 
Before  great  Daniel ;  but  it  seem'd  he  mark'd 
Wor  trumpet  sound,  nor  voice  of  man :  the  garb, 
Th'  array,  the  triumph  touch'd  not  him :  he  held 
A  strange,  elate,  and  voiceless  intercourse 
With  some  dark  being  in  the  clouds ;  for  now 
I  .saw  him,  as  the  torches  shone  upon  him — 
His  brow  like  some  crown'd  warrior's, when  his  hosts 
Are  spreading,  in  their  arm'd  magnificence. 
Over  a  concpier'd  realm;  and  now  he  seem'd 
To  count  impatient  the  slow  time;  and  now 
He  look'd,  where  in  the  distant  darkness  rose 
The  Temple,  now  where  still  the  palace  shone 
With  its  rich  festal  light,  as  though  he  watch'd 
And  listen'd  f()r  some  earthcjuake  to  o'erthrow  them. 
His  ominous  looks  were  terrible  with  ruin  ; 
The  majesty  of  God's  triumphant  vengeance 
Was  in  his  tread:  even  thus  the  Patriarch  look'd, 
When,  mounting  in  his  ark,  he  saw  the  deluge 
Come  sweeping  o'er  the  doom'd  yet  heedless  world. 
Something,  be  sure,  the  hand  of  God  prepares 
To  rescue,  to  revenge. 

IMLAH. 

Too  late  I  too  late! 
Ob  that  last  night! 


ADO.NIJAH. 

My  father! 

I.MLAH. 

Thou  art  right; 
'T  was  rashly,  madly  spoken — but  my  spirit 
Is  wrung  almost  to  find  a  deadly  pleasure 
In  madly  uttering  what  the  heart  abhors. 
I  '11  on  with  thee. 

ADONIJAH. 

He  motion'd  me  alone. 

I.MLAH. 

He  did — and  he  must  be  obey'd  :  farewell, 
Dear  youth — dear  son  !  if  thou  shouldst  meet  with  her 
Cast  forth  in  scorn,  and  groveling  on  the  earth. 
Chide  her  not,  Adonijah — speak  not  to  her. 
Lest  thy  compassion  seem  lo  mock  her  shame  : 
But,  pray  thee,  lead  her  lo  the  old  man's  home — 
To  the  old  man's  heart,  that  will  not  love  her  less. 
Though  his  love  have  less  of  pride  and  more  of  sor- 
row. 
Farewell,  and  prosper! 

I  '11  go  wander  on 
Through  the  dusk  streets.     Poor  Naomi !  I  left  thee, 
Thy  wretchedness  had  wrought  its  own  relief, 
Asleep.     Oh  thou,  if  thoii  shouldst  never  wake. 
Thrice  bless 'd.     Beloved,  I  should  mourn  for  thee, 
But  envy  while  I  mourn'd. 

Great  King' of  vengeance, 
God  of  my  fathers!  thou  art  here  at  length. 
Behold  !  behold  !  from  every  street  the  flames 
Burst  out,  and  armed  men,  proud  conquering  men. 
Move  in  the  blaze  they  've  kindled  to  destro)-. 
Are  ye  the  avenging  Spirits  of  the  Lord, 
Descended  on  the  blast,  and  clouding  o'er 
The  Heavens,  as  ye  come  down,  with  that  red  cope 
Deeper  than  lightning?     ?s'o — it  is  the  Mede, 
The  ravaging,  the  slaughtering,  merciless  Mede, 
This  way  they  fly,  with  shrieks,  and  clashing  arms, 
And  multitudes  that  choke  th'  impassable  streets, 
Till  the  fierce  conqueror  hew  his  ruthless  way. 
Shall  not  I  fly?  and  wherefore?   Oh!  waste  on 
And  burn,  triumphant  stranger!  trample  down 

Master  and  slave  alike  ! there  is  one  house 

Thou  canst  not  make  more  desolate  :  thou  canst  not 

Pour  ills  on  any  of  these  guilty  roofs. 

So  hateful  as  have  burst  on  mine. Who  comes  ? 

NiTOCRis,  Imlxh. 

NITOCRIS. 

My  son !  my  son  !  I  heard  the  cries — I  saw 
The  flames;  I  rush'd  through  all  the  shrieking  palace 
To  seek  him — and  I  found  him  not;  and  sprang 
To  find  him,  where  I  thought  not,  where  1  knew  not. 
One  moment  do  I  plnngf  iiito  the  gloom 
Of  some  dark  court,  to  shun  the  foe — the  next, 
I  bless  the  angry  and  destroying  light, 
Because  I  think  it  may  disclose  the  face. 
The  beauteous  face  of  mine  Imperial  Boy. 
I've  pass'd  by  widows,  and  by  frantic  mothers, 
That  howl  and  tear  their  hair  o'er  their  dead  chil- 
dren : 
I  cannot  find  my  child,  even  to  perform 
That  last  sad  duty  of  my  love — to  mourn  him. 

412 


BELSHAZZAR. 


403 


I  've  cried  aloud,  and  told  them  I  'm  their  queen ; 

They  gaze  on  me,  and  mock  rae  with  their  pity, 

Showing  that  (jueens  can  be  as  desolate 

As  slaves  :  and  sometimes  have  1  paused  and  stoop'd 

O'er  dying  faces,  with  a  hideous  hope 

Of  seeing  my  son  !     I  dare  not  cry  Beishazzar, 

Lest  he  should  hear  me,  and  come  forth  and  meet 

The  slaughtering  sword.     Ye  Gods!  his  very  beauty 

And  majesty  will  mark  him  out  for  slaughter: 

And  the  fierce  Persian,  that  in  weary  pride 

May  scorn  to  flesh  his  sword  on  meaner  heads, 

Will  win  himself  an  everlasting  glory, 

By  slaying  th'  iinarm'd,  the  succourless  Beishazzar. 

Here's  one — hast  seen  him  ?  Slave,  I'll  give  thee  gold, 

I'll  give  thee  kingdoms ah!  what  gold  or  kingdoms 

Hath  the  sad  queen  of  captive  Babylon 
To  give  ?  but  thou  hast  haply  known  the  love 
That  parents  bear  to  those  who  have  been  a  part 
Of  their  own  selves,  whose  lives  are  twined  with  theirs 
So  subtly,  that  't  were  worse  than  death  to  part  them. 
Hast  seen  the  king — my  son — the  pride  of  kings — 
My  peerless  son  I 

IML.Mt. 

I  had  a  child  this  morn, 
Beautiful  as  the  doe  upon  the  mountains, 
Pure  as  the  crystal  of  the  brook  she  drinks  ; 
And  when  they  rent  her  from  her  father's  heart. 

To  death oh  no ! — to  deeper  woe  than  death, 

The  queen  of  Babylon  swept  proudly  by, 
Nor  stoop'd  to  waste  her  pity  on  the  childless. 

NITOCRIS. 

Oh  ye  just  GoJs  !  but  cruel  in  your  justice  ! 
And  never  met  ye  more  ? 

IMLAH. 

No  more ! 

MTOCRIS. 

Great  Heaven ! 
I  own  your  equal  hand  :  the  bitter  chalice 
That  we  have  given  to  others'  lips,  our  own 
Must  to  the  dregs  drink  out.    So,  never  more 
Shall  I  behold  thee — not  to  wind  thy  corpse — 
To  pour  sweet  ointments  on  thy  clay-cold  limbs. 
Alas!  and  what  did  Nabona.s.sar's  daughter 
In  the  dark  streets  alone?  when  there  were  men 
To  rally,  arms  to  array — my  voice,  my  look. 
The  hereditary  terror  that  is  said 
To  dwell  on  mine  imperial  brow,  had  pour'd 
Dismay  and  flight  u|)on  the  conquering  Mede. 
Semiramis,  for  empire,  cast  away 
The  woman,  and  went  forth  in  brazen  arms. 
I  could  not  for  my  son ! 

My  naked  feet 
Bleed  where  I  move;  and  on  my  crownless  head 
(For  what  have  I  to  do  with  crowns ')  beat  cold 
The  chilling  elements  ;  till  but  now  I  felt  not 
My  loose,  and  thin,  and  insufficient  raiment. 
Well,  there  's  enough  to  shroud  the  dead  ;  and  thee 
To  colder  nakednes.s,  my  son  !  my  son  I 
The  spoiler  will  have  stripp'd 

I.MLAII. 

God  pardon  me 
For  taunting  her  distress!   Rest  here,  oh  queen  ! 
Under  this  low  and  wretched  roof  thou  art  safe  ; 
31'  3  A 


The  plunderer  wars  upon  the  gilded  palace. 
Not  the  base  hovel.    There  "s  a  mother  there 
As  sad  as  thou,  and  sleep  may  be  as  merciful 
To  thee  as  her. 

NITOCRIS. 

SIcepI  sleep !  with  Babylon 
In  flames  around  me  ;  Nabonassar's  realm, 
The  city  of  earth's  sovereigns  rushing  down, 
The  pride  of  countless  ages,  and  the  glory. 
By  generations  of  triumphant  kings 
Rear'd  up — my  sire's,  my  husband's,  and  my  son's, 
And  mine  own  stately  birth-place  perishing  : 
The  summer  gardens  of  my  joy  cut  down  ; 
The  ivory  chambers  of  my  luxury. 
Where  I  was  wed,  and  bore  my  beauteous  son. 
Howl'd  through  by  strangers !    No — I  'II  on,  and  find 
Death  or  my  son,  or  both  !   My  glorious  city ! 
My  old  ancestral  throne  !  thou  'It  still  afford 
A  burial  fire.     I  've  lived  a  queen,  the  daughter 
Of  kings,  the  wife,  the  mother — and  will  die 
Queen-like,  with  Babylon  (or  my  funeral  pile  ! 


Before  the  Temple. 

BENINA. 

Oh  thou  dread  night!  what  new  and  awful  signs 

Crowd  thy  portentous  hours,  so  calm  in  heav'n. 

With  all  thy  stars  and  full-orb'd  moon  serene 

Sleeping  on  crystal  and  pellucid  rlouds ! 

How  terrible  on  earth  I  as  I  riish'd  down 

The  vacant  stair,  nor  heard  a  living  sound. 

Save  mine  own  bounding  footstep,  all  at  once 

Methought  Euphrates'  rolling  waters  sank 

Into  the  earth;  the  gilded  galleys  rock'd. 

And  plunged  and  settled  in  the  sandy  depths; 

And  the  tall  bridge  upon  its  lengthening  pier 

Seera'd  to  bestride  a  dark,  unfathom'd  gulf 

Then,  where  blue  waters  and  the  ivory  decks 

Of  royal  vessels,  and  their  silver  prows. 

Reflected  the  bright  lights  of  heav'n,  they  shone 

Upon  the  glancing  armour,  helms,  and  spears 

Of  a  vast  army  :  then  the  stone-paved  walls 

Rang  with  the  weight  of  chariots,  and  the  gates 

Of  bra.ss  fell  down  with  [londerous  clang:  then  -sank 

O'er  the  vast  city  one  sepulchral  silence, 

As  though  the  wondering  concjueror  scarce  believed 

His  easy  triumph.     But  ye  revellers 

That  lay  at  rest  upon  your  festal  garments. 

The  pleasant  weariness  of  wine  and  joy. 

And  the  sweet  dreams  of  yonr  scarce-ended  pleasures. 

Still  hanging  o'er  your  silken  couches  !  ye 

Woke  only,  if  ye  woke  indeed,  to  see 

The  Median  scimitar  that,  red  with  blood, 

Flash'd  o'er  you,  or  the  blaze  of  fire  that  wrapt 

In  sulphurous  folds  the  chambers  of  your  rest. 

Oh  Lord  of  Hosts!  in  thine  avenging  hour 

How  dreadful  art  thou !    Pardon  if  1  weep 

When  all  my  grateful  heart  should  beat  with  joy 

For  my  deliverance. 

Kalassan,  Benlna. 
kalassan. 

All  is  lost!  Great  Bel, 
Thus,  thus  dost  thou  avenge  thy  broken  rite ! 

413 


404 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now,  by  thy  thunders,  'tis  the  beauteous  bride  — 
Thou  givest  her  to  me  yet. 

BKNINA. 

Miscreant  I  what  mean'st  thou  ? 

KALASSAN. 

'T  was   love  before ;  and  now   't  is  love  and  ven- 
geance ; 
And  I  will  quaff  the  doubly-mantling  cup, 
In  all  its  richness. 

BEMNA. 

Guilty  man!  look  round, 
Thou  seest  my  God,  the  God  of  Gods,  reveal'd 
In  yon  wide  fires  !     Nor  thou,  nor  one  of  those 
That  walk  the  death-doom'd  streets  of  Babylon, 
Have  even  an  hour  to  live. 

KALASSAN. 

Then  I  've  no  hour 
To  waste.     'T  is  said  the  Indian  widows  mount 
In  pride  and  joy  their  husbands'  funeral  pyres  ; 
Thou,  in  thy  deep  devotion,  shall  excel  them. 
And  wed  thy  bridegroom  for  the  loftier  glory 
Of  dying  by  his  side. 

EEXIXA. 

Oh  mercy ! 

KALASSAN. 

Mercy  I 
Ask  of  the  Babylonian  maids  and  wives. 
If  they  find  mercy  ? 

BEMNA. 

Ah !  and  I  presumed 
To  speak  of  pitying  others ! 

KALASSAN. 

Come What 's  here  ? 

Kalassan,  Benina,  Adonijah. 

adonijah. 
With  unwet  foot  I  trod  the  river's  depth; 
It  is  the  privilege  of  Israel's  sons 
To  walk  through  seas  as  on  dry  land. 

BENIN  A. 

Oh  stranger ! 

That  bear'st  a  Persian  scimitar No  stranger! 

Is  it  his  angel,  with  his  beauteous  brow  ? 

His  eyes,  his  voice — his  clasping  arms  around  me  ! — 

Mine  own,  my  brave,  my  noble  Adonijah ! 

Too  bounteous  Heaven ! 

KALASSAN. 

Fond  slave  !  unclasp  thine  arms. 

AOONI.IAII. 

What — must  I  rob  the  Persian  of  his  victim? 
Oh !  not  in  vain  this  bright  and  welcome  steel 
Glitter'd  to  court  my  grasp!     What!  the  first  foe 
My  warrior  arm  hath  met  retreat  before  me  ? 
I  '11  follow  thee  to  earth's  remotest  verge. 

BENINA. 

Oh !  I  could  shriek,  and  weary  Heaven  with  cries 
For  my  sad  self— for  thee — for  thee  I     My  lips 
Are  parch'd  to  silence;  and  my  throat — Come  back! 
Their  swords  clash — some  one  falls — and  groans  : — 

he  calls  not 
Upon  the  God  of  Israel. — Ha  !  perchance 
He  cannot  cry !     AH 's  dark. — Ah  me  !  how  strong, 
How  dreadful  was  the  Heathen  in  his  strength ! 


He  'a  here ! — I  dare  not  ask,  which  art  thou  ?  which— 
Alas,  prophetic  spirit  hast  thou  left  me 
To  ask  ?    Oh  Love !  thou  used  to  know  his  tread 
'Mong  thousands ! 

ADONIJAH. 

Sweet !  where  art  thou  ? 

BENINA. 

On  iliy  bosom. 

ADONIJAH. 

The  Lord  hath  triumph 'd  by  his  servant's  hands: 
He  lies  in  death,  blaspheming  his  own  Gods. 

BENINA. 

Merciful!  I  almost  thank  thee  for  the  dread 
And  danger  of  this  night,  that  closes  thus 
In  such  o'erpowering  joy  ! 

ADONIJAH. 

Hast  suffer'd  nought 
But  dread  and  danger  ? 

BENINA. 

What  ? 

ADONIJAH. 

Thou  'st  been  where  evil 
Riots  uncheck'd,  untamed ! 

BENINA. 

Oh  Adonijah! 
I  have  endured  thy  lip  upon  my  cheek. 
And  I  endure  thine  arms  clasp'd  fondly  round  me, 
And  on  thy  bosom  I  recline,  and  look 
Upon  thy  face  with  eyes  suffused  with  teal's. 
But  not  of  shame.     What  would'st  thou  more  ? 

ADONIJAH. 

Nought,  nought, 
Oh  pardon  that  my  jealous  fears  misdoubted 
Thy  pure,  thy  proud,  thy  holy  love !    Come  on  I 
Come  to  thy  parents'  home  that  wait  for  thee. 
And  change  thy  voiceless  house  of  desolation 
To  an  abode  of  joy,  as  mute. 

Come !  come  I 
Beauteous  as  her  that  with  her  timbrel  pass'd 
Along  the  Red  Sea  depths,  and  cast  her  song — 
Upon  the  free  airs  of  the  wilderness— 
The  song  of  joy,  of  triumph,  of  deliverance  ! 


The  Streets  of  Babylon  in  Jlanws. 

BELSIIAZZAR. 

I  cannot  fight  nor  fly  :  where'er  I  move. 
On  shadowy  battlement,  or  cloud  of  smoke. 
That  dark  unbodied  hand  waves  to  and  fro. 
And  marshals  me  the  way  to  death — to  death 
That  still  eludes  me.    Every  blazing  wall 
Breaks  out  in  those  red  characters  ol'  fate ; 
.And  when  I  raised  my  sword  to  war,  ineiliought 
That  dark-stoled  Prophet  stood  between,  and  seem'd 
Rebuking  Heaven  for  its  slow  consummation 
Of  his  dire  words. 

I  am  alone  :  my  slaves 
Fled  at  the  first  wild  outcry;  and  my  women 
Closed  all  their  doors  against  me— for  lliey  knew  me 
Mark'd  with  the  seal  of  destiny  :  no  hand. 
Though  I  have  sued  for  water,  holds  a  cup 
To  my  parch'd  lips ;  no  voice,  as  I  pass  on, 

414 


BELSHAZZAR. 


405 


Hath  bless'd  me ;  from  the  very  festal  garments, 
That  glitter'd  in  my  halls,  they  shake  the  dust : 
Ev'n  the  priests  spurn'd  me,  as  abhorr'd  of  Heaven. 
Oh!  but  the  fiery  Mede  dolh  well  avenge  me! 
They're  sirew'd  beneath  my  feet  —  though  not  in 

worship! 
Oh  death  !  death !  death  !  that  art  so  swift  to  seize 
The  comiueror  on  his  triumph  day,  the  bride 
Ere  yet  her  wedding  lamps  have  waned,  the  king 
Where  all  mankind  are  kneeling  at  his  footstool — 
Thou  'rt  only  slow  to  him  that  knows  himself 
Thy  fated  prey,  that  seeks  within  the  tomb 
A  dark  retreat  from  wretchedness  and  shame. 
From  shame  ! — the  heir  of  Aabonassar's  glory ! 
From  wretchedness  I — the  Lord  of  Babylon — 
Of  golden  and  luxurious  Babylon  ! 
Alas!  through  burning  Babylon  !  the  fallen. 
The  city  of  lamentation  and  of  slaughter ! 
A  fugitive  and  outcast,  that  can  find. 
Of  all  his  realm,  not  even  a  grave ! — so  base. 
That  even  the  conquering  Mede  disdains  to  slay  him! 


Before  the  House  of  Iinlah. 
Imlah,  Adonijah,  Bexixa,  Naomi. 

IMLAH. 

Naomi !  Naomi !  look  forth — she  's  here  ! 

XAOMI. 

I  know  she  is — in  dreams :  through  all  the  night 
I  've  seen  her,  gliding  from  the  fountain  side 
With  the  pure  urn  of  water,  or  with  lips 
Apart,  and  bashful  voice,  that  faintly  breathed 
One  of  her  country's  song.s !   I  've  seen  her  kneeling 
In  prayer,  alas  !  that  ne'er  was  heard  on  high  ! 
And  thou  hast  scared  my  vision's  joys  away — 

To  see — all  heav'n  on  fire,  and  the  vast  city 

Imlah !  what  mean  those  massy  clouds  of  smoke, 

Those  shrieks  and  clashings? and  —  that  youth 

and  maid, 
Why  stand  they  there  ?  we  need  no  sad  remembran- 
cers 
Of  our  deep  desolation  I 

BEMXA. 

Doth  my  mother 
With  such  cold  salutation  welcome  home 
Her  child  ? 

XAOMI. 

No!  no  !  ye  can  no  more  delude  me! 
Twice  have  I  woken,   and   heard   that  voice,  and 

stretch'd 
My  arms 

BKXIXA. 

But  hast  not  folded  to  thy  bosom, 
As  thus,  thy  child,  thy  lost,  thy  loved  Benina ! 

NAOMI. 

'Tis  living  flesh!  it  is  a  breathing  lip! 
And  the  heart  swells  like — Oh  no! — not  like  mine! 
Oh !  thou  twice  born  !  the  sorrow  and  the  joy 
That  I  endured  to  bring  my  beauteous  babe 
Into  the  world  were  nought  to  this  I 

BEXIXA. 

Dear  mother, 
May  I  ne'er  cost  thee  bitterer  tears  than  these 


IMLAH. 

My  Father's  God,  thou  show'dst  thyself  of  old, 

By  smiting  water  from  the  stony  rock. 

And  raining  manna  on  the  desert  sands! 

Here  is  thy  best — most  gracious  miracle! 

Making  the  rhildless  heart  to  laugh  with  gladness; 

The  eyes  that  had  forgot  to  weep  o'erflovv 

With  tears  delicious!     Thou  hast  raised  the  dead, 

.And  to  the  widow  given  her  shrouded  child! 

But  what  was  that  pale  boy  to  her  that  stands 

So  beautiful  before  us  ?     What  was  death 

To  her  dark  trial  >.     And  she's  here — and  life 

Bounds  in  her  bosom — the  young  doves  that  erst, 

Ere  yet  the  cold  airs  soil'd  their  snowy  plumes. 

Were  offer'd  in  thy  Temple  not  so  pure! 

NAO.MI. 

How  camest  thou  hither  ? 

BEXINA. 

Ask  of  him  that  led  me^ 
Of  him — that  all  but  I  seem  to  have  forgotten. 

ADOXIJAII. 

Love,  I  shall  take  a  sweet  revenge  hereafter, 
Resuming  to  myself  the  boon  that  now 
They  have  no  time  to  thank  me  for  — What 's  he, 
That  rushes  where  proud  War  disdains  to  spoil? 
That  tread  was  wont  to  move  in  marble  halls. 
To  sounds  of  music.     Round  his  limbs,  that  shake 
And  quiver,  as  with  pain,  he  wraps  his  robes. 
Like  one  men  wont  to  gaze  on.     Even  despair 
On  such  a  brow  looks  noble ! — Hark  !  he  speaks 

77(6  above,  Belsiiazzar. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

'Tis  come  at  last!  the  barbed  arrow  drinks 

My  life-blood.     'Mid  the  base  abode  of  slaves 

I  seem  to  stand  :  not  here — my  fathers  set 

Like  suns  in  glory!   I  'II  not  perish  here, 

And  stifie  like  some  vile,  forgotten  lamp! 

Oh,  dreadful  God  !  is't  not  enough? — My  state 

I  equall'd  with  the  Heavens— and  wilt  thou  trample 

me 
Beneath  these — What  are  ye  that  crowd  around  me  ? 
I  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  your  forms 
And  voices.     Are  ye  not  the  slaves  that  stood 
This  mom  before  me  I  and 

l.'MLAII. 

Thou  spurn 'dst  us  from  thee. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

And  ye  '11  revenge  you  on  the  clay-cold  corpse. 

I.MLAH. 

Fear  not:  our  God,  and  this  world's  cruel  usage. 
Have  taught  us  early  what  kings  learn  too  late. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Ye  know  me,  then — ye  know  the  King  of  Babylon — 

The  King  of  dust  and  ashes  ?  fur  what  else 

Is  now  the  beauteous  city — earth's  delight  ? 

And  what  the  King  himself  but — dust  and  ashes  ? 

BEXIXA. 

He  faints— support  him,  dearest  Adonijah  ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Mine  eyes  are  heavy,  and  a  swoon,  a  sleep 
Swims  o'er  my  head  : — go,  summon  me  the  lutes. 
That  used  to  soothe  me  to  ray  balmiest  slumbers ; 

415 


406 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  bid  the  snowy-handed  maidens  fan 

The  dull,  hot  air  around  me.    'T  is  not  well — 

This  bed — 't  is  hard  and  damp.     I  gave  command 

I  would  not  lie  but  on  the  softest  plumes 

That  the  birds  bear.     Slaves!  hear  ye  not?  —  'tis 

cold  — 
'T  is  piercing  cold 

EENINA. 

Alas !  he  's  little  used 
To  feel  the  night  winds  on  his  naked  brow : 
He's  breathing  still — spread  o'er  him  that  bright 

mantle; 
A  strange,  sad  use  for  robes  of  sovereignty. 

The  above,  Nitocris. 

NITOCRIS. 

Why  should  I  pass  street  after  street,  through  flames 
That  make  the  hardy  conqueror  shrink  ;  and  stride 
O'er  heaps  of  dying,  that  look  up  and  wonder 
To  see  a  living  and  un wounded  being? 
Oh!  mercifully  cruel,  they  do  slay 
The  child  and  mother  with  one  blow  !  the  bride 
And  bridegroom !     I  alone  am  spared,  to  die 
Remote  from  all  —  from  him  with  whom  I've  cher- 

ish'd 
A  desperate  hope  to  mingle  my  cold  ashes  ! 
'Tis  all  the  daughter  of  great  Nabonassar 
Hath  now  to  ask ! — I  '11  sit  me  down  and  listen, 
And  through  that  turbulent  din  of  clattering  steel. 
And  cries  of  murder'd  men,  and  smouldering  houses, 
And  th'  answering  trumpets  of  tiie  Mede  and  Persian, 
Summoning  their  bands  to  some  new  work  of  slaugh- 
ter. 
Anon  one  universal  cry  of  triumph 
Will  burst ;  and  all  the  city,  either  host, 
In  mute  and  breathless  admiration,  lie 
To  hear  the  o'eriwwering  clamour  that  announces 
Belshazzar  slain ! — and  then  I  '11  rise  and  rush 
To  that  dread  place — they  '11  let  me  weep  or  die 
Upon  his  corpse! — Old  man,  thou'st  found  thy  child? 

IMLAII. 

I  have — I  have — and  thine.    Oh  !  rise  not  thus, 
In  thy  majestic  joy,  as  though  to  mount 
Earth's  throne  again.     Behold  the  King! 

NITOCRIS. 

My  son ! 
On  the  cold  earth — not  there,  but  on  my  bosom — 
Alas!  that's  colder  still.     My  beauteous  boy. 
Look  up  and  see 

BELSHAZZAR. 

I  can  see  nought — all 's  darkness  ! 

NITOCRIS. 

Too  true  :  he  '11  die,  and  will  not  know  me  !   Son  ! 

Thy  mother  speaks — thy  only  kindred  flesh. 

That  loved  thee  ere  thou  vvert;  and,  when  thou'rt 

gone. 
Will  love  thee  still  the  more  ! 

RELSIIAZZAR. 

Have  dying  kings 
Lovers  or  kindred  ?   Hence!  disturb  me  not. 

NITOCRIS. 

Shall  I  disturb  thee,  croiirliing  by  tiiy  side 
To  die  with  thee  ?    Oh !  liovv  he  u.?ed  to  turn 


And  nestle  his  young  cheek  in  this  full  bosom, 
That  now  he  shrinks  from !    No!  it  is  the  last 
Convulsive  shudder  of  cold  death.     My  son, 
Wait — wait,  and  I  will  die  with  thee — not  yet — 
Alas!  yet  this  was  what  I  pray'd  lor — this — 
To  kiss  thy  cold  cheek,  and  inhale  thy  last — ■ 
Thy  dying  breath. 

IMLAII. 

Behold!  behold,  they  rise  ; 
Feebly  they  stand,  by  their  united  strength 
Supported.     Hath  yon  kindling  of  liie  darkness. 
Yon  blaze,  that  seems  as  if  the  earth  and  heaven 
Were  mingled  in  one  ghastly  iuneral  pile. 
Aroused  them  ?  Lo,  the  flames,  like  a  gorged  serpent 
That  slept  in  glittering  but  scarce-moving  folds, 
jNovv,  having  sprung  a  nobler  prey,  break  out 
In  tenfold  rage. 

ADONUAH. 

How  like  a  lioness, 
Robb'd  of  her  kingly  brood,  she  glares?    She  wipes 
From  her  wan  brow  the  grey  discolour'd  locks 
Where  used  to  gleam  Assyria's  diadem; 
And  now  and  then  her  tenderest  glance  recurs 
To  him  that  closer  to  her  bleeding  heart 
She  clasps,  as  self-reproachful  that  aught  earthly 
Distracts  her  from  her  one  maternal  care. 

IMLAII. 

More  pale,  and  more  intent,  he  looks  abroad 
Into  the  ruin,  as  though  he  felt  a  pride 
Even  in  the  splendour  of  the  desolation ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

The  hand — the  unbodied  hand  —  it  moves  —  look 

there ! 
Look  where  it  points ! — my  beautiful  palace — 

NITOCRIS. 

Look — 
The  Temple  of  great  Bel - 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Our  halls  of  joy ! 

NITOCRIS. 

Earth's  pride  and  wonder! 

I.MLAH. 

Ay,  o'er  both  the  fire 
Mounts  like  a  conqueror:  here,  o'er  spacious  courts 
And  avenues  of  [lillars.  and  long  roofs. 
From  which  red  streams  of  molten  gold  pour  down, 
It  spreads,  till  all,  like  those  vast  fabrics,  seem 
Built  of  the  rich  clouds  round  the  setting  sun — 
All  the  wide  heavens,  one  bright  and  shadowy  pal- 
ace! 
But  terrible  here — th'  Almighty's  wrathful  hand 
Every  where  manifest! — There  the  Temple  stands. 
Tower  above  tower,  one  pyramid  of  flame  ; 
To  which  those  kingly  sepulchres  by  Aile 
Were  but  as  hillocks  to  vast  Caucasus ! 
Aloof,  the  wreck  of  Aiiiirod's  impious  tower 
Alone  is  dark  ;  and  something  like  a  cloud. 
But  gloomier,  hovers  o'er  it.     All  is  mute  : 
Man's  cries,  and  clashing  steel,  and  braying  trumpet — 
The  only  sound  the  rushing  noise  of  fire  ! 
Now,  hark!  ilie  universal  crash — at  once 

They  fall— they  sink 

416 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


407 


ADONIJAH. 

And  so  du  those  that  ruled  them ! 
The  Palace,  and  the  Temple,  and  the  race 
or  Kabonassar,  are  at  om-e  extinct ! 
Babylon  and  her  kings  are  fallen  for  ever! 

IMLAII. 

Without  a  cry,  without  a  groan,  behold  them, 
Th'  Imperial  mother  anti  earth-rulins;  son, 
Stretch'd  out  in  death  I   IVor  she  without  a  gleam 
Of"  joy  expiring  with  her  cheek  on  his: 
Nor  he  unconscious  that  with  him  the  pride 
And  terror  of  the  world  is  fallen — th'  abode 
And  throne  of  universal  empire — now 
A  plain  of  ashes  round  the  tombless  dead  I — 
Oh,  God  of  hosts  I  Almighty,  everlasting! 
God  of  our  Fathers,  thou  alone  art  great  I 

NOTES. 

Note  1. 
Of  Nabonassar's  sway. 
"  Nebuchadnessar — Nabonassar — Ce  nom  est  con- 
fondu  par  les  Orientaux  avec  celui  de  Nabocadnassar, 
quoique  les  Grecs  et  les  Latins  les  disiinguent." 

D'Herbetot,  Bibl.  Orienlale. 
Note  2. 
Save  with  the  immaculate  blood  of  yearling  lambs. 
From  Diodorus. 


Note 
The  God  reposes,  must  the  chosen  Virgin. 
See  Herodotus,  Clia 

Note  4. 
Down  lo  the  red  and  pearly  main. 
The  Erythrean  Sea,  the  Gulf  of  Persia,  celebrated 
for  the  pearls  of  Ormuz. 

Note  5. 

The  golden  statue  stands  of  Niibonassar. 

It  does  not  appear  certain  what  this  statue  was, 

which  Nebuchadnezzar  erected  on  the  plain  of  Dura. 

I  have  taken  the  poetic  license  of  supposing  it  to  be 

his  own. 

Note  6. 
Thou  Zedekiah,  didst  desert  thy  God. 
Zedekiah,  carried  away  at  the  last  and  final  desola- 
tion of  Jerusalem. 

Note  7. 
We  drink  MyliUa's  breathing  balm. 
The  Assyrian  Venus.  —  Herod, 

Note  8. 
And,  through  the  deep  and  roaring  Naharmalcha. 
The  royal  canal  which  connected  the  waters  of  the 
Euphrates  with  the  artificial  lake. 


ZUt  :ffan  oe  Scvufisalcm; 


A    DRAMATIC    POEM. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Every  reader  will  at  once  perceive  from  the  nature 
of  the  interest,  and  from  the  language,  that  this  drama 
was  neither  written  with  a  view  to  public  represent- 
ation, nor  can  be  adapted  to  it  without  being  entirely 
re-modelled  and  re-wriiten.  The  critic  will  draw  the 
same  conclusion  from  certain  peculiarities  in  the  com- 
position, irreconcileable  with  the  arrangements  of  the 
theatre;  the  introducing  and  dismissing  of  the  subor- 
dinate characters  after  a  single  appearance  ;  and  yet 
appropriating  to  them  some  of  the  most  poetical 
speeches. 

The  groundwork  of  the  poem  is  to  be  found  in 
Josephus,  but  the  events  of  a  considerable  time  are 
compressed  into  a  period  of  about  thirty-six  hours. 
Though  their  children  are  fictitious  characters,  the 
leaders  of  the  Jews,  Simon,  John,  and  Kleazar,  are 
historical.  At  the  beginning  of  the  siege  the  defend- 
ers of  the  city  were  divided  into  three  factions.  John, 
however,  having  surprised  Eleazar,  who  occupied  the 
Temple,  during  a  festival,  the  party  of  Eleazar  became 
subordinate  to  that  of  John.    The  character  of  John 


the  Galilean  was  that  of  excessive  sensuality,  I  have 
therefore  considered  him  as  belonging  lo  the  sect  of 
the  Sadducees;  Simon,  on  the  other  hand,  I  have  re- 
presented as  a  native  of  Jerusalem,  and  a  strict  Pha- 
risee ;  although  his  soldiers  were  chiefly  Edomites. 
The  Christians,  we  learn  from  Eusebiii.s,  abandoned 
the  city  previous  to  the  siege  (by  divine  command, 
according  to  that  author,)  and  took  refiige  in  Pella,  a 
smalltown  on  the  furilierside  of  llie  Jordan.  The 
constant  tiadition  of  the  Church  has  been,  that  no  one 
professing  tfiat  faith  perished  diirinsr  all  the  havoc 
which  attended  on  this  most  awful  visitation. 

It  has  been  my  object  also  to  show  the  full  comple- 
tion of  prophecy  in  this  great  event ;  nor  do  I  conceive 
that  the  public  mind  (should  this  poem  merit  attention) 
can  be  directed  lo  so  sinking  and  so  incontestable  an 
evidence  of  the  Christian  faith  without  advantage. 
Those  whom  duty  might  not  induce  lo  compare  the 
long  narrative  of  Josephus  with  the  Scriptural  pre- 
diction of  the  "Abomination  of  Desolation,"  may  be 
tempted  by  the  embellishments  of  [wetic  language, 
and  the  interest  of  a  dramatic  fable. 


417 


408 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CHARACTERS. 


ROMANS. 
TlTUS. 

Caius  Placidos. 

Tiberius  Alexander. 

Terentius  Rufus. 

DiAUORAS,  a  Sloic  philosopher. 

Joseph  {the  Historian,)  with  the  Roman  Army. 

Soldiers,  etc. 

JEWS  IN  THE  CITY. 
Simon,  the  Assassin. 
John,  the  Tyrant. 
Eleazar,  the  Zealot. 
Amariah,  Son  of  John. 
The  IIigh-Priest. 

Ben  Cathla,  Leader  of  the  Edomites. 
Aaron,  a  Levite. 
Abiram,  a  false  Prophet. 
Many  Jews. 

Javan,  a  Christian,  by  birth  a  Jew. 
Miriam, 
Saloni 


■  '      >  Daughters  of  Simon. 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


The  Mount  of  Olives — Evening. 
Titus,  Caius  Placidus,  Tiberius  Alexand-er,  Te- 
rentius Rufus,  Diagoras,  etc. 

TITUS. 

Advance  the  eagles,  Cains  Placidus,  (1) 

Even  to  the  walls  of  this  rebellious  city! 

What!  shall  our  bird  of  conquest,  that  hath  flown 

Over  the  world,  and  built  her  nest  of  glory 

Even  in  the  palace  tops  of  proudest  kings, 

What!  shall  she  check  and  pause  here  in  her  circle, 

Her  centre  of  dominion  ?   By  the  gods, 

It  is  a  treason  to  all-conquering  Rome, 

That  tlius  our  baffled  legions  stand  at  bay 

Before  this  hemm'd  and  famishing  Jerusalem. 

PLACIDUS. 

Son  of  Vespasian  !  I  have  been  a  soldier, 

Till  the  helm  hath  worn  mine  aged  temples  bare. 

Battles  have  been  familiar  to  mine  eyes 

As  is  the  sunlight,  and  the  angry  Mars 

Wears  not  a  terror  to  appal  the  souls 

Of  constant  men,  but  I  have  fronted  it. 

I  have  seen  the  painted  Briton  sweep  to  battle 

On  his  scythed  car,  and  when  he  fell,  he  fell 

As  one  that  honour'd  death  by  nobly  dying. 

And  I  have  been  where  flymg  Pnrihians  shower'd 

Their  arrows,  making  the  pursuer  check 

His  fierce  steed  with  the  sudden  grasp  of  death. 

But  war  like  this,  so  frantic  and  so  desperate, 

Man  ne'er  beheld.   Our  swords  are  blunt  with  slaying. 

And  yet,  as  though  the  earth  cast  up  again 

Souls  discontented  with  a  single  death. 

They  grow  beneath  the  slaughter.     Neither  battle, 

Nor  famine,  nor  the  withering  pestilence. 

Subdues  these  prodigals  of  blood  :  by  day 

They  cast  their  lives  upon  our  swords ;  by  night 


They  turn  their  civil  weapons  on  themselves, 
Even  till  insatiate  War  shrinks  to  behold 
The  hideous  consummation. 

TITUS. 

It  must  be — 
And  yet  it  moves  me,  Romans!  it  confounds 
The  counsels  of  my  firm  philosophy. 
That  Ruin's  merciless  ploughshare  must  pass  o'er, 
And  barren  salt  be  sown  on  yon  proud  city. 
As  on  our  olive-crowned  hill  we  stand. 
Where  Kedron  at  our  feet  its  scanty  w'aters        , 
Distils  from  stone  to  stone  with  gentle  motion. 
As  through  a  valley  sacred  to  sweet  peace. 
How  boldly  doth  it  front  us!  how  majestically  ! 
Like  a  luxurious  vineyard,  the  hill  side 
Is  hung  with  marble  fabrics,  line  o'er  line. 
Terrace  o'er  terrace,  nearer  still,  and  nearer 
To  the  blue  heavens.     Here  bright  and  sumptuous 

palaces, 
With  cool  and  verdant  gardens  interspersed ; 
Here  towers  of  war  that  frown  in  massy  strength. 
While  over  all  hangs  the  rich  purple  eve. 
As  conscious  of  its  being  her  last  farewell 
Of  light  and  glory  to  that  fated  city. 
And,  as  our  clouds  of  battle  dust  and  smoke 
Are  melted  into  air,  behold  the  Temple, 
In  undisturb'd  and  lone  serenity 
Finding  itself  a  solemn  sanctuary 
In  the  profound  of  heaven  !   It  stands  before  us 
A  mount  of  snow  fretted  with  golden  pinnacles! (2) 
The  very  sun,  as  though  he  vvorshipp'd  there, 
Lingers  upon  the  gilded  cedar  roofs  ; 
And  down  the  long  and  branching  porticoes, 
On  every  flowery-sculptured  capital, 
Glitters  the  homage  of  his  parting  beams. 
By  Hercules!  the  sight  might  almost  win 
The  offended  majesty  of  Roine  to  mercy. 

TIBERIUS  ALEXANDER. 

Wondrous  indeed  it  is,  great  Son  of  Caesar, 

But  it  shall  be  more  wondrous,  when  the  triumph 

Of  Titus  marches  through  those  brazen  gates, 

Which  seem  as  though  they  would  invite  the  world 

To  worship  in  the  precincts  of  her  Temple, 

As  he  in  laurell'd  pomp  is  borne  along 

To  that  new  palace  of  his  pride. 

TITUS. 

Tiberius! 
It  cannot  be 

TIBERIUS. 

What  cannot  be,  which  Rome 
Commands,  and  Titus,  the  great  heir  of  Rome  ? 

TITUS. 

I  tell  thee,  Alexander,  it  must  fall ! 

Yon  lofly  city,  and  yon  gorgeous  Temple, 

Are  consecrate  to  Ruin.     Earth  is  weary 

Of  the  wild  factions  of  this  jealous  people, 

And  they  must  feel  our  wrath,  the  wrath  of  Rome; 

Even  so  that  the  rapt  stranger  shall  admire 

Where  that  proud  city  stood,  which  was  Jerusalem. 

DIAGORAS. 

Thy  brethren  of  the  Porch,  imperial  Titus,  (3) 
Of  late  esteem'd  thee  at  the  height  of  those 

418 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


409 


That  with  consummate  wisdom  have  tamed  down 
The  fierce  and  turbulent  passions  whidi  distract 
The  vulgar  soul ;  ihey  decm'd  that,  like  Olympus, 
Thou,  on  thy  cold  and  lofty  eminence, 
Severely  didst  mainiain  thy  sacred  quiet 
Above  the  clouds  and  tumult  of  low  earth. 
But  now  we  see  ihee  stooping  to  the  thraldom 
Of  every  fierce  aflection,  now  entranced 
In  dee|iest  admiration,  and  anon 
Wrath  hath  the  absolute  empire  o'er  thy  soul. 
Methinks  we  must  unschool  our  royal  pupil. 
And  cast  him  back  to  the  common  herd  of  men. 

TITLS. 

'T  is  true,  Diagoras ;  )-et  wherefore  ask  not, 

For  vainly  have  I  question 'd  mine  own  reason : 

But  thus  it  IS — I  know  not  whence  or  how, 

There  is  a  stern  command  u[X)n  my  soul. 

I  feel  the  inexorable  fate  within 

That  tells  me,  carnage  is  a  duty  here, 

.\nd  that  the  appointed  desolation  chides 

The  tardy  vengeance  of  our  war.     Diagoras, 

If  that  I  err,  impeach  my  tenets.     Destiny 

Is  over  all,  and  hard  Necessity 

Holds  o'er  the  shifting  course  of  human  things 

Her  paramount  dominion.     Like  a  flood 

The  irresistible  stream  of  fate  flows  on. 

And  urges  in  its  vast  and  sweeping  motion 

Kings,  Consuls,  Cssars,  with  their  mightiest  armies, 

Each  to  his  fix'd,  inevitable  end. 

Yea, even  eternal  Rome,  and  Father  Jove, 

Sternly  submissive,  sail  that  onward  tide. 

And  now  am  I  upon  its  rushing  besom, 

I  feel  its  silent  billows  swell  beneath  me. 

Bearing  me  and  the  conquering  arms  of  Rome 

'Gainst  yon  devoted  city.    On  they  pass. 

And  ages  yet  to  come  shall  pause  and  wonder 

At  the  utter  wreck,  which  they  shall  leave  behind  them. 

But,  Placidus,  I  read  thy  look  severe. 
This  is  no  time  nor  place  for  school  debates 
On  the  high  points  oi' wisdom.     Let  this  night 
Our  wide  encircling  walls  complete  their  circuit; (4) 
.\nd  still  the  approaching  trenches  closer  mine 
Their  secret  way :  the  engines  and  tlie  towers 
Stand  each  at  their  appointed  post — Terentius, 
That  charge  be  thine. 

TERENTILS. 

There  spoke  again  the  Roman. 

Faith  I  like  old  Mummius,  I  should  give  to  the  flame 

Whate'er  opposed  the  sovereign  sway  of  Ca»ar,  (5) 

If  it  were  wrought  of  massy  molten  gold : 

And  though  I  wear  a  beard,  I  boast  not  much 

Of  my  philosophy.     But  this  I  know. 

That  to  oppose  the  omnipotent  arms  of  Rome 

Is  to  pluck  down  and  tempt  a  final  doom. 


The  Fountain  of  Siloe. — Night. 

JAVAN. 

Sweet  fountain,  once  again  I  visit  thee  .'  (6) 
And  thou  art  flowing  on,  and  freshening  still 
The  green  moss,  and  the  flowers  that  bend  to  thee. 
Modestly  with  a  soft  unboastful  murmur. 


Rejoicing  at  the  blessings  that  thou  bearest. 
Pure,  stainless,  thou  art  flowing  on  ;  the  stars 
Make  thee  their  mirror,  and  the  moonlight  beams 
Course  one  anuliier  o'er  thy  silver  Ixisom  : 
And  yet  thy  flowiiiir  is  llirouiili  fielils  of  blood, 
And  arm'd  men  their  hoi  anil  weary  brows 
Slake  Willi  tliy  limpid  and  perennial  coolness. 

Even  with  such  rare  and  singular  purity 
Movest  thou,  oh  Miriam,  in  yon  cruel  city. 
Men's  eyes,  o'erwearied  with  the  sights  of  war. 
With  tumult  and  with  grief,  repose  on  thee 
As  on  a  refuge  and  a  sweet  refreshment. 
Thou  canst  o'erawe,  thou  in  thy  gentleness, 
A  trembling,  pale,  and  melancholy  maid. 
The  brutal  violence  of  ungodly  men. 
Thou  glidest  on  amid  the  dark  pollution 
In  modesty  unstain'd  ;  and  heavenly  influences. 
More  lovely  than  the  liizhl  of  star  or  moon. 
As  though  delighted  with  their  own  reflection 
From  spirit  so  pure,  dwell  evermore  upon  thee. 

Oh!  how  dost  thou,  beloved  proselyte 
To  the  high  creed  of  him  who  died  for  men. 
Oh  !  how  dost  thou  commend  the  truths  I  teach  thee. 
By  the  strong  faith  and  soft  humility 
Wherewith  thy  soul  embraces  them?    Thou  prayest, 
And  I,  who  pray  W'ith  thee,  feel  my  words  wing'd, 
And  holier  fervour  gushing  from  my  heart, 
While  heaven  seems  smiling  kind  acceptance  down 
On  the  associate  of  so  pure  a  worshipper. 

But  ah  I   why  comest  thou  not  ?  these  two   long 
nights 
I  've  watch'd  for  thee  in  vain,  and  have  not  felt 
The  music  of  thy  footsteps  on  my  spirit _ 

VOICE  AT  A  DISTANCE. 

Javan ! 

JAVAN. 

It  is  her  voice  I  the  air  is  fond  of  it. 
And  enviously  delays  its  lender  sounds 
From  the  ear  that  thirsteth  for  them — Miriam  1 

Javan,  Miriam. 

JAVAN. 

Nay,  stand  thus  in  thy  timid  breathlessness. 
That  I  may  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  not  chide  me 
Because  I  gaze  too  fondly. 

MIKIAM. 

Ilast  thou  brought  me 
Thy  wonted  offerings  ? 

javan. 
Dearest,  they  are  here : 
The  bursting  fig,  the  cool  and  ripe  pomegranate, 
The  skin  all  rosy  with  the  imprison 'd  wine; 
All  I  can  bear  thee,  more  than  thou  canst  bear 
Home  to  the  city. 

MIRIAM. 

Bless  thee  I — Oh  my  father! 
How  will  thy  famish'd  and  thy  toil-bow'd  frame 
Resume  its  native  majesty  !  thy  words. 
When  this  bright  draught  hath  slaked  thy  parched  lips, 
Flow  with  their  wonted  freedom  and  comnaand. 

JAVAN. 

Thy  father!  still  no  thought  but  of  thy  father  I 
Nay,  Miriam!  but  thou  must  hear  me  now, 

419 


410 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  ere  we  part — if  we  must  part  again, 

If  my  sad  spirit  must  be  rent  from  thine. 

Even  now  our  city  trembles  on  the  verge 

Of  utter  ruin.     Yet  a  night  or  two, 

And  the  fierce  stranger  in  our  burning  streets, 

Stands  conqueror:  and  how  the  Roman  conquers, 

Let  Gisehala,  let  fallen  Jotajiata  (7) 

Tell,  if  one  living  man,  one  innocent  child. 

Yet  wander  o'er  their  cold  and  scatter'd  ashes. 

They  slew  them,  Miriam,  the  old  grey  man. 

Whose  blood  scarce  tinged  their  swords — (nay,  turn 

not  from  me. 
The  tears  thou  sheddest  feel  as  though  I  wrung  them 
From  mine  own  heart,  my  life-blood's  dearest  drops) — 
They  slew  them,  Miriam,  at  the  mother's  breast, 
The  smiling  infants; — and  the  tender  maid. 
The  soft,the  loving  and  the  chaste,  like  thee. 
They  slew  her  not  till 

MIRIAM. 

Javan,  't  is  unkind ! 
I  have  enough  at  home  of  thoughts  like  these, 
Thoughts  horrible,  that  freeze  the  blood,  and  make 
A  heavier  burthen  of  this  weary  life. 
I  hoped  with  thee  t'  have  pass'd  a  tranquil  hour, 
A  brief,  a  hurried,  yet  still  tranquil  hour! 
— But  thou  art  like  them  ail!  the  miserable 
Have  only  Heaven,  where  they  can  rest  in  peace. 
Without  being  mock'd  and  taunted  with  their  misery. 

j.w.w. 
Thou  know'st  it  is  a  lover's  wayward  joy 
To  be  reproach'd  by  her  he  loves,  or  thus 
Thou  wouldst  not  speak.    But  't  was  not  to  provoke 
That  sweet  reproof,  which  sounds  so  like  to  tenderness: 
I  would  alarm  thee,  shock  thee,  but  to  save. 
That  old  and  secret  stair,  down  which  thou  stealest 
At  midnight  through  tall  grass  and  olive  trunks, 
Which  cumber,  yet  conceal  thy  diflicult  path, 
It  cannot  long  remain  secure  and  open  ; 
Nearer  and  closer  the  stern  Roman  winds 
His  trenches  ;  and  on  every  side  but  this 
.Soars  his  imprisoning  vvall.    Yet,  yet  't  is  time, 
And  I  must  bear  thee  with  me,  where  are  met 
In  Pella  the  neglected  church  of  Christ. 

MIRIAM. 

With  thee!  to  fly  with  thee!  thou  makest  me  fear 
Lest  all  this  while  I  have  deceived  my  soul. 
Excusing  to  myself  our  stolen  meetings 
By  the  fond  tliought,  that  for  my  father's  life 
I  labour'd,  bearing  sustenance  from  thee, 
Which  he  hath  deem'd  heaven-sent. 

JAVAN. 

Oh!  farewell  then 
The  faithless  dream,  the  sweet  yet  liiithless  dream. 
That  Miriam  loves  me ! 

MIRIAM. 

Love  thee  !  I  am  here, 
Here  at  dead  midnight  by  the  fountain's  side, 
Trusting  thee,  Javan,  with  a  faith  as  fearless 
As  that  with  which  the  instinctive  infant  twines 
To  its  mother's  bosom — Love  thee  !  when  the  sounds 
Of  massacre  are  round  me,  when  the  shouts 
Of  frantic  men  in  battle  rack  the  soul 


With  their  importunate  and  jarring  din, 

Javan,  I  think  on  thee,  and  am  at  peace. 

Our  famish'd  maidens  gaze  on  me,  and  see 

That  I  am  famish'd  like  themselves,  as  pale, 

With  lips  as  parch'd  and  eyes  as  wild,  yet  I 

Sit  patient  with  an  enviable  smile 

On  my  wan  cheeks,  for  then  my  spirit  feasts 

Contented  on  its  pleasing  thoughts  of  thee. 

My  very  prayers  are  full  of  thee,  I  look 

To  heaven  and  bless  thee ;  for  from  thee  I  learnt 

The  way  by  which  we  reach  the  eternal  mansions. 

But  thou,  injurious  Javan!  coldly  doubtest! 

And — Oh  !  but  I  have  said  too  much !  Oh !  scorn  not 

The  immodest  maid,  whom  thou  hast  vex'd  to  utter 

What  yet  she  scarce  dared  whisper  to  herself 

JAVAN. 

Will  it  then  cease?  will  it  not  always  sound 
Sweet,  musical  as  thus  ?  and  wilt  thou  leave  me  ? 

MIRIAM. 

My  father! 

JAVAN. 

Miriam !  is  not  thy  father 
(Oh,  that  such  flowers  should  bloom  on  such  a  stock!) 
The  curse  of  Israel  ?  even  his  common  name 
Simon  the  Assassin !  of  the  bloody  men 
That  hold  their  iron  sway  within  yon  city. 
The  bloodiest ! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh  cease !  I  pray  thee  cease  ! 
Javan  !  I  know  that  all  men  hate  my  father  ; 
Javan  !  I  fear  that  all  should  hate  my  father ; 
And  therefore,  Javan,  must  his  daughter's  love, 
Her  dutiful,  her  deep,  her  fervent  love. 
Make  up  to  his  forlorn  and  desolate  heart 
The  forfeited  aflJections  of  his  kind. 
Is 't  not  so  written  in  our  Law  ?  and  He 
We  worship  came  not  to  destroy  the  Law. 
Then  let  men  rain  their  curses,  let  the  storm 
Of  human  hate  beat  on  his  rugged  trunk, 
I  will  cling  to  him,  starve,  die,  bear  the  scoflTs 
Of  men  upon  my  scatter'd  bones  with  him. 

JAVAN. 

Oh,  Miriam !  what  a  fatal  art  hast  thou 

Of  winding  thought,  word,  act,  to  thy  .sole  purpose; 

The  enamouring  one  even  now  too  much  enamour'dl 

I  must  admire  thee  more  for  so  denying. 

Than  I  had  dared  if  thou  hadst  fondly  granted. 

Thou  dost  devote  thyself  to  utterest  peril. 

And  me  to  deepest  anguish  ;  yet  even  now 

Thou  art  lovelier  to  me  in  thy  cold  severity, 

Flying  me,  leaving  me  without  a  joy. 

Without  a  hope  on  earth,  without  thyself; 

Thou  art  lovelier  now  than  if  thy  yielding  soul 

Had  smiled  on  me  a  passionate  consent. 

Go !  for  I  see  thy  parting  homeward  look, 

Go  in  thy  beauty !  like  a  setting  star. 

The  last  in  all  the  thick  and  moonless  heavens, 

O'er  the  lone  traveller  in  the  trackless  desert. 

Go!  if  this  dark  and  miserable  earth 

Do  jealously  refuse  us  place  for  meeting. 

There  is  a  heaven  for  those  who  trust  in  Christ. 

Farewell!-^ 

And  thou  return'st ! — 

420 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


•Ill 


MIRIAM. 

I  had  forgot 

The  fruit,  the  wine Oh  I  when  I  part  from  thee 

How  can  I  think  of  nngiit  bnt  ihy  last  words  ? 

JAVAN. 

Bless  thee  I  bnt  we  may  meet  again  even  here  ! 
Thou  look'st  consent,  I  see  it  throngh  thy  tears. 
Yet  once  again  that  cold  sad  word,  Farewell! 


The  Houfe  of  Simon. 


MIRIAM. 

Oh  God  !  thou  surely  dost  approve  mine  act, 
For  thou  didst  bid  thy  soft  and  silver  moon 
To  light  me  back  upon  my  intricate  way. 
Even  o'er  each  shadowy  thing  at  which  I  trembled 
She  pour'd  a  sober  beauty,  and  my  terror 
Was  mingled  with  a  sense  of  calm  delight. 
How  changed  that  way!  when  yet  a  laughing  child, 
It  was  my  sporl  to  thread  that  broken  stair 
That  from  our  house  leads  down  into  the  vale, 
By  which,  in  ancient  days,  the  maidens  stole 
To  bathe  in  the  cool  fountain's  secret  waters. 
In  each  wild  olive  trunk,  and  twisted  root 
Of  sycamore,  with  ivy  overgrown, 
1  have  nestled,  and  the  flowers  would  seem  to  wel- 
come me. 
I  loved  it  with  a  child's  capricious  love, 
Because  none  knew  it  but  myself.    Its  loneliness 
I  loved,  for  still  my  sole  companions  there, 
The  doves,  sate  murmuring  in  the  noonday  sun. 
-\h!  now  there  broods  no  bird  of  peace  and  love! 
Even  as  I  pass'd,  a  sullen  vulture  rose, 
.And  heavily  it  flapp'd  its  huge  wings  o'er  me, 
.\s  though  o'ergorged  with  blood  of  Israel. 

M1RIA.M,  Saloxe. 

MIRIAM. 

Sister,  not  yet  at  rest  ? 

SALO.NE. 

At  rest !  at  rest ! 
The  wretched  and  the  desperate,  let  them  court 
The  dull,  the  dreamless,  the  unconscious  sleep, 
To  lap  them  in  its  stagnant  lethargy. 
But  oh !  the  bright,  the  rapturous  disturbances 
That  break  my  haunted  slumbers!   Fast  they  come, 
They  crowd  around  my  couch,  and  all  ray  chamber 
Is  radiant  with  them.    There  I  lie  and  bask 
In  their  glad  prnmise,  till  the  oppressed  spirit 
Can  bear  no  more,  and  I  come  forth  to  breathe 
The  cool  free  air. 

.MIRIA.M. 

Dear  sister,  in  our  state 
So  dark,  so  hopeless,  dreaming  still  of  glory ! 

SALONE. 

Low-minded  Miriam  I  I  tell  thee,  oft 
I  have  told  thee,  nighlly  do  the  visitations 
Break  on  my  gified  sight,  more  golden  bright 
Than  the  rich  morn  on  Carmel.    Of  their  shape, 
Sister,  I  know  not ;  this  I  only  know, 
That  they  pour  o'er  me  like  the  restless  waters 
Of  some  pure  cataract  in  the  noontide  sun. 
There  is  a  mingling  of  all  glorious  forms, 
35  3B 


Of  Angels  riding  upon  cloudy  throne.s, 

And  our  proud  city  marching  all  abroad 

Like  a  crown'd  conqueror  o'er  the  trampled  Gentili.'s. 

MIRIA.M. 

Alas!  when  tJod  afflicts  us  in  his  wrath, 
'Tis  sin  to  mock  with  wild  untimely  gladness 
His  stern  inflictions  !   Else,  beloved  Salone, 
My  soul  would  envy  thee  thy  mad  forgetfulness. 
And  dote  on  the  distraction  of  thy  dreams 
Till  it  imbibed  the  infection  of  their  joy. 

SALONE. 

What  mean'st  thou  ? 

.MIRIA.M. 

Ah!  thou  know'st  too  well,  Salone, 
How  with  an  audible  and  imperious  voice 
The  Lord  is  speaking  in  the  streets  of  Judah, 
"  Down  to  the  dust,  proud  daughters  of  Jerusalem! 
The  crownings  of  your  head  be  bitter  ashes, 
Your  festal  garments  changed  to  mourning  sackcloth. 
Your  bridal  songs  fall  into  burial  wailings." 

SALO.NE. 

Our  bridal  songs  !  (8)  Away!  I  know  them  now. 

They  were  the  rich  and  bursting  cadences 

That  thrall'd  mine  ears.   I  tell  thee,  doubting  woman  I 

My  spirit  drank  the  sounds  of  all  the  city. 

And  there  were  shriekings  for  the  dead,  and  sobs 

Of  dying  men,  and  the  quick  peevish  moan 

Of  the  half  famish'd  :  there  were  trumpet  sounds 

Of  arming  to  the  battle,  and  the  shouts 

Of  onset,  and  the  fall  of  flaming  houses 

Crashing  around.     But  in  the  house  of  Simon, 

The  silver  lute  spake  to  the  dulcimer; 

The  tabret  and  the  harp  held  sweet  discourse  ; 

And  all  along  our  roofs,  and  all  about 

The  silence  of  our  chambers  flow'd  the  sweetnes.«. 

Even  yet  I  hear  them — Hark !  yet,  yet  they  sound. 

IMIRIAM. 

Alas!  we  listen  to  our  own  fond  hopes. 
Even  till  they  seem  no  more  our  fancy's  children. 
We  put  them  on  a  prophet's  robes,  endow  them 
With  prophets'  voices,  and  then  Heaven  speaks  iu 

them, 
.\nd  that  which  we  would  have  be,  surely  shall  bo. 

SALO.NE. 

What,  mock'st  thou  still  ?  still  enviously  doubtest 
The  mark'd  and  favour'd  of  the  Everlasting  ? 

MIRIAM. 

0  gracious  Lord  !  thou  know'st  she  hath  not  eaten 
For  two  long  days,  and  now  her  troubled  brain 

Is  full  of  strangeness. 

SALONE. 

Ha !  still  unbelieving ! 
Then,  then  't  is  true,  what  I  have  doubted  long. 
False  traitress  to  our  city,  to  the  race. 
The  chosen  race  of  Abraham  !  loose  apostate 
From  Israel's  faith !   Believer  in  the  Crucified  ! 

1  know  thee,  I  abjure  thee.    Thou  'rt  no  child 
Of  Simon's  house,  no  sister  of  Salone  : 

I  blot  thee  from  my  heart,  I  wipe  away 
All  memory  of  our  youthful  pleasant  hours. 
Our  blended  sports  and  tasks,  and  joys  and  sorrows; 
Yea,  I  'II  proclaim  thee. 

421 


412 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


MIRIAM. 

Sister !  dearest  sister! 
Thou  see'st  that  I  cannot  speak  for  tears. 

SALONE. 

Away!  thou  wilt  not  speait,  thou  darest  not — Hark! 
My  father's  armed  footstep  !  at  whose  tread 
Sion  rejoices,  and  the  pavement  stones 
Of  Salem  shout  with  proud  and  boastful  echoes. 
The  Gentiles'  scourge,  the  Christians' — tremble,  false 
one  ! 

Miriam,  Salone,  Simon. 

SALONE. 

Father ! 

MIRIAM. 

Dear  father ! 

SIMON. 

Daughters,  I  have  been 
With  Eleazar,  and  with  John  of  Galilee, 
The  son  of  Sadoc.    We  have  search'd  the  city 
If  any  rebel  to  our  ordinance 
Do  traitorously  withhold  his  private  hoard 
Of  stolen  provision  from  the  public  store. 

SALONE. 

.And  found  ye  any  guilty  of  a  fraud 
So  base  on  Judah's  warriors  ? 

SIMON. 

Yes,  my  children! 
There  sate  a  woman  in  a  lowly  house, 
And  she  had  moulded  meal  into  a  cake ; 
And  she  sate  weeping  even  in  wild  delight 
Over  her  sleeping  infants,  at  the  thought 
Of  how  their  eyes  would  glisten  to  behold 
The  unaccustom'd  food.     She  had  not  tasted 
Herself  the  strange  repast :  but  she  had  raised 
The  covering  under  which  the  children  lay 
Crouching  and  clinging  fondly  to  each  other, 
As  though  the  warmth  that  breath'd  from  out  their 

bodies 
Had  some  refreshment  for  their  wither'd  lips. 
We  bared  our  swords  to  slay :  but  subtle  John 
Snatch'd  the  food  from  her,  trod  it  on  the  ground. 
And  mock'd  her. 

MIRIA.M. 

But  thou  didst  not  smite  her,  father  ? 

SIMON. 

No!  we  were  wiser  than  to  bless  with  death 
A  wretch  like  her. 

But  I  must  seek  within. 
If  he  that  oft  at  dead  of  midnight  placeth 
The  wine  and  fruit  wiihin  our  chosen  house. 
Hath  minister'd  this  night  to  Israel's  chief 
Miriam,  Salone. 

SALOXE. 

Oh,  Miriam  !  I  dare  not  tell  him  now! 
For  even  as  those  two  infants  lay  together 
Nestling  their  sleeping  faces  on  each  other, 
Even  so  have  we  two  lain,  and  I  have  felt 
Thy  breath  upon  my  face,  and  every  motion 
Of  thy  soft  bosom  answering  to  mine  own. 
Simon,  Salone,  Miriam. 

SIMON. 

Come,  daughters,  I  have  wash'd  my  bloody  hands. 
And  said  my  prayers,  and  we  will  eat — And  thee 


First  will  I  bless,  thou  secret  messenger, 
That  mine  ambrosial  banquet  dost  prepare 
With  gracious  stealth :  where'er  thou  art,  if  yet 
Thy  uaseen  presence  lingers  in  our  air, 
Or  walks  our  eartii  in  beauty,  hear  me  bless  thee. 

MIRIAM  (apart.) 
He  blesseth  me!  me,  though  he  means  it  not! 
I  thought  t'  have  heard  his  stem  heart-wilhering  curse, 
And  God  hath  changed  it  to  a  gentle  blessing. 

SIMON. 

Why  stands  my  loving  Miriam  aloof? 
Will  she  not  join  to  thank  the  God  of  Israel, 
Who  thus  with  signal  mercy  seals  her  father 
His  chosen  captain. 

MIRIAM  (apart.) 
Yet  must  I  endure — 
For  if  he  knew  it  came  from  Christian  hands. 
While  the  ripe  fruit  was  bursting  at  his  lips, 
While  the  cool  wine-cup  slaked  his  burning  throat, 
He  'd  dash  it  to  the  earth,  and  trample  on  it ; 

And  then  he  'd  perish,  perish  in  his  sins 

Father,  I  come — but  I  have  vow'd  to  sing 
A  hymn  this  night, — I  'II  follow  thee  anon. 

SIMON. 

Come,  then,  Salone ;  while  we  feast,  I  'II  tell  thee 
More  deeds  of  justice  which  mine  arm  hath  wrought 
Against  the  foes  of  Salem,  and  the  renegades 
That  have  revolted  from  the  arms  of  Israel. 
And  thou  shall  wave  thy  raven  locks  with  pride 
To  hear  the  stern-told  glories  of  thy  father. 

MIRIAM,  atone. 
O  Thou !  thou  who  canst  melt  the  heart  of  stone 
And  make  the  desert  of  the  cruel  breast 
A  paradise  of  soft  and  gentle  thoughts  ! 
Ah!  will  it  ever  be,  that  thou  wilt  visit 
The  darkness  of  my  lather's  soul  ?   Thou  knovvest 
In  what  strong  bondage  Zeal  and  ancient  Faith, 
Passion  and  stubborn  Custom,  and  fierce  Pride, 
Hold  th'  heart  of  man.    Thou  knovvest.  Merciful! 
That  knovvest  all  things,  and  dost  ever  turn 
Thine  eye  of  pity  on  our  guilty  nature. 

For  thou  wert  born  of  woman  !  thou  didst  corae, 
Oh  Holiest !  to  this  world  of  sin  and  gloom, 
Not  in  thy  dread  omnipotent  array  ; 
And  not  by  thunders  strew'd 
Was  thy  tempestuous  road  ; 
Nor  indignation  burnt  befjre  thee  on  thy  way. 
But  thee,  a  soft  and  naked  child, 

Thy  mother  undefiled, 
In  the  rude  manger  laid  to  rest 
From  off  her  virgin  breast. 

The  heavens  were  not  commanded  to  prepare 
A  gorgeous  canopy  of  golden  air ; 
Norsioop'd  their  lamps  th'  enthroned  fires  on  high: 
A  single  silent  star 
Came  wandering  from  afar, 
Gliding  uncheck'd  and  calm  along  the  liquid  sky; 
The  Eastern  Sages  leading  on 

As  at  a  kingly  throne. 
To  lay  their  gold  and  odours  sweet 
Before  thy  infant  feet. 

422 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


413 


The  Karlh  and  Ocean  were  not  hush'd  to  hear 
Bright  harmony  from  every  starry  sphere ; 
Nor  at  thy  presence  brake  the  voice  of  song 
From  all  the  cherub  choirs, 
And  seraphs'  burning  lyres 
Pour'd  thro'  the  host  of  heaven  the  charmed  clouds 
along. 
One  angel  troop  the  strain  began, 

Of  all  the  race  of  man 
The  simple  shepherds  heard  alone, 
That  soft  Hosanna's  tone. 

And  when  thou  didst  depart,  no  car  of  flame 
To  bear  thee  hence  in  lambent  radiance  came; 
Nor  visible  Angels  mnnrii'd  with  drooping  plumes: 
j\or  didst  thou  mount  on  high 
From  fatal  Calvary 
With  all  thine  own  redeem'd  outbursting  from  their 
tombs. 
For  thou  didst  bear  away  from  earth 

But  one  of  human  birth. 
The  dying  felon  by  thy  side,  to  be 
In  Paradise  with  thee. 

Nor  o'er  thy  cross  the  clouds  of  vengeance  brake ; 
A  little  while  the  conscious  earth  did  shake 
At  that  foul  deed  by  her  fierce  children  done ; 
A  few  dim  hours  of  day 
The  world  in  darkness  lay ; 
Then  bask'd  in  bright  repose  beneath  the  cloud  less  sun: 
While  thou  didst  sleep  beneath  the  tomb, 

Consenting  to  thy  doom ; 
Ere  yet  the  white-robed  Angel  shone 
Upon  the  sealed  stone. 

And  when  thou  didst  arise,  thou  didst  not  stand 
With  Devastation  in  thy  red  right  hand, 
Plaguing  the  guilty  city's  murtherous  crew ; 
But  thou  didst  haste  to  meet 
Thy  mother's  coming  feet, 
And  bear  the  words  of  peace  unto  the  faithful  few. 
Then  calmly,  slowly  didst  thou  rise 

Into  thy  native  skies. 
Thy  human  form  dissolved  on  high 
In  its  own  radiancy. 


Tlie  House  of  Simon — Break  of  Day. 

SI.MOX. 

The  air  is  still  and  cool.     It  comes  not  yet : 
1  thought  that  I  had  felt  it  in  my  sleep 
Weighing  upon  my  choked  and  labouring  breast. 
That  did  rejoice  beneath  the  stern  oppression; 
I  thought  I  saw  its  lurid  gloom  o'erspreading 
The  starless  waning  night.     But  yet  it  comes  not, 
The  broad  and  sultry  thunder-cloud,  wherein 
The  God  of  Israel  evermore  pavilions 
The  chariot  of  his  vengeance.     I  look  out. 
And  still,  as  I  have  seen,  morn  after  morn, 
The  hills  of  Judah  flash  uiion  my  sight 
The  accursed  radiance  of  the  Gentile  arms. 

But  oh  I  ye  sky-descending  ministers, 
That  on  invisible  and  soundless  wing 
Stoop  to  your  earthly  purposes,  as  swift 


As  rushing  fire,  and  terrible  as  the  wind 

That  sweeps  the  tontless  desert — Ye  that  move 

Shrouded  in  secresy  as  in  a  robe. 

And  gloom  of  deepest  midnight  the  vaunt-courier 

Of  your  dread  presence  !  Will  ye  not  reveal  I 

Will  ye  not  one  compassionate  glimpse  vouchsafe 

By  what  dark  instruments  'tis  now  your  charge 

To  save  the  holy  city? Lord  of  Israeli 

Thee  too  I  ask,  with  bold  yet  holy  awe. 
Which  now  of  thy  obse(|uious  elements 
Choosest  thou  for  thy  champion  and  thy  combatant? 
For  well  they  know,  the  wide  and  deluging  Waters, 
The  ravenous  Fire,  and  the  plague-breathing  Air, 
Yea,  and  the  yawning  and  wide-chasm'd  Earth, 
They  know  thy  bidding,  by  fix'd  habit  bound 
To  the  usage  of  obedience.     Or  the  rather. 
Look  we  in  weary  yet  undaunted  hope 
For  Him  that  is  to  come,  the  Mighty  Arm, 
The  Wearer  of  the  purple  robe  of  vengeance. 
The  Crowned  with  dominion  !  Let  him  haste; 
The  wine-press  waits  ihe  trampling  of  his  wrath, 
And  Judah  yearns  t'  unfurl  the  Lion  banner 
Before  the  terrible  radiance  of  his  coming. 

Slmox,  Joii.\,  Eleazar,  the  Higii-Priest,  A.mariah, 
etc.  etc. 

JOHN. 

How,  Simon!  have  we  broken  on  thy  privacy! 
Thou  wert  discoursing  with  the  spirits  of  air. 
Now^  Eleazar,  were  not  holy  Simon, 
The  just,  the  merciful,  the  righteous  Simon, 
A  vessel  meet  for  the  prophetic  trance  ? 
Methinks  'tis  on  him  now  ! 

SIMO.V. 

Ha!  John  of  Galilee, 
Still  in  the  taunting  vein  ?  Rese.'vest  thou  not 
The  bitter  overflowings  of  thy  lips 
For  yon  fierce  Gentiles  ? — But  I  will  endure. 

JOH.V. 

And  then  perchance  't  will  please  the  saintly  Sirnon, 
When  he  hath  mumbled  o'er  his  two-hour  prayers. 
That  we  do  ope  our  gates  and  sally  forth 
To  combat  the  uncircumcised 

SIMO.V. 

Thy  scoffs 
Fall  on  me  as  the  thin  and  scattering  rain 
Upon  our  Temple.     If  thou  art  here  to  urge 
That,  with  confederate  valiant  resolution. 
We  burst  upon  the  enemies  of  Jerusalem  ; 
The  thunder  followeth  not  the  lightning's  flash 
More  swiftly  than  my  warlike  execution 
Shall  follow  the  fierce  trumpet  of  thy  wrath  '. 

JOH.N'. 

But  hast  thou  ponder'd  well,  if  still  there  be  not 
Some  holy  fast,  new  moon,  or  rigid  sabbath. 
Which  may  e.vcuse  a  tame  and  coward  peace 
For  one  day  longer  to  yon  men  of  Edom  ? 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Oh  !  't  is  unwise,  ye  sworded  delegates 
Of  him  who  watcheth  o'er  Jerusalem, 
Thus  day  by  day  in  angry  quarrel  meeting 
To  glare  upon  each  other,  and  to  waste 
In  civil  strife  the  blood  that  might  preserve  us. 

423 


414 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Roman  conquers,  but  by  Jewish  arms. 
The  torrent,  that  in  one  broad  channel  rolling 
Bears  down  the  labour'd  obstacles  of  man. 
The  o'ersiriding  bridsre,  the  fix'd  and  ponderous  dam, 
Being  sever'd,  in  its  lazy  separate  course 
Suffers  control,  and  stagnates  to  its  end. 
And  so  ye  fall,  because  ye  do  disdain 
To  stand  together— like  the  pines  of  Lebanon, 
That  when  in  one  vast  wood  they  crown  the  hill, 
From  Iheir  proud  heads  shake  olTthe  uninjuring  tem- 
pest ; 
But  when  their  single  trunks  stand  bare  and  naked 
Before  the  rushing  wiiirlwind,  one  by  one 
It  hurls  the  uprooted  trunks  into  the  vale. 

ELEAZAR  {apart). 
(.'urse  on  his  words  of  peace  !  fall  John,  fall  Simon, 
There  falls  an  enemy  of  Eleazar. 

SIMON. 

Now,  John  of  Galilee,  the  High-Pricst  speaks  wisely. 

JOH.V. 

Why,  ay,  it  is  the  privilege  of  their  office. 
The  solemn  grave  distinction  of  their  ephod. 
Even  such  discourse  as  this,  so  calm,  so  sage, 
Did  old  Mathias  hold  ;  (9)  and  therefore  Simon, 
Unwilling  that  the  vantage  of  his  wisdom 
Should  rob  our  valour  of  its  boasted  fame. 
Did  slay  him  with  his  sons  upon  our  wall .' 

SIMON. 

Peace,  son  of  Belial  I  or  I  '11  scourge  thee  back 

To  the  harlot  chambers  of  thy  loose  adulteries. 

I  slew  my  foe,  and  where's  the  armed  man 

That  will  behold  his  enemy  at  his  feet. 

And  spare  to  set  his  foot  upon  his  neck  ? 

The  sword  was  given,  and  shall  the  sword  not  slay  ? 

HIGII-PRIEST. 

Break  off!  break  off!  I  hear  the  Gentile  horn 
Winding  along  the  wide  entrenched  line. 
Hear  ye  it  not  ?  hill  answers  hill,  the  valleys 
In  their  deep  channels  lengthen  out  the  sound. 
It  rushes  down  Jehoshaphat,  the  depths 
Of  Ilinnom  answer.     Hark  !  again  they  blow, 
Chiding  you,  men  of  Judah,  and  insulting 
Your  bare  and  vacant  walls,  that  now  oppose  not 
Their  firm  array  of  javelin-hurling  men, 
Slingers,  and  pourersof  the  liquid  fire. 

A.MARIAII. 

Blow !  blow  !  and  rend  the  heavens,  thou  deep- voiced 

horn  ! 
1  hear  thee,  and  rejoice  at  thee.    Thou  summoner 
To  the  storm  of  battle,  thou  that  dost  invite 
With  stern  and  welcome  importunity 
The  warrior  soul  to  that  high  festival, 
Where  valour  with  his  armed  hand  administers 
The  cup  of  death  ! 

JOTI.V. 

.Again,  again  it  sounds  ; 
It  doth  demand  a  parley  with  our  chiefs. 

AMARIAII. 

Ay,  fatherland  let  Israel's  chieft  reply 

Fn  the  brave  language  of  their  javelin  showers. 

And  shouts  of  furious  onset. 


JOHX. 

Hold,  hot  bov. 
That  know'st  not  the  deep  luxury  of  scorn. 
We'll  meet  them,  Simon,  but  to  scoff  at  them  ; 
We'll  dally  with  their  hopes  of  base  surrender. 
Then  mock  them,  till  their  haughty  captain  writhe 
Beneath  the  keen  and  biting  contumely. 

Now,  Eleazar,  lead  the  way  ;  brave  Simon, 
I  follow  thee — Come,  men  of  Israel,  come. 


77(6  Walls  of  the  Citij. 

Below — TiT[;s,  7?o»ian  Army,  Joseph  of  Jotapata,  etc. 
Above — SiMON,  JoH.v,  Eleazar,  .Amariah,  Jewf. 

TITUS. 

Men  of  Jerusalem  !  whose  hardy  zeal 

And  valiant  patience  in  a  cause  less  desperate 

Might  force  the  foe  to  reverence  and  admire  ; 

To  you  thus  speaks  again  the  Queen  of  Earth, 

.All-conquering  Rome! — whose  kingdom  is,  where'er 

The  sunshine  beams  on  living  men  ;  beneath 

The  shadow  of  whose  throne  the  world  reposes. 

And  glories  m  being  subjected  to  her, 

Even  as  't  is  subject  to  the  immortal  gods — 

To  you,  whose  mad  and  mutinous  revolt 

Hath  harrow'd  all  your  rich  and  |)leasant  land 

With  fiery  rapine  :  sunk  your  lolly  cities 

To  desolate  heaps  of  monumental  ashes  ; 

Yet  v\ith  that  patience,  w hich  becoriies  the  mighty, 

The  endurance  of  the  lion,  that  disdains 

The  foe  whose  conquest  bears  no  glory  with  it, 

Rome  doth  command  you  to  lay  down  your  arms. 

And  bow  the  high  front  of  your  proud  rebellion 

Even  to  the  common  level  of  obedience. 

That  holds  the  rest  of  of  human  kind.     So  doing. 

Ye  cancel  all  the  dark  and  guiltv  past : 

Silent  Oblivion  waits  to  wipe  away 

The  record  of  your  madness  and  your  crimes  ; 

And  in  the  stead  of  bloody  \'engeance  claiming 

Her  penal  due  of  torture,  chains,  and  death. 

Comes  reconciling  Mercy. 

JOHN. 

Mercy!  Roman, 
With  what  a  humble  and  a  modest  truth 
Thou  dost  commend  thy  unpresuming  virtues! 
j  Ye  want  not  testimonies  to  your  mildness — (10) 
!  There,  on  yon  lofty  crosses,  which  surroimd  us, 
j  Each  with  a  Jewish  corpse  sublimely  rotting 
j  On  its  most  honourable  eminence  ; 
There's  none  in  all  that  long  and  ghastly  avenue 
Whose  wind-hlcach'd  bones  depose  not  of  thy  mercy 
We  know  our  brethren,  and  we  thank  thee  too: 
A  courteous  welcome  hast  thou  given  them,  Roinan, 
Who  have  abandon'd  us  in  the  hour  of  peril. 
They  fled  to  'scape  Iheir  ruthless  coiintrymen: 
And,  in  gootl  truth,  their  City  of  Refuge  seems 
To  have  found  them  fair  and  gentle  entertainment. 

SIMON. 

Peace,  John  of  Galilee!  and  I  will  answer 
This  purple-mantled  Captain  of  the  Gentiles; 
But  in  far  other  tone  than  he  is  wont 

421 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


415 


To  hear  about  his  silkpii  couch  oC  (easting 
Amiil  his  pampcr'd  parasites. — I  speak  to  tliee, 
Titus,  ns  warrior  should  accost  a  warrior. 
The  world,  thou  Ixiastest,  is  Rome's  slave  ;  the  sun 
Rises  and  sets  upon  no  realm  but  yours  ; 
Ye  plant  your  giant  foot  in  either  ocean, 
And  vaunt  that  all  which  ye  o'erstride  is  Rome's. 
But  think  ye,  that  because  the  common  earth 
Surfeits  your  pride  with  homage,  that  our  land, 
Our  separate,  peculiar,  sacred  land, 
Portion'd  and  seal'd  unto  us  by  the  God 
Who  made  the  round  world  and  the  crystal  hea- 
vens ; 
A  wondrous  land,  where  Nature's  common  course 
Is  strange  and  out  of  use,  so  oft  the  Lord 
Invades  it  with  miraculous  intervention; 
Think  ye  this  land  shall  be  an  Ileatiien  heritage, 
An  high  place  for  your  Moloch  ?     Haughty  Gentile, 
Even  now  ye  walk  on  ruin  and  on  prodigy. 
The  air  ye  breathe  is  heavy  and  o'ercharged 
With  your  dark  gathering  doom  ;  and  if  our  earth 
Do  yet  in  its  disdain  endure  the  footing 
Of  your  arm'd  legions,  't  is  because  it  labours 
With  silent  throes  of  expectation,  waiting 
The  signal  of  your  scattering.     Lo!  the  mountains 
Bend  o'er  you  with  their  huge  and  lowering  shadows. 
Ready  to  rush  and  overwhelm:  the  winds 
Do  listen  panting  for  the  tardy  presence 
Of  Him  that  shall  avenge.     And  there  is  scorn, 
Yea,  there  is  laughter  in  our  fathers'  tombs, 
To  think  that  Heathen  conqueror  doth  aspire 
To  lord  it  over  God's  Jerusalem  ! 
Yea,  in  Hell's  deep  and  desolate  abode. 
Where  dwell  the  perish'd  kings,  the  chief  of  earth; 
They  who.se  idolatrous  warfare  erst  assail'd 
The  Holy  City,  and  the  chosen  people; 
They  wait  for  thee,  the  associate  of  their  hopes 
And  fatal  fall,  to  join  their  ruin'd  conclave. 
He  whom  the  Red  Sea  'whelm'd  with  all  his  host, 
Pharaoh,  the  Egyptian ;  and  the  kings  of  Canaan  ; 
The  Philistine,  the  Dagon  worshipper  ; 
Moab,  and  Edom,  and  fierce  Amaiek  ; 
And  he  of  Babylon,  whose  multitudes. 
Even  on  the  hills  where  gleam  yourmyriad  spears, (11) 
In  one  brief  night  the  invisible  .Angel  swept 
With  the  dark,  noiseless  shadow  of  his  wing, 
And  morn  beheld  the  fierce  and  riotous  camp 
One  cold,  and  mute,  and  tombless  cemetery, 
Sennacherib:  all,  all  are  risen,  are  moved  ; 
Yea,  they  take  up  the  taunting  song  of  welcome 
To  him  who,  like  themselves,  hath  madly  warr'd 
'Gainst  Zion's  walls,  and  miserably  fallen 
Before  the  avenging  God  of  Israel ! 

THE    JEWS. 

Oh,  holy  Simon !  Oh,  prophetic  Simon  ! 
Lead  thou,  lead  thou  against  the  Gentile  host. 
And  we  will  visk  no  angel  breath  to  blast  them. 
The  valour  of  her  children  soon  shall  scatter 
The  spoiler  from  the  rescued  walls  of  Salem, 
'Even  till  the  wolves  of  Palestine  are  glutted 
With  Roman  carnage. 

A.MARIAII. 

Blow,  ye  sacred  priests, 
35* 


Your  trumpets,  as  when  Jericho  of  old 

Cast  down  its  prostrate  walls  at  Joshua's  feet! 

PLACIDUS. 

Let  the  Jew  speak,  the  captive  of  Joiapata  ; 
Haply  they'll  reverence  one,  and  him  the  bravest. 
Of  their  own  kindred. 

TERENTIUS. 

See !  he  speaks  to  them ; 
And  they  do  listen,  though  their  menacing  brows 
Lower  with  a  darker  and  more  furious  hate. 

JOSEPH. 

Yet,  yet  a  little  while — ye  see  me  rise, 
Oh,  men  of  Israel,  brethren,  countrymen  I 
Even  from  the  earth  ye  see  me  rise,  where  lone. 
And  sorrowful,  and  fasting,  I  have  sate 
These  three  long  days ;  sad  sackcloth  on  the  limbs 
Which  once  were  wont  to  wear  a  soldier's  raiment. 
And  ashes  on  the  head,  which  ye  of  old 
Did  honour,  when  its  helmed  glories  shone 
Belbre  you  in  the  paths  of  battle.     Hear  me. 
Ye  that,  as  I,  adore  the  Law,  the  Prophets  ; 
And  at  the  ineffable  thrice-holiest  name 
Bow  down  your  awe-struck  foreheads  to  the  ground. 
I  am  not  here  to  tell  you,  men  of  Israel, 
That  it  is  madness  to  contend  with  Rome ; 
That  it  were  wisdom  to  submit  and  follow 
The  common  fortunes  of  the  universe  ; 
For  ye  would  answer,  that  'tis  glorious  madness 
To  stand  alone,  amid  the  enslaved  world. 
Freedom's  last  desperate  champions :  ye  would  an- 
swer. 
That  the  slave's  wisdom  to  the  free-born  man 
Is  basest  folly.    Oh,  my  countrymen ! 
Before  no  earthly  king  do  I  command  you 
To  fall  subservient,  not  all-conquering  Ctesar, 
But  in  a  mightier  name  I  summon  you. 
The  King  of  Kings  I     He,  he  is  manifest 
In  the  dark  visitation  that  is  on  you. 
'T  is  He,  whose  loosed  and  raging  ministers, 
W'M  War,  gaunt  P'amine,  leprous  Pestilence, 
But  execute  his  delegated  wrath. 
Yea,  by 'the  fulness  of  your  crimes,  'tis  He. 
Alas!  shall  I  weep  o'er  thee,  or  go  down 
And  grovel  in  the  dust,  and  hide  myself 
From  mine  own  shame  ?  Oh,  thou  de/iled  Jerusalem  ! 
That  drinkest  thine  own  blood  as  from  a  fountain  ; 
That  ha.st  piled  up  the  fabric  of  thy  guilt 
To  such  portentous  height,  that  earth  is  darken'd 
With  its  huge  shadow  —  that  dost  boast  the  monu- 
ments 
Of  murder'd  prophets,  and  dost  make  the  robes 
Of  God's  High-priest  a  title  and  a  claim 
To  bloodiest  slaughter — thou  that  every  day 
Dost  trample  down  the  thunder-given  Law, 
Even  with  the  pride  and  joy  of  him  that  treads 
The  purple  vintage — And  oh  thou,  our  Temple! 
That  wert  of  old  the  Beauty  of  Holiness, 
The  chosen,  unapproachable  abode 
Of  Him  which  dwelt  between  the  cherubim, 
Thou  art  a  charnel-house,  and  sepulchre 
Of  slaughter'd  men,  a  common  butchery 
Of  civil  strife; — and  hence  proclaim  I,  brethren. 
It  is  the  Lord  who  doth  avenge  his  own : 

42.5 


416 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Lord,  who  gives  you  over  to  the  wicked, 
That  ye  may  perish  by  their  wickedness. 

Oil !  ye  that  do  disdain  to  be  Rome's  slaves, 
And  yet  are  sold  unto  a  baser  bondage, 
One  that,  like  iron,  eats  into  your  souls. 
Robbers,  and  Zealots,  and  wild  Edomites  I 
Yea,  these  are  they  that  sit  in  Moses'  seat. 
Wield  Joshua's  sword,  and  fill  the  throne  of  David ; 
Yea,  these  are  they 

A.MARIAH. 

I  '11  hear  no  more — the  foe 
Claims  from  our  lips  the  privilege  of  reply. 
Here  is  our  answer  to  the  renegade, 
A  javelin  to  his  pale  and  coward  heart !  (12) 

JOSEPft. 

I  am  struck,  but  not  to  death  I  that  yet  is  wanting 
To  Israel's  guilt. 

JEWS. 

Oh,  noble  Amariah  ! 
Well  hast  thou  spoken  !  well  hast  thou  replied ! 
Lead — lead — we  "11  follow  noble  Amariah  I 

TITUS. 

Now,  Mercy,  to  the  winds !    I  cast  thee  off— 

My  soul's  forbidden  luxury,  I  abjure  thee ! 

Thou  much-abused  attribute  of  gods 

And  godlike  men.     'T  was  nature's  final  struggle  ; 

And  now,  whate'er  thou  art,  thou  unseen  prompter.' 

That  in  the  secret  chambers  of  my  soul 

Darkly  abidest,  and  hast  still  rebuked 

The  soft  compunctious  weakness  of  mine  heart, 

I  here  surrender  thee  myself     Nov\'  wield  me 

Thine  instrument  of  havoc  and  of  horror, 

Thine  to  the  extremest  limits  of  revenge ; 

Till  not  a  single  stone  of  yon  proud  city 

Remain  ;  and  even  the  vestiges  of  ruin 

Be  utterly  blotted  from  the  face  of  earth ! 


Streets  of  Jerusalem  near  the  Inner  Wall. 
Miriam,  Salone. 

MIRIA.M. 

Sweet  sister,  whither  in  such  haste  ? 

SALONE. 

And  know'st  thou  not 
My  customary  seat,  where  I  look  down 
And  see  the  glorious  battle  deepen  round  me? 
Oh!  it  is  spirit-stirring  to  behold 
The  crimson  garments  waving  in  the  dust, 
The  eagles  glancing  in  the  clouded  sunshine. 

MIRIAM. 

Salone!  in  this  dark  and  solemn  hour. 
Were  it  not  wiser  that  the  weak  and  helpless. 
Bearing  their  portion  in  the  common  danger. 
Should  join  their  feeble  eflbrts  to  defend — 
Should  be  upon  their  knees  in  fervent  prayer 
Unto  the  Lord  of  Battles  ? 

SALONE. 

Yes;  I  know 
That  Zion's  daughters  are  set  forth  to  lead 
Their  suppliant  procession  to  the  gates 
Of  the  Holy  Temple.     But  Salone  goes 
Where  she  may  see  the  God  whom  they  adore 


In  the  stern  deeds  of  valiant  men,  that  war 
To  save  that  Temple  from  the  dust. 

Behold  : 
1  mount  my  throne,  and  here  I  sit  the  queen 
Of  the  majestic  tumult  that  beneath  me 
Fs  maddening  into  conflict.     Lo !  I  bind 
My  dark  locks,  that  they  spread  not  o'er  my  sight. 
Now  flash  tlie  bright  sun  from  your  gleaming  arms. 
Shake  it  in  broad  sheets  from  your  banner  Itdds. 
Mine  eyes  will  still  endure  the  blaze,  and  pierce 
The  thickest. 

MIRIAM. 

And  thou  hast  no  tears  to  blind  thee? 

SALONE. 

Behold  !  behold  !  from  Olivet  they  pour, 

Thousands  on  thousands,  in  their  martial  order. 

Kedron's  dark  valley,  like  Gennesarelh, 

When  over  it  the  cold  moon  shines  throuiih  storms, 

Topping  its  dark  waves  with  uncertain  light. 

Is  tossing  with  wild  plumes  and  gleaming  spears. 

Solemnly  the  stern  lictors  move,  and  brandish 

Their  rod-bound  axes  ;  and  the  eagles  seem 

With  wings  dispread,  to  watch  their  time  for  swoop- 

ing! 
The  towers  are  moving  on  ;  and  lo  !  the  engines, 
As  though  instinct  with  life,  come  heavily  labouring 
Upon  their  ponderous  wheels;  they  nod  destruction 
Against  our  walls.     Lo!  lo,  our  gates  fly  open  : 
There  Eleazar — there  the  mighty  John — 
Ben  Cathla  there,  and  Edom's  crested  sons. 
Oh!  what  a  blaze  of  glory  gathers  round  them ! 
How  proudly  move  they  in  invincible  strength! 

MIRIAM. 

And  thou  canst  speak  thus  with  a  steadfast  voice, 
When  in  one  hour  may  death  have  laid  in  the  dust 
Those  breathing,  moving,  valiant  multitudes  >. 

SALONE. 

And  thou!  oh  thou,  that  move-st  lo  the  brittle 
Even  like  the  mountain  stag  to  the  running  river. 
Pause,  pause,  that  I  may  gaze  my  fill ! — 

MIRIAM. 

Our  lather! 
Salone  !  is  't  our  father  that  thou  seest  I 

SALONE. 

Lo!  lo!  the  war  hath  broken  off  to  admire  him ! 
The  glory  of  his  presence  awes  the  conflict ! 
The  son  of  Cffisar  on  his  armed  steed 
Rises,  impatient  of  the  plumed  helms 
That  from  his  sight  conceal  young  Amariah. 

MIRIA.M. 

Alas!  what  means  she  ?    Hear  me  yet  a  word  I 

I  will  return  or  ere  the  wounded  men 

Require  our  soft  and  healing  hands  to  soothe  them. 

Thou 'It  not  forget,  Salone — if  thou  seest 

Our  father  in  the  fearful  hour  of  peril, 

Lift  up  thy  hands  and  pray. 

SALONE. 

To  gaze  on  him — 
It  is  like  gazing  on  the  morning  sun,  ^ 

When  he  comes  scattering  from  his  burning  orb 
The  vapourish  clouds  I 

MIRIAM. 

She  hears,  she  heeds  me  not 
426 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


417 


And  here 's  a  sight  and  sound  to  me  more  welcome 
Than  the  wild  fray  of  men  who  slay  and  die — 
Our  maidens  on  their  way  to  the  Holy  Temple. 
I  '11  mingle  with  them,  and  I  '11  pray  with  them  ; 
But  through  a  name,  by  them  unknown  or  scorn'd, 
My  prayers  shall  mount  to  heaven. 

Behold  them  here ! 
Behold  them,  how  unlike  to  what  they  were! 
O  virgin  daughters  of  Jerusalem  ! 
Ye  were  a  garden  once  of  Hermon's  lilies, 
That  bashfully  upon  their  tremulous  stems 
Bow  to  the  wooing  breath  of  the  sweet  spring. 
Graceful  yo  were  I  there  needed  not  the  tone 
Of  tabret,  harp,  or  lute,  to  modulate 
Your  soil  harmonious  footsteps  ;  your  light  tread 
Fell  like  a  natural  music.     Ah!  how  deeply 
Hath  the  cold  blight  of  misery  prey'd  upon  you! 
How  heavily  ye  drag  your  weary  footsteps, 
Each  like  a  mother  mourning  her  one  child  I 
Ah  me  I  I  leel  it  almost  as  a  sin. 
To  be  so  much  less  sad,  less  miserable. 

CHORUS. 

King  of  Kings  I  and  Lord  of  Lords ! 
Thus  we  move,  our  sad  steps  timing 
To  our  cymbals'  feeblest  chiming, 
Where  thy  House  its  rest  accords. 
Chased  and  wounded  birds  are  we. 
Through  the  dark  air  fled  to  thee  ; 
To  the  shadow  of  thy  wings, 
Lord  of  Lords!  and  King  of  Kings! 

Behold,  oh  Lord  I  the  Heathen  tread  (13) 

The  branches  of  thy  fruitful  vine. 
That  its  luxurious  tendrils  spread 

O'er  all  the  hills  of  Palestine. 
And  now  the  wild  boar  comes  to  waste 
Even  us,  the  greenest  boughs  and  last. 
That,  drinkuig  of  thy  choicest  dew, 
On  Zion's  hill  in  beauty  grew. 

No!  by  the  marvels  of  thine  hand. 
Thou  still  wilt  save  thy  chosen  land  ! 
By  all  thine  ancient  mercies  shown, 
By  all  our  fathers'  foes  o'erthrown; 
By  the  Egyptian's  ear-borne  host, 
Scalter'd  on  the  Red  Sea  coast ; 
By  that  wide  and  bloodless  slaughter 
Underneath  the  drowning  water. 

Like  us  in  utter  helples-sness. 
In  their  last  and  worst  distress — 
On  the  sand  and  sea-weed  lying, 
Israel  pour'd  her  doleful  sighing ; 
While  before  the  deep  sea  Uow'd 
And  behind  lierce  Egypt  rode  — 
To  their  father's  God  they  pray'd. 
To  the  Lord  of  Hosts  for  aid. 

On  the  margin  of  the  flood 

With  lifted  rod  the  Prophet  stood  ; 

And  the  summon'd  east  wind  blew 

And  aside  it  sternly  threw 

The  gather'd  waves,  that  took  their  stand, 

Lik»  cr\-slal  rocks,  on  either  hand. 


Or  walls  of  sea-green  marble  piled 
Round  some  irregular  city  wild. 

Then  the  light  of  morning  lay 
On  the  wonder-paved  way. 
Where  the  treasures  of  the  deep 
In  their  caves  of  coral  sleep. 
The  profound  aby.sses,  where 
Was  never  sound  from  upper  air, 
Rang  with  Israel's  chanted  words. 
King  of  Kings !  and  Lord  of  Lords ! 

Then  with  bow  and  banner  glancing. 

On  exulting  Egypt  came. 
With  her  chosen  horsemen  prancing, 

And  her  ears  on  w  heels  of  flame, 
In  a  rich  and  boastful  ring 
All  around  her  furious  king. 

But  the  Lord  from  out  his  cloud. 
The  Lord  look'd  dovvn  upon  the  proud  ; 
And  the  host  drave  heavily 
Down  the  deep  bosom  of  the  sea. 

With  a  quick  and  sudden  swell 
Prone  the  liquid  ramparts  fell ; 
Over  horse,  and  over  car, 
Over  every  man  of  war,  * 

Over  Pharaoh's  crown  of  gold. 
The  loud  thundering  billows  roll'd. 
As  the  level  waters  spread, 
Down  they  sank,  they  sank  like  lead, 
Down  without  a  cry  or  groan. 
And  the  morning  sun,  that  shone 
On  myriads  of  bright-armed  men. 
Its  meridian  radiance  then 

Cast  on  a  wide  sea,  heaving  as  of  yore. 

Against  a  silent,  solitary  shore. 

Then  did  Israel's  maidens  sing, 
Then  did  Israel's  timbrels  ring. 
To  him,  the  King  of  Kings!  that  in  ihe  sea. 
The  Lord  of  Lords  !  had  triumph'd  gloriously. 

And  our  timbrels'  flashing  chords. 

King  of  Kings  !  and  Lord  of  Lords  ! 

Shall  they  not  altuned  be 

Once  again  to  victory  ? 

Lo !  a  glorious  triumph  now! 

Lo !  against  thy  people  come 
A  mightier  Pharaoh  !  wilt  not  thou 

Craze  the  chariot  wheels  of  Rome? 
Will  nol,  like  the  Red  Sea  wave, 

Thy  stern  anger  overthrow  ? 
And  from  worse  than  bondage  save, 

From  sadder  than  Egyptian  woe. 
Those  whose  silver  cynibals  glance. 
Those  who  lead  the  suppliant  dance. 
Thy  race,  the  only  race  that  sings 
Lord  of  Lords !  and  King  of  Kings ! 


Streets  of  Jerusalem — Evening. 

.MIRIAM. 

Ah  me!  ungentle  Eve,  how  long  Ihou  lingerest! 
Oh !  when  it  was  a  grief  to  me  to  lose 

427 


418 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yon  azure  mountains,  and  the  lovely  vales 
That  from  our  city  walls  seem  vrandering  on 
Under  the  cedar-tufted  precipices ; 
With  what  an  envious  and  a  hurrying  swiftness 
Didst  thou  descend,  and  pour  thy  mantling  dews 
And  dew-like  silence  o'er  the  face  of  things  ; 
Shrouding  each  spot  I  loved  the  most  with  suddenest 
And  deepest  darkness;  making  mute  the  groves 
Where  the  birds  nestled  under  the  still  leaves ! 
But  now,  how  slowly,  heavily  thou  fallest ! 
Now,  when  thou  mightest  hush  the  angry  din 
Of  battle,  and  conceal  the  murtherous  foes 
From  mutual  slaughter,  and  pour  oil  and  wine 
Into  the  aching  hurts  of  wounded  men  ! 
But  is  it  therefore  only  that  I  chide  thee 
With  querulous  impatience  ?  will  the  night 
Once  more,  the  secret,  counsel-keeping  night. 
Veil  the  dark  path  which  leads  to  Siloe's  fountain  ? 
Which  leads — why  should  I  blush  to  add — to  Javan? 

Oh  thou,  my  teacher !  I  forgot  thee  not 
This  morning  in  the  Temple — I  forgot  not 
The  name  thou  taught'st  me  to  adore,  nor  thee 

But  what  have  I  to  do  with  thoughts  like  these, 
While  all  around  the  stunning  battle  roars 
Like  a  gorged  lion  o'er  his  mangled  prey  ? 
Alas  I  alas!  but  the  human  appetite 
For  shedding  blood, — that  is  insatiate  ! 
— Time  was,  that  if  I  heard  a  sound  of  arms. 
My  heart  would  shudder,  and  my  limbs  v\ould  fail. 
When,  to  have  seen  a  dying  man  had  been 
A  dark  event,  that  with  its  fearful  memory 
Had  haunted  many  a  sad  and  sleepless  night. 
But  now — now 

Salone,  Miriam. 

MIRIAM. 

Sister !  my  Salone !  Sister ! 
Why  art  thou  flying  with  that  frantic  mien. 
Thy  veil  cast  back  and  streammg  with  thine  hair? 
Oh,  harbinger  of  misery !  I  read 
A  sad  disastrous  story  in  thy  face ; 
'Tis  o'er,  and  God  hath  given  the  city  of  David 
Unto  the  stranger. 

SALONE. 

Oh  I  not  yet ;  our  wall, 
Our  last,  our  strongest  wall,  is  still  unshaken, 
Though  the  fierce  engines  with  their  brazen  heads 
Strike  at  it  sternly  and  incessantl}-. 

MIRIAM. 

Then  God  preserve  the  lost  I  and  oh,  our  father ! 

SALONE. 

All  is  not  lost !  for  Amariah  stands 
Amid  the  rushing  sheets  of  molten  fire, 
Even  like  an  Angel  in  the  flaming  centre 

Of  the  sun's  noontide  orb 

Hark !  hark  ! — who  comes  ? 

SIMON. 

Back— back — I  say,  by 

MIRIAM. 

'Tis  my  father's  voice! 
It  sounds  in  wrath,  perhaps  in  blasphemy  ; 
Yet  'tis  my  living  falher's  voice — He's  here. 


Simon,  Miriam,  Salone. 

SIMON. 

Now  may  your  native  towers  rush  o'er  your  heads 
With  horrible  downfall,  may  the  treacherous  stones 
Start  underneath  your  footing,  cast  you  down, 
For  the  iron  wheels  of  vengeance  to  rush  o'er  you — 
Flight!  flight!  still  flight! — Oh,  infldel  renegades! 

The  above,  John,  Amariah,  High-Priest,  etc. 

SIMON. 

Now,  by  the  living  God  of  Israel,  John  ! 
Your  silken  slaves,  your  golden-sandal'd  men, — 
Your  men  !  I  should  have  said,  your  girls  of  Gali- 
lee! — 
They  will  not  soil  their  dainty  hands  with  blood. 
Their  myrrh-dew'd  locks  are  all  too  smoothly  curl'd 
To  let  the  riotous  and  dishevelling  airs 
Of  battle  violate  their  crisped  neatness. 
Oh !  their  nice  mincing  steps  are  all  unfit 
To  tread  the  red  and  slippery  paths  of  war; 
Yet  they  can  trip  it  lightly  when  they  turn 

To  fly 

JOHN. 

Thou  lying  and  injurious  Pharisee! 
For  every  man  of  thine  that  in  the  trenches 
Hardly  hath  consented  to  lay  down  his  life, 
Twice  ten  of  mine  have  leap'd  from  off  the  walls, 
Grappling  a  Gentile  by  the  shivering  helm. 
And  proudly  died  upon  his  dying  foe. 
But  tell  thou  me,  thou  only  faithful  Simon ! 
Where  are  the  men  of  Edom,  whom  we  saw 
Stretching  their  amicable  hands  in  parley. 
And  quietly  mingling  with  the  unharming  foe  ? 

SIMON. 

Where  are  they  ?  where  the  traitors  meet,  where  all 
The  foes  of  Simon  and  Jerusalem, 
In  th'  everlasting  fire!  I  slew  them,  John, — 
Thou  saw'st  my  red  hand  glorious  with  their  blood. 

JOHN. 

False  traitors !  in  their  very  treachery  false  I 
They  vkould  betray  without  their  lord — In  truth, 
Treason,  like  empire,  brooks  not  rivalry. 

SIMON. 

Now,  by  the  bones  of  Abraham  our  father, 
I  do  accuse  thee  here,  false  John  of  Galilee! 
Or,  if  the  title  please  thee,  John  the  Tyrant ! 
Here,  in  our  arm'd,  embatiled  Sanhedrim, 
Thou  art  our  falls  prime  cause,  and  fatal  origin! 
From  thee,  as  from  a  foul  and  poisonous  fount. 
Pour  the  black  waters  of  calamity 
O'er  Judah's  land  !    God  hates  thee,  man  of  Belial! 
And  the  destroying  bolls  thai  M\  on  thne 
From  the  insulted  heavens,  blast  all  around  thee 
With  spacious  and  unsparing  desolation. 
Hear  me,  ye  men  of  Israel !  do  ye  wonder 
That  all  your  baffled  valour  hath  recoil'd 
From  the  fierce  Gentile  onset  >.  that  your  walls 
Are  prostrate,  and  your  last  haih  scarce  repell'd 
But  now  the  flush'd  invader?     'Tis  from  this— 
That  the  Holy  City  will  not  be  defended 
By  womanish  men,  and  loose  adulterers. 
Hear  me,  I  say,  this  son  of  Gischala, 

42a 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


419 


This  lustful  tyrant,  hath  he  not  defiled 
Your  daughlers.  in  ihe«open  lace  of  day 
Done  deeds  of  shame,  which  midnight  hath  no  dark- 
ness 
So  deep  ns  to  conceal  ?     It  is  his  pride 
T'  offend  high  heaven  with  crimes  before  unknown — 
Hath  he  not  niock"d  the  austere  and  solemn  fasts, 
And  sabbaths  of  our  Law,  by  revellings 
And  most  heaven-tainting  wantonness?    Yea,  more, 
Hath  he  not  made  liotl's  festivals  a  I'alse 
And  fraudfiil  pretext  lor  his  deeds  of  guilt  ? 
Yea,  on  tlie  day  of  tiie  I'lileavened  Bread, 
Even  m  the  garb  and  with  the  speech  of  worship, 
Went  he  not  up  into  the  very  Temple  ?  (14) 
And  there  belbre  the  \'eil,  even  in  the  presence 
Of  th'  Holy  of  Holies,  did  he  not  break  forth 
With  armed  and  infuriate  violence? 
Then  did  the  pavement,  which  was  never  red 
But  with  the  guiltless  blood  of  sacrifice, 
Reek  with  the  indelible  and  thrice-foulest  stain 
Of  human  carnage.     Yea,  with  impious  steel 
He  slew  the  brethren  that  were  kneeling  with  hira 
At  the  same  altar,  uttering  the  same  prayers. 
(Speak,  Kleazar,  was 't  not  so  ? — thou  darest  not 
AfTirm,  nor  canst  deny  thine  own  betrayal.) 
And  since  that  cursed  hour  of  guilty  triumph 
There  hath  he  held  the  palace  of  his  lusts,  (15) 
Turning  God's  Temple  to  a  grove  of  Belial : 
Even  till  men  wonder  that  the  pillars  start  not 
From  their  fix'd  sockets;  that  the  offended  roof 
Fall  not  at  once,  and  crush  in  his  own  shame 
The  blasphemous  invader.     Yea,  not  yet, 
I  have  not  fathom'd  yet  his  depth  of  sin. 
His  common  banquet  is  the  Bread  of  Oflering, 
The  vessels  of  the  altar  are  the  cups 
From  which  he  drains  his  riotous  drunkenness. 
The  incense,  that  was  wont  to  rise  to  heaven 
Pure  as  an  infant's  breath,  now  foully  stagnates 
Within  the  pestilent  haunts  of  his  lasciviousness. 
Can  these  things  be,  and  yet  our  favour'd  arms 
Be  clad  with  victory  ?    Can  the  Lord  of  Israel 
For  us,  the  scanty  remnant  of  his  worshippers. 
Neglect  to  vindicate  his  tainted  shrine. 
His  sanctuary  profaned,  his  outraged  Laws? 

JOHN. 

Methinks,  if  Simon  had  but  fought  to-day 
As  valiantly  as  Simon  speaks,  the  foe 
Had  never  seen  to-morrow's  onset — 

Si.MON. 

Brethren, 
Yet  I  demand  your  audience 

JEWS. 

Hear  him  I 
The  righteous  Simon  I 

SIMON. 

Men  of  Israel  I 
Why  stand  ye  thus  in  wonder?  where  the  root 
Is  hollow,  can  the  tree  be  sound  ?     Man's  deeds 
Are  as  man's  doctrines  ;  and  who  hopes  for  aught 
But  wantonness  and  ll)ul  iniquity 
From  that  blaspheming  and  heretical  sect. 
The  serpent  spawn  of  Sadoc,  that  corrupt 
The  Law  of  Moses  and  disdain  the  Prophets  ? 
3C 


That  grossly  do  defraud  the  eternal  soul 

Of  its  immortal  heritage,  and  doom  it 

To  rot  for  ever  with  its  kindred  day 

In  the  grave's  deep  unbroken  pri.-ton-house  ? 

Yea,  they  dispeople  with  their  iulidel  creed 

Heaven  of  its  holy  Angels;  laugh  to  scorn 

That  secret  band  of  ministering  Spirits; 

That  therefore,  in  their  indignaiion,  stand 

Aloof,  and  gaze  upon  our  gathering  ruin 

With  a  contemptuous  and  pitiless  scorn. 

They  that  were  wont  to  range  around  our  towers 

Their  sunlight-wing'd  battalia,  and  to  war 

Upon  our  part  with  adamantine  arms. 

JOIIX. 

Oh  I  impotent  and  miserable  arguer! 
Will  he  that  values  not  the  stake  as  boldly 
Confront  the  peril  as  the  man  that  fi?els 
His  all  upon  the  hazard  ?    Men  of  Galilee, 
The  cup  of  Life  hath  sparkled  to  our  lips. 
And  we  have  drain'd  its  tide  of  love  and  joy, 
Till  our  veins  almost  burst  with  o'erwrought  rapture; 
And  well  we  know,  that  generous  cup,  once  dash'd, 
Shall  never  mantle  more  to  the  cold  lips 
Of  the  earth-bound  dead.   And  therefore  do  we  fight 
For  life  as  for  a  mistress,  that  being  lost, 
Is  lost  for  ever.    To  be  what  we  are 
Is  all  we  hope  or  pray  for;  think  ye,  then, 
That  we  shall  tamely  yield  the  contest  up. 
And  calmly  acquiesce  in  our  extinction  ? 
We  know  that  there  stands  yawning  at  our  feet 
The  gulf,  where  dark  Annihilation  dwells 
With  Solitude,  her  sister  ;  and  we  fix 
Our  steadfast  footing  on  the  perilous  verge, 
And  grapple  to  the  last  with  the  fierce  foe 
That  seeks  to  plunge  us  down;  and  where 's  the 
strength 

That  can  subdue  despair? For  the  other  charge, 

We  look  not,  Simon,  to  the  sky,  nor  pray 

For  sightless  and  impalpable  messengers 

To  spare  us  the  proud  peril  of  the  war  : 

Ourselves  are  our  own  Angels  !  we  implore  not 

Or  supernatural  or  spiritual  aid  ; 

We  have  our  own  good  arms,  that  Cod  hath  given  us, 

And  valiant  hearts  to  wield  those  mighty  arms. 

SIMON. 

Oh  heavens !  oh  heavens,  ye  hear  it,  and  endure  it! 
Outwearied  by  the  all-frequent  blasphemy 
To  an  indignant  patience:  and  the  just 
Still,  still  must  suffer  the  enforced  alliance 
Of  men  whose  fellowship  is  death  and  ruin. 

JOHN. 

Why,  thou  acknowledged  Prince  of  Murderers! 

Captain  A.ssassin!     Lrjrd  and  Chief  of  Massacre! 

That  poorest  blood  like  water,  yet  dust  deem 

That  thou  canst  wash  the  lijul  and  scarlet  stain 

From  thy  polluted  soul,  as  easily 

As  from  thy  dainty  ever-dabbling  hands. 

Thou  wouldst  appease  with  rile  and  ordinance, 

And  fieslival,  and  slavish  ceremony. 

And  prayers  ihat  weary  even  thestoneslhoii  kneel'slon. 

The  God  whose  image  honrlv  ih'in  elliicest 

With  mangling  and  remorseless  steel  I   "1"  is  well 

That  graves  are  silent,  and  that  dead  men's  souls 


420 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Assert  not  the  proud  privilege  thou  wouldst  give  them; 
For  if  they  did,  Heaven's  vaults  would  ring  so  loudly 
With  imprecations  'gainst  the  righteous  Simon, 
That  they  would  pluck  by  force  a  plague  upon  us, 
To  which  the  Roman,  and  the  wasting  famine, 
Were  soft  and  healing  mercies. 

SIMON. 

Liar  and  slave .' 
There  is  no  rich  libation  to  the  All-Just 
So  welcome  as  the  blood  of  renegades 

And  traitors 

MIRIAM  (apart.) 
Oh  I  I  dare  not  listen  longer! 
The  big  drops  stand  upon  his  brow ;  his  voice 
Is  faint  and  fails,  and  there  's  no  food  at  home. 
The  night  is  dark — I  '11  go  once  more,  or  perish. 

[Departs  unperceived. 

SIMON. 

What,  John  of  Galilee !  because  my  voice 
Is  hoarse  with  speaking  of  thy  crimes,  dost  scofl^ 
And  wag  thy  head  at  me,  and  answer  laughter? 
Now,  if  thy  veins  run  not  pure  gall,  I  '11  broach 
Their  tide,  and  prove  if  all  my  creed  be  false  ; 
If  traitors'  reeking  blood  smell  not  to  heaven 
Like  a  sweet  sacrifice. 

JOHN. 

Why,  ay !  the  victim 
Is  bound  to  th'  horns  of  th'  altar!    Strike,  I  say, 
He  waits  thee — Strike ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Hold,  Chiefs  of  Israel! 
Just  Simon  !  valiant  John  !  once  more  I  dare 
To  cast  myself  between  you,  the  High-Priest, 
Who  by  his  holy  ofTiee  calls  on  you 
To  throw  aside  your  trivial  private  wrongs. 
And  vindicate  offence  more  rank  and  monstrous. 
Avenge  your  God!  and  then  avenge  yourselves! 
The  Temple  is  polluted — Israel's  Lord 
Mock'd  in  his  presence.     Prayers  even  thence  have 

risen. 
Prayers  from  the  jealous  holy  Sanctuary, 
Even  to  tJie  Crucified  Man  our  fathers  slew. 

JEWS. 

The  Crucified !  the  Man  of  Nazareth  ! 

IIIGH-PRIEST. 

This  morn,  as  wont,  our  maidens  had  gone  up 

To  chant  their  suppliant  hymn  ;  and  they  had  raised 

The  song  that  Israel  on  the  Ited  Sea  shore 

Took  up  triumphant ;  and  they  closed  the  strain. 

That,  like  th'  Egyptian  and  his  car-borne  host, 

The  billows  of  Heaven's  wrath  might  overwhelm 

The  Gentile  foe,  and  so  preserve  Jerusalem; 

When  at  the  close  and  fall  a  single  voice 

Linger'd  upon  the  note,  with,  "  Re  it  done 

Through  Jeans  Christ,  thine  only  Son." 

My  spirit  shrank  within  me  ;  horror-struck, 

I  listen'd  ;  all  was  silence  !    Then  again 

I  look'd  upon  the  veiled  damsels,  all 

With  one  accord  look  up  the  swelling  strain 

To  him  that  triumph'd  gloriously.     I  turn'd 

To  the  .^rk  and  Mercy  Seat,  and  then  again 

I  heard  that  single,  soft,  melodious  voice, 


"  Lord  of  Mercies,  be  it  done. 
Through  Jesus  Christ,  thine  8nly  Son." 
Here,  then,  assembled  Lords  of  Israel, 
Whoever  be  the  victim,  I  demand  her ; 
Your  wisdom  must  detect,  your  justice  wreak 
Fit  punishment  upon  the  accursed  sacrilege. 

SALONE  [apart.) 
Miriam!  Miriam!  Ha!— She 's  fled.— Guilt!  Guilt 
Prophetic  of  the  damning  accn.sation 
It  doth  deserve!  Apostate!  'twere  a  sin 
Against  Jerusalem  and  Heaven  to  spare  thee ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

I  do  commend  you,  brethren,  for  your  silence! 
I  see  the  abhorrence  labouring  in  your  hearts. 
Too  deep  and  loo  infuriate  for  words. 

SIMON. 

Now,  if  it  were  ray  child,  my  Sarah's  child. 

The  child  that  she  died  blessing,  I  'd  not  sleep 

Till  the  stones  crush  her.     Yea,  thus,  thus  I  'd  grasp, 

And  hurl  destruction  on  her  guilty  head. 

Here,  John,  I  pledge  mine  hand  to  thee,  till  vengeance 

Seize  on  the  false  and  insolent  blasphemer. 

(SALONE,  half  unveiled,  rushing  forward,  stops  irre- 
solutely.) 
Their  eyes  oppress  me — my  heart  chokes  my  voice — 

.And  my  lips  cling  together Oh!  my  mother. 

Upon  thy  death-bed  didst  thou  not  beseech  us 
To  love  each  other ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Veiled  maid,  what  art  thou  ? 

SALONE. 

Off!  off!  the  blood  of  Abraham  swells  within  me — 
As  I  cast  down  my  veil,  I  cast  away 
.All  fear,  all  tenderness,  all  fond  remorse. 
It  is  too  good  a  death  for  one  so  guilty 

To  perish  for  Jerusalem 

[She  stands  unveiled. 

SIMON. 

Salone ! 

HIGII-PRIEST. 

The  admired  daughter  of  the  noble  Simon  ! 

VOICE  AT  A  DISTANCE. 

Israel !  Israel ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Who  is  this,  that  speaks 
With  such  a  thrilling  accent  of  command  ? 

VOICE. 

Israel !  Israel ! 

JEWS. 

Back!  give  place!  the  Prophet! 
ABIRAM  (the  false  prophet.) 
Israel !  Israel ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Peace ! 

ABIRAM. 

Ay  !  peace,  I  say! 
The  wounds  are  bound  ;  the  blood  is  stanch'd  I  and 

hate 
Is  turn'd  to  love  I  and  rancorous  jealousy 
To  kindred  concord  !  and  the  clashing  swords 
To  bridal  sounds!  the  fury  of  the  feud  •• 

To  revel  and  the  jocund  nuptial  feast. 

430 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


421 


HIGH-PRIH6T. 

What  means  Abiram  >. 

Alii  RAM. 

It  is  from  on  High. 
Brave  Amariah,  son  of  John  !  Salone, 
Daughter  of  Simon!  thus  1  join  their  hands; 
And  thus  I  bless  the  wedded  and  the  beautiful ! 
And  thus  1  bind  the  Captains  of  Jerusalem 
In  the  strong  bonds  of  unity  and  peace. — 

And  where  is  now  the  wine  for  the  bridegroom's  rosy 

cup?  (16) 
And  the  tabret  and  the  harp  for  the  chamber  of  the 

bride  ? 
Lo!  bright  as  burnish'd  gold  the  lamps  are  sparkling  up, 
And  the  odours  of  the  incense  are  breathing  far  and 

wide ; 
And  the  maidens'  feet  are  glancing  in  the  virgins' 

wedding  train ; 
And  the  sad  streets  of  Salem  are  alive  with  joy  again ! 

THE    JEWS. 

Long  live  Salone !    Long  live  Amariah ! 

SALONE. 

Am  I  awake  ? — how  came  I  here  unveil'd 
Among  the  bold  and  glaring  eyes  of  men  ? 

THE    JEWS. 

Long  live  Salone !   Long  live  Amariah  I 

SIMOX. 

He  speaks  from  Heaven — accept'st  thou,  John  of 

Galilee, 
Heaven's  terms  of  peace  ? 

JOHN. 

From  earth  or  heaven,  I  care  not — 
What  says  my  boy  ? 

AMARIAH. 

Oh  I  rather  let  me  ask. 
What  says  the  maid?    Oh!  raven-hair'd  Salone, 
Why  dost  thou  crov^d  thy  jealous  veil  around  thee  ? 
Look  on  me  freely ;  beauteous  in  thy  freedom  ; 
.\8  when  this  morn  I  saw  thee,  on  t)ur  walls, 
Thy  hair  cast  back,  and  bare  thy  marble  brow 
To  the  bright  wooing  of  Ilie  enamonr'd  siui : 
They  were  my  banner.  Beauty,  those  dark  locks; 
And  in  the  battle  't  was  my  pride,  my  strength, 
To  think  that  eyes  like  thine  were  gazing  on  me. 

SALONE. 

Oh  no,  thou  saw'st  me  not ! — Oh,  Amariah  ! 

What  Prophets  speak  must  be  fulfiU'd.    'Twere  vain 

T*  oppose  at  once  the  will  of  Heaven — and  thee. 

JOHN. 

Now,  if  there  be  enough  of  generous  fo<xl, 
A  cup  of  wine  in  all  the  wasted  city, 
We  '1!  have  a  jocund  revel. 

SIMON. 

Prophet  Abiram, 
I  have  a  question  for  thy  secret  ear. 
Thou  man,  whose  eyes  are  purged  from  earthly  film, 
Seest  thou  no  further  down  the  tide  of  time  ? 
Beyond  this  bridal  nothing  ? — Answer  me  ! 
For  it  should  seem  this  designated  union 
Of  two  so  noble,  this  conspiring  blood 


Of  Israel's  chiefs,  portends  some  glorious  fruif 
To  ripen  in  the  deep  futurity. 

ABIRAM. 

Simon,  what  meanest  thou  ? 

SIMON. 

The  Hope  d"  Israel! 
Shall  it  not  daw  n  from  darkness  ?   Oh  !  begot 
In  Judah's  hour  ol  peril,  and  conceived 
In  her  extreme  of  agiiny,  what  birth 
So  meet  and  titling  lor  the  great  Discomfiter? 

ABIRAM. 

A  light  falls  on  me. 

SIMON. 

Prophet!  what  shall  dye 
The  robe  of  purple  with  so  bright  a  grain 
As  Roman  blood  ?   Before  our  gates  are  met 
The  lords  of  empire,  and  our  walls  may  laugh 
Their  siege  to  scorn,  even  till  the  Branch  be  grown 
That's  not  yet  planted — Vea,  the  wrested  sceptre 

Of  earth,  the  sole  dominion Back,  Abiram, 

To  thy  prophetic  cave — kneel,  pray,  fast,  weep; 
And  thou  shall  bless  us  with  far  nobler  tidings, 
And  we  will  kiss  thy  feet,  thou  Harbinger 
Of  Judah's  glory 

Now  lead  on  the  Bridal. 
Blow  trumpets!  shout,  exulting  Israeli 
Shout  Amariah!  shout  again  Salone! 
Shout  louder  yet,  the  Bridegroom  and  the  Bride  ! 
Rejoice,  O  Zion,  now  on  all  thy  hills; 
City  of  David,  through  thy  streets  rejoice! 


Fountain  of  Siloe — Niglil — A71  approaching  Storm, 

MIRIAM. 

He  is  not  here !  and  yet  he  might  have  known 
That  the  cold  gloom  of  the  tempestuous  skies 
Could  never  change  a  faithful  heart  like  mine. 
He  might  have  known  me  not  a  maid  to  love 
Under  the  melting  moonlight,  and  soft  stars. 
And  to  fall  off  in  darkness  and  in  storm. 
Ah  !  seal'd  for  ever  be  my  slanderous  lips! 
Alas!  it  is  the  bitterest  pang  of  misery 
That  it  will  force  from  us  unworthy  doubts 
Of  the  most  tried  and  true.     Oh,  Javan,  Javan! 
It  was  but  now  that  with  presumptuous  heart 
I  did  repine  against  the  all-gracious  heavens. 
That  wrapt  me  round  in  charitable  darkness. 
Because  my  erring  feet  had  well-nigh  miss'd 
Their  known  familiar  path. 

Javan,  Miria.m. 
javan. 

What 's  there  >  I  see 
A  white  and  spirit-like  gleaming — It  must  be  I 
I  see  her  not,  yet  feel  that  it  is  Miriam, 
By  the  indistinct  and  dimly  visible  grar  e 
That  haunts  her  motions;  by  her  ircad,  that  falls 
Trembling  and  soft  like  moonlight  on  the  earth. 
What  dost  thou  here?  now — now?  where  every  mo- 
ment 
The  soldiers  prowl,  and  meeting  sentinels 
Challenge  each  other  ?  I  have  watch'd  for  thee 
As  prisoners  for  the  hour  of  their  deliverance  ; 

431 


422 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  did  I  pray,  love  I  that  thou  mightst  not  come, 
Even  that  thou  mightst  be  faithless  to  thy  vows, 

Rather  than  meet  this  peril Miriam, 

Why  art  thou  here  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Does  Javan  ask  me  why  ? 
Because  I  saw  my  father  pine  with  hunger — 
Because 1  never  hope  to  come  again. 

JAVAN. 

Too  true  I  this  night,  this  fatal  night,  if  Heaven 
Strike  not  their  concjuering  host,  the  foe  achieves 
His  tardy  victor}'.     Round  the  shatter'd  walls 
There  is  the  smotlier'd  hum  of  preparation. 
With  stealthy  footsteps,  and  with  muffled  arms. 
Along  the  trenches,  round  the  lowering  engines, 
I  saw  them  gathering:  men  stood  whispering  men. 
As  though  revealing  some  portentous  secret ; 
At  every  sound  cried.  Hist!  and  look'd  reproachfully 
Upon  each  other.     Now  and  then  a  light 
From  some  far  part  of  the  encircling  camp 
Breaks  suddenly  out,  and  then  is  quench'd  as  sud- 
denly. 
The  forced  unnatural  quiet,  that  pervades 
Those  myriads  of  arm'd  and  sleepless  warriors. 
Presages  earthly  tempest;  as  yon  clouds, 
That  in  their  mute  and  ponderous  blackness  hang 
Over  our  heads,  a  tumult  in  the  skies — 
The  earth  and  heaven  alike  are  terribly  calm. 

MIRIA.M. 

Alas  !  alas  !  give  me  the  food  !  let 's  say 
Farewell  as  fondly  as  a  dying  man 
Should  say  it  to  a  dying  woman ! 

JAVAiN. 

Miriam ! 
It  shall  not  be.    He,  He  hath  given  command, 
That  when  the  signs  are  manifest,  we  should  flee  (17) 
Unto  the  mountains.* 

MIRIAM. 

Javan,  tempt  me  not: 
My  .soul  is  weak.     Hast  thou  not  said  of  old 
How  dangerous  't  is  to  wrest  the  words  of  truth 
To  the  excusing  our  own  fond  desires  ? 
There  's  an  eternal  mandate,  unrepeal'd, 
Nor  e'er  to  be  rescinded,  "  Love  thy  father!" 
God  speaks  with  many  voices ;  one  in  the  heart. 
True  though  instinctive  ;  one  in  the  Holy  Law, 
The  first  that 's  coupled  with  a  gracious  promise. 

JAVAN. 

Yet  are  his  words,  "  Leave  all,  and  follow  me, 
Thou  shall  not  love  thy  father  more  than  me" — 
Barest  disobey  them  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Javan,  while  I  tread 
The  path  of  duty  I  am  following  him ; 
And,  loving  whom  I  ought  to  love,  love  him. 

JAVAX. 

If  thou  couldst  save  or  succour — if  this  night 
Were  not  the  last — 

.MIRIAM. 

Oh,  dearest,  think  awhile ! 
It  matters  little  at  what  hour  o'  the  day 
The  righteous  falls  asleep;  death  cannot  come 


*  Matt,  xxiv,  16. 


t  Matt.  X,  7. 


To  him  untimely  who  is  fit  to  die : 

The  less  of  this  cold  world,  the  more  of  heaven; 

The  briefer  life,  the  earlier  immortality. 

But  every  moment  to  the  man  of  guilt 

And  bloodshed,  one  like ah  me.'  like  my  father, 

Each  instant  rescued  from  the  grasp  of  death. 

May  be  a  blessed  chosen  opportunity 

For  the  everlasting  mercy — Think  what  'tis 

For  time's  minutest  period  to  delay 

An  infidel's  death,  a  murderer's 

JAVAN. 

Go!  go,  dearest! 
If  I  were  dying,  I  would  have  thee  go — 
Oh!  thou  inspher'd,  unearthly  loveliness! 
Danger  may  gather  round  thee,  like  the  clouds 
Round  one  of  heaven's  pure  stars,  thou'lt  hold  within 
Thy  course  unsullied. 

MIRIAM.  ' 

This  is  worse  than  all ! 
Oh!  mock  not  thus  with  wild  extravagant  praise 
A  very  weak  and  most  unworthy  girl. 
Javan,  one  last,  one  parting  word  with  thee — 
There  have  been  times,  when  I  have  said  light  worda^ 
As  maidens  use,  that  made  thy  kind  heart  bleed ; 
There  have  been  moments,  when  I  have  seen  thee 

sad, 
And  I  have  cruelly  sported  with  thy  sadness : 
I  have  been  proud,  oh!  very  proud,  to  hear 
Thy  fond  lips  dwell  on  beauty,  when  thine  eyes 
Were  on  this  thin  and  wasted  form  of  mine. 
Forgive  me,  oh  !  forgive  me,  for  I  deem'd 
The  hour  would  surely  come,  when  the  fond  bride 
Might  well  repay  the  maiden's  waywardness. 
Oh !  look  not  thus  o'erjoy'd,  for  if  I  thought 
We  e'er  could  meet  again  this  side  the  grave. 
Trust  me,  I  had  been  charier  of  my  tenderness. 
Yet  one  word  more — I  do  mistrust  thee,  Javan 
Though  coldly  thou  dost  labour  to  conceal  it ; 
Thou  hast  some  frantic  scheme  to  risk  for  mine 
Thy  precious  life — Beseech  thee,  heap  not  thov. 
More  sorrows  on  the  o'erburthen'd. 

JAVAN. 

Think'st  thou,  then, 
I  have  no  trust  but  in  this  arm  of  flesh 
To  save  thee? 

MIRIAM. 

Oh,  kind  Javan  I  pray  not  thou 
That  I  may  live,  that  is  too  wild  a  prayer; 
That  I  may  die  unspotted,  be  thy  suit 
To  Him  who  loves  (he  spotless. 

JAVAN. 

Ha — the  thought 
It  pierces  like  a  sword  into  my  heart ! 

MIRIAM. 

And  think'st  thou   mine  unwounded?  —  Fare  thee 

well! 
Our  presence  does  but  rack  each  other's  souls. 
P'arewell !  and  if  thou  Invest  when  I  am  dead, 
May  she  be  to  thee,  all  I  hoped  to  be. 

JAVAN. 

Go — go — 

MIRIAM. 

Thou  bidst  me  part,  and  yet  detain'st  rae 
!  With  clinging  grasp — ah  no,  't  is  I  clasp  thee. 

432 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


4-2:i 


I  knew  not  that  my  ibnd  unconscious  hand 

Had  been  so  bold — Oh,  Javan !  ere  the  morn 

'T  will  have  no  jwwer  t'  oflend  thee — 't  will  be  cold. 

JAVAN. 

Oflend  me  I  Miriam,  when  thou  'rt  above 
Among  the  Saints,  and  I  in  the  sinful  world, 
How  terrible  't  will  be  if  I  should  forfeit 
The  hope  of  meeting  thee  in  blessedness. 

MIRIAM. 

Forfeit!  with  liiith  like  thine? 

JAVAN. 

Thou  well  rebukest  me. 
To  ihy  Redeemer  I  commit  thee  now, 
To  leave  ihee  here,  or  take  thee  to  himself. 
Farewell,  farewell  I  the  life  of  this  sad  heart, — 

Dearer  than  life 1  look  for  thee,  and  lol 

A'uught  but  blind  darkness 

Save  where  yon  mad  city, 
As  though  at  peace  and  in  luxurious  joy, 
Is  hanging  out  her  bright  and  festive  lamps. 

There  have  been  tears  from  holier  eyes  than  mine 
Pour'd  o'er  thee,  Zion !  yea,  the  Son  of  Man 
This  thy  devoled  hour  foresaw  and  wept. 
.And  I — can  I  refrain  from  weeping?    Yes, 
My  counlry,  in  thy  darker  destiny 
Will  I  awhile  forget  mine  own  distress. 

I  feel  it  now,  the  sad,  the  coming  hour; 

The  signs  are  full,  and  never  shall  the  sun 
Shine  on  the  cedar  roofs  of  Salem  more  ; 

Her  lale  of  splendour  now'  is  told  and  done : 
Her  wine-cup  of  festivity  is  spilt. 
And  all  is  o'er,  her  grandeur  and  her  guilt. 

Oh  I  fair  and  favour'd  city,  where  of  old 
The  balmy  airs  were  rich  with  melody. 
That  led  her  pomp  beneath  the  cloudless  sky 

In  vestments  flaming  with  the  orient  gold  ; 

Her  gold  is  dim,  and  mute  her  music's  voice  ; 

The  Heathen  o'er  her  perish'd  pomp  rejoice. 

How  stately  tlien  was  every  palm-deck'd  street, 
Down  which  the  maidens  danced  with  tinkling  feet ; 

How  protid  the  elders  in  the  lofty  gate  I 
How  crowded  all  her  nation's  solemn  feasts 
With  white-robed  Leviles  and  high-mitred  Priests; 

How  gorgeous  all  her  Temple's  sacred  state! 
Her  streets  are  razed,  her  maidens  sold  for  slaves. 
Her  gates  thrown  dow  n,  her  elders  in  their  graves ; 
Her  feasts  are  holden  'mid  the  Gentile's  scorn. 
By  stealth  her  Priesthood's  holy  garments  worn ; 
And  where  her  Temple  crown'd  the  glittering  rock. 
The  wandering  shepherd  folds  his  evening  flock. 

When  shall  the  work,  the  work  of  death  begin  ? 
When  come  the  avengers  of  proud  Judah's  sin  ? 
Aceldama  !  accursed  and  guilty  ground. 
Gird  all  the  city  in  thy  dismal  bound. 

Her  price  is  paid,  and  she  is  sold  like  thou ; 
I-*t  every  ancient  monument  and  tomb 
Fnlarge  the  border  of  its  vaulted  gloom, 

Their  spacious  chambers  all  are  wanted  now. 

But  nevermore  shall  yon  lost  city  need 
Those  secret  places  for  her  future  dead  ; 
36 


Of  all  her  children,  when  this  night  i6  pass'd, 
Devoted  Salem's  darkest,  and  her  last. 
Of  all  her  children  none  is  left  to  her. 
Save  those  whose  house  is  in  the  sepulchre. 

Yet,  guilty  city,  who  shall  mourn  for  thee? 

Shall  Christian  voices  wail  thy  devastation? 
Look  down !  look  down,  avenged  Calvary, 

Upon  thy  late  yet  dreadful  expiation. 
Oh  !  long  foretold,  though  slow  accomplish'd  fate, 
"  Her  house  is  left  unto  her  desolate  ;" 
Proud  Caesar's  ploughshare  o'er  her  ruins  driven. 
Fulfils  at  length  the  tardy  doom  of  heaven; 
The  wrathful  vial's  drops  at  length  are  pour'd 
On  the  rebellious  race  that  crucified  their  Lord ! 


Streets  of  Jerusalem — Xighl. 
Many  Jews  meeting- 

FIRST    JEW. 

Saw  ye  it,  father!  saw  ye  what  the  city 

Stands  gazing  at  ?     As  I  pa.«s'd  through  the  streets 

There  were  pale  women  wandering  up  and  down  ; 

And  on  the  house-tops  there  were  haggard  faces 

Turn'd  to  the  heavens,  where'er  the  ghostly  light 

Fell  on  them.     Even  the  prowling  plunderers. 

That  break  our  houses  for  suspected  food. 

Their  quick  and  stealthful  footsteps  check,  and  gasp 

In  wonder.    They,  that  in  deep  weariness,  ' 

Or  wounded  in  the  battle  of  the  morn, 

Had  cast  themselves  to  slumber  on  the  stones. 

Lift  up  their  drowsy  heads,  and  languidly 

Do  shudder  at  the  sight. 

SECOND  JEW. 

What  sight  ?  what  say'st  thon  ? 

FIRST   JEW. 

The  star,  the  star,  the  fiery-tressed  star. 
That  all  this  fatal  year  hath  hung  in  the  heavens 
Above  us,  gleaming  like  a  bloody  sword. 
Twice  hath  it  moved.     Men  cried  aloud,  "  A  tem- 
pest !" 
And  there  was  blackness,  as  of  thunder  clouds : 
But  yet  that  angry  sign  glared  fiercely  through  them, 
.•\nd  the  third  time,  with  slow  and  solemn  motion, 
'T  was  shaken  and  brand  ish'd. 

SECOND   JEW. 

Timorous  boy  !  thou  speak'st 
I  As  though  these  things  were  strange.     Why  now 
we  sleep 
With  prodigies  ablaze  in  all  the  heavens, 
I  And  the  earth  teeming  with  [wrtentous  signs, 
,  As  sound  as  when  the  moon  and  constant  stars 
j  Beam'd  quietly  upon  the  slumbering  earth 
■  Their  customary  fires.     Dost  thou  remember. 

At  Pentecost,  when  all  the  land  of  Judah 

:  Stood  round  the  .Altar,  at  the  dead  of  night, 

\  A  Light  broke  out,  and  all  the  Temple  shone 

With  the  meteorous  glorj*  ?  't  was  not  like 

The  light  of  sun  or  moon,  but  it  was  clear 

And  bright  as  either,  only  that  it  wiiher'd 

1  Wen's  faces  to  a  hue  like  death. 

433 


424 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THIRD   JEW. 

'T  was  strange ! 
And,  if  I  err  not,  on  that  very  day, 
The  Priest  led  forth  the  spotless  sacrifice, 
And  as  he  led  it,  it  fell  down,  and  cast 
Its  young  upon  the  sacred  pavement. 

FOURTH   JEW. 

Brethren, 
Have  ye  forgot  the  eve,  when  war  broke  out 
Even  in  the  heavens  ?  all  the  wide  northern  sky 
Was  rocking  with  arm'd  men  and  fiery  chariots. 
With  an  abrupt  and  sudden  noiselessness, 
Wildly,  confusedly  they  cross'd  and  mingled. 
As  when  the  Red  Sea  waves  dash'd  to  and  fro 
The  crazed  cars  of  Pharaoh 

THIRD   JEW. 

Who  comes  here 
In  his  white  robe  so  hastily  ? 

FIRST   JEW. 

'T  is  the  Levite, 
The  Holy  Aaron. 

LEVITE. 

Brethren !  Oh,  my  Brethren! 

THE    JEW. 

Speak,  Rabbi,  all  our  souls  thirst  for  thy  words. 

LEVITE. 

But  now  within  the  Temple,  as  I  minister'd, 
There  was  a  silence  round  us;  the  wild  sounds 
Of  the  o'erwearied  war  had  fallen  asleep. 
A  silence,  even  as  though  all  earth  were  fix'd 
Like  us  in  adoration,  when  the  gate. 
The  Eastern  gate,  with  all  its  ponderous  bars 
And  bolts  of  iron,  started  wide  asunder. 
And  all  the  strength  of  man  doth  vainly  toil 
To  close  the  stubborn  and  rebellious  leaves. 

FIRST   JEW. 

What  now  ? 

ANOTHER  JEW. 

What  now?  why  all  things  sad  and  monstrous. 
The  Prophets  stand  aghast,  and  vainly  seek, 
Amid  the  thronging  and  tumultuous  signs 
Which  crowd  this  wild  disastrous  night,  the  intent 
Of  the  Eternal.    Wonder  breaks  o'er  wonder. 
As  clouds  roll  o'er  each  other  in  the  skies; 
And  Terror,  wantoning  with  man's  perplexity, 
No  sooner  hath  infix'd  the  awed  attention 
On  some  strange  prodigy,  than  it  straight  distracts  it 
To  a  stranger  and  more  fearful. 

THIRD   JEW. 

Hark?  what 's  there  ? 
Fresh  horror.' 

(At  a  distance.) 
To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet,  (18) 
Moving  slow  our  solemn  feet. 
We  have  borne  thee  on  the  road, 
To  the  virgin's  blest  abode  ; 
With  thy  yellow  torches  gleaming. 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming. 
And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 

Thou  hast  left  the  joyous  fea.st, 

And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceased  ; 


And  now  we  set  thee  down  before 
The  jealously-unclosmg  door ; 
That  the  favour'd  youth  admits 
Where  the  veiled  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear, 
Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear ; 
And  the  music's  brisker  din, 
At  the  bridegroom's  entering  in, 
Entering  in  a  welcome  guest 
To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 

SECOND   JEW. 

It  is  the  bridal  song  of  Amariah 

And  fair  Salone.    In  the  house  of  Simon 

The  rites  are  held  ;  nor  bears 'the  Bridegroom  home 

His  plighted  Spouse,  but  there  doth  deck  his  chamber; 

These  perilous  times  dispensing  with  the  rigour 

Of  ancient  usage 

VOICE  WITHIN. 

Woe !  woe  !  v^'oe ! 


FIRST  JEW. 


Alas! 


The  son  of  Hananiah  ?  is  't  not  he  ? 

THIRD   JEW. 

Whom  said'sl  ? 

SECOND   JEW. 

Art  thou  a  stranger  in  Jerusalem, 
That  thou  rememberest  not  that  fearful  man  ? 

FOURTH   JEW. 

Speak!  speak!  we  know  not  all. 

SECOND  JEW. 

Why  thus  it  wus: 
A  rude  and  homely  dresser  of  the  vine, 
He  had  come  up  to  the  Feast  of  Tabernacles, 
When  suddenly  a  spirit  fell  upon  him. 
Evil  or  good  we  know  not.    Ever  since 
(And  now  seven  years  are  past  since  it  befell. 
Our  city  then  being  prosperous  and  at  peace,) 
He  hath  gone  wandering  through  the  darkling  streets 
At  midnight  under  the  cold  quiet  stars  ; 
He  hath  gone  wandering  through  the  crowded  market 
At  noonday  under  the  bright  blazing  sun, 
With  that  one  ominous  cry  of"  Woe,  woe,  woe  !" 
Some  scoff 'd  and  mock'd  him,  some  would  give  him 

food  ; 
He  neither  cursed  the  one,  nor  thank'd  the  other. 
The  Sanhedrim  bade  scourge  him,  and  myself 
Beheld  him  lash'd,  till  the  hare  bones  stood  out 
Through  the  maim'd  flesh,  still,  still  he  only  cried, 
Woe  to  the  City,  till  his  patience  wearied 
The  angry  persecutors.    When  ihey  freed  him, 
'T  was  still  the  same,  the  incessant  Woe,  woe,  woe. 
But  when  our  siege  began,  awhile  he  ceased. 
As  though  his  prophecy  were  fulfill'd  ;  till  now 
We  had  not  heard  his  dire  and  boding  voice. 
WITHIN.    ■ 

Woe !  woe  !  woe  ! 

JOSHUA,  the  Son  of  Hananiah. 
Woe !  woe ! 

A  voice  from  the  East!  a  voice  from  the  West! 
From  the  four  winds  a  voice  against  Jerusalem ! 
A  voice  against  the  Temple  of  the  Lord ! 
A  voice  against  the  Bridegrooms  and  the  Brides! 

434 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


42i 


A  voice  against  all  people  of  the  land  ! 
Woe !  woe !  woe  I 

SECOND  JEW. 

They  are  the  very  words,  tlie  very  voice 

Which  wo  have  lienrd  so  long.    And  yet,  methiiiks. 

There  is  a  nioiiriifiil  Iriumph  in  the  tone 

Ne'er  heard  beK)re.     His  eyes,  tiuit  were  of  old 

Fii'd  on  the  earth,  now  wander  all  abroad, 

As  though  the  tardy  consuinmalion 

Afflicted  hiru  with  wonder Hark!  again. 

CIIOIIL'S    OF   M.VIDEXS. 

Now  the  jocund  -song  is  thine, 
Bride  of  David's  kingly  line ! 
How  thy  dove-like  bosom  Irembleth, 
And  thy  shrouded  eye  resemblelh 
Violets,  when  the  dews  of  eve 
A  moist  and  tremulous  glitter  leave 
On  the  bashful  sealed  lid ! 
Close  within  the  bride-veil  hid. 
Motionless  thou  sit'st,  and  mute ; 
Save  that  at  the  soft  salute 
Of  each  entering  maiden  friend 
Thou  dost  rise  and  softly  bend. 

Hark !  a  brisker,  merrier  glee ! 
The  door  unfolds, — 't  is  he,  't  is  he. 
Thus  we  lift  our  lamps  to  meet  him. 
Thus  we  touch  our  lutes  to  greet  him. 
Thou  shall  give  a  fonder  meeting, 
Thou  shait  give  a  tenderer  greeting. 

JOSHQA. 

Woe !  woe ! 

A  voice  from  the  East!  a  voice  from  the  West! 

From  the  four  winds  a  voice  against  Jerusalem ! 

A  voice  against  the  Temple  of  the  Lord  ! 

A  voice  against  the  Bridegrooms  and  the  Brides ! 

A  voice  against  all  people  of  the  land ! 
Woe !  woe ! [Bursts  away,  followed  by  Second  Jew. 

FIRST   JEW. 

Didst  speak  ? 


THIKD  JEW. 


No. 


FOURTH    JEW. 

Look'd  he  on  us  as  he  spake  ? 
FIRST  JEW  {to  the  Second  returning.) 
Thou  foUow'dst  him !  what  now  ? 

SECO.ND  JEW. 

'T  was  a  True  Prophet 

THE  JEWS. 

Wherefore  ?  Where  went  he  ? 

SECO.ND   JEW. 

To  the  outer  wall ; 
And  there  he  suddenly  cried  out  and  sternly, 
"  A  voice  against  the  son  of  Hananiah  ! 
Woe,  woe  I"  and  at  the  instant,  whether  struck 
By  a  chance  stone  from  the  enemy's  engines,  down 
He  sank  and  died  I 

THIRD    JEW. 

There  's  some  one  comes  this  way- 
Art  sure  he  died  indeed  ? 


LEVITE. 

It  is  the  High-Priest. 
The  ephod  gleams  through  the  pale  lowering  night; 
The  brea-slplate  gems,  and  the  pure  initre-gold, 
Shine  lamplike,  and  the  bells  that  fringe  his  robe 
Chime  faintly. 

IIIOll-rRIEST. 

Israel,  hear  !  I  do  beseech  you. 
Brethren,  give  ear ! — 

SECOND   JEW. 

Who  's  he  that  will  not  hear 
The  words  of  God's  High-Priest  I 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

It  was  but  now 
I  sate  within  the  Temple,  in  the  court 
That's  consecrate  to  mine  oflke — Your  eyes  wander — 

JEW.S. 

Go  on  !— 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Why  hearken,  then — Upon  a  sudden 
The  pavement  seem'd  to  swell  beneath  my  feet, 
And  the  Veil  shiver'd,  and  the  pillars  rock'd. 
And  there,  within  the  very  Holy  of  Holies, 
There,  from  behind  the  winged  Cherubim, 
Where  the  Ark  stood,  a  noise,  hurried  and  tumultuous, 
Was  heard,  as  when  a  king  with  all  his  host 
Doth  quit  his  palace.    And  anon,  a  voice. 
Or  voices,  half  in  grief,  half  anger,  yet 
Nor  human  grief  nor  anger,  even  it  seem'd 
As  though  the  hoarse  and  rolling  thunder  spake 
With  the  articulate  voice  of  man,  it  said, 
"  Let  us  depart  !" 

JEWS. 

Most  terrible !  What  follow'd  ? 
Speak  on !  speak  on ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

I  know  not  why,  I  felt 
As  though  an  outcast  from  the  abandon 'd  Temple, 
And  fled. 

jews. 
Oh  God  !  and  Father  of  our  Fathers, 
Dost  thou  desert  us  ? 

chorus  of  youths  and  maidens. 
Under  a  happy  planet  art  thou  led. 
Oh,  chosen  Virgin  !  to  thy  bridal  bed. 
So  put  thou  off  thy  soft  and  bashful  sadness, 
And  viipe  away  the  timid  maiden  tear, — 
Lo!  redolent  with  the  Prophet's  oil  of  gladness, 
And  mark'd  by  heaven,  the  Bridegroom  Youth  is 
here. 

FIRST   JEW. 

Hark — hark !  an  armed  tread ! 

second  JEW. 

The  bold  Ben  Cathla. 

BEN    CATHLA. 

Ay,  ye  are  met,  all  met,  as  in  a  mart, 
T'  exchange  against  each  other  your  dark  tales 
Of  this  night's  fi»arful  prodigies.     I  know  it, 
By  the  inquisitive  and  halfsuspicious  looks 
With  which  ye  eye  each  other,  ye  do  wish 
To  disbelieve  all  ye  have  heard,  and  yet 
Ye  dare  not.    If  ye  have  seen  the  moon  unsphered, 

435 


426 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  the  stars  fall ;  if  the  pnle  sheeted  ghosts 
Have  met  you  wandering,  and  liave  pointed  at  you 
^Vith  ominous  designation  ;  yet  I  scoff 
Your  poor  and  trivial  terrors — Know  ye  Michol  •' 

JEWS. 

Michol! 

BE\    CATIII.A. 

The  noble  lady,  she  whose  fathers 

Dwelt  beyond  Jordan 

si'XoxD  jr.vv. 

Yes,  we  know  her. 
The  tender  and  the  delicate  of  women,  (19) 
That  would  not  set  her  loot  upon  the  ground 
For  delicacy  and  very  tenderness. 

BEN    CATHI.A. 

The  same! — We  had  gone  forth  in  quest  of  food  : 
And  we  had  enter'd  many  a  house,  where  men 
Were  preying  upon  meagre  herbs  and  skins ; 
And  some  were  sating  upon  loathsome  things 
Unutterable,  the  ravenmg  hunger.     Some, 
Whom  we  had  plunHer'd  oft,  langh'd  in  their  agony 
To  see  us  balFled.     At  iicr  door  she  met  us. 
And  "  We  have  feasted  together  heretofore," 
She  said,  "most  welcome  warriors!"  and  she  led  us, 
And  bade  us  sit  like  <lear  and  honour'd  guests. 
While  siie  made  ready.     Some  among  us  wonder'd, 
And  some  spake  jreringly,  and  thank'd  the  lady 
That  she  hail  thus  with  provident  care  reserved 
The  choicest  bancjuet  for  our  scarcest  days. 
But  ever  as  she  busily  minister'd. 
Quick,  sudden  sobs  of  laughter  broke  from  her. 
At  length  the  vessel's  covering  she  raised  up, 
And  there  it  lay 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

What  lay  ? — Thou  'rt  sick  and  pale. 

BEN    CAT11I,A. 

By  earth  and  heaven,  the  remnant  of  a  child  ! 

A  human  child  ! Ay,  start!  so  started  we — 

Whereat  she  shriek'd  aloud,  and  clapp'd  her  hands, 
"O!  dainty  and  fastidious  appetites! 
The  mother  feasts  upon  her  babe,  and  strangers 
Loathe  the  repast" — and  then — "  My  beautiful  child!" 
The  treasure  of  my  womb  !  my  bosom's  joy  !" 
And  then  in  her  cool  madness  did  she  spurn  us 
Out  of  her  doors. — Oh  still — oh  still  I  hear  her, 
And  I  .shall  hear  her  till  my  day  of  death. 

HIGH-PRIKST. 

Oh,  God  of  Mercies!  this  was  once  thy  city ! 

CH0RU.S. 
Joy  to  thee,  beautiful  and  bashful  Bride! 

Joy  I  for  the  thrills  of  pride  ami  joy  become  thee  ; 

Thy  curse  of  barrenness  is  taken  from  thee, 
,And  thou  shalt  see  the  rosy  infant  sleeping 

IJlion  the  snowy  fountain  of  thy  breast ; 

And  tiiou  shalt  feel  how  motliers'  hearts  are  blest 
By  hours  of  bliss  for  moments'  pain  and  weeping. 

Joy  to  thee ! 

The  ahme,  SiMo.v,  Jon.v. 

SIMO.V. 

Away  !  what  do  ye  in  our  midnight  streets 

Go  sleep!  go  sleep !  or  we  shall  have  to  lash  you,        , 


When  the  horn  summons  to  the  morning's  war, 
From  out  your  drowsy  beds Away!  ]  say. 

nlCH-PRIEST. 

Simon,  thou  knovvst  not  the  dark  signs  abroad. 

JOHN. 
Ay  !  is  'I  not  fearful  and  most  ominous 
That  the  sun  shines  not  at  deep  niidnight  ?  Mark  me, 
Ye  men  with  gasping  lips  and  shivering  limbs, 
Thou  mitred  priest,  and  ye  misnamed  warriors. 
If  ye  infect  with  your  pale  aguish  fears 
Our  valiant  city,  we'll  nor  leave  yon  limbs 
To  shake,  nor  voices  to  complain — T' your  homes. 

Simon,  John. 

JOH.V. 

In  truth,  good  Simon,  I  am  half  your  proselyte  ; 
Your  angels,  that  do  bear  such  e.xcellent  wine. 
Might  shake  a  faith  more  firm  than  ours. 

SI.MON. 

Brave  John, 
My  soul  is  jocund.     Expectation  .soars 
Befiire  mine  eyes,  like  to  a  new-/ledged  eagle. 
And  stoopeth  from  her  heavens  with  palms  ne'er  worn 
By  brows  of  Israel.    Glory  mounts  with  her. 
Her  deep  seraphic  trumpet  swelling  loud 
O'er  Zion's  gladdening  towers. 

JOHN. 

Why,  then,  to  sleep. 
This  fight  by  day,  and  revel  all  the  night, 
?\eeds  some  repose — I  '11  to  my  bed — Farewell  I 

SI.VON. 

Brave  John,  farewell !  and  I  '11  to  rest,  and  dream 
Upon  the  coming  honours  of  to-morrow. 


MIR  1  A.M. 

To-mnrrow!  will  that  morrow  dawn  upon  thee? 
I've  warn'd  them,  I  have  lifted  up  my  voice 
As  loud  as't  were  an  angel's,  and  well  nigh 
Had  I  belray'd  my  secret:  they  but  scofTd, 
And  ask'd  how  long  I  had  been  a  prophetess  >. 
But  that  injurious  John  did  foully  taunt  me. 
As  though  I  envied  my  lost  sister's  bridal. 
And  when  I  clung  to  my  dear  iiilher's  neck. 
With  the  close  fondness  of  a  last  embrace, 
He  shook  me  from  him. 

Bui,  ah  me!  how  strange! 
This  moment,  and  the  hurrying  streets  were  full 
As  at  a  festival,  now  all 's  so  silent 
That  I  might  hear  the  fi)otsteps  of  a  child. 
The  sound  of  dissolute  mirth  hatli  ceased,  the  lamps 
Are  spent,  the  voice  of  music  broken  off 
No  watchman's  tread  comes  from  the  silent  wall, 
There  are  nor  lights  nor  voices  in  the  towers. 
The  hungry  have  given  up  the  idle  search 
For  food,  the  gazers  on  the  heavens  are  gone, 
Even  fear's  at  rest — all  still  as  in  a  sepulchre! 
And  thou  liest  sleepinsr,  oh  Jerusalem  ! 
A  deeper  slumber  could  not  fall  upon  thee 
If  thou  wert  desolate  of  all  thy  children. 
And  thy  razed  streets  a  dwelling-place  for  owls. 

I  do  mistake!  tiiis  is  the  Wilderness, 
The  Desert,  where  winds  pass  and  make  no  sound. 
And  not  the  populous  city,  the  besieged 

43G 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


427 


And  overhung  with  tempest. .  Wliy,  my  voice, 

My  motion,  breaivs  upon  the  oppressive  stillness 

Like  a  forbidden  and  disturbing  sound. 

The  ver)'  air 's  asleep,  my  feeblest  breathing 

Is  audible — I  '11  think  my  prayers — and  then 

Ila  I  't  IS  the  thunder  of  the  Living  God  I 

It  peals!  it  crasiies!  it  comes  down  in  fire  ! 
Again !  it  is  the  engine  of  the  foe, 

Our  walls  are  dust  before  it Wake — oh  wake — 

Oh  Israel  I — Oh  Jerusalem,  awake ! 

Why  shouldst  thou  wake  ?  thy  foe  is  in  the  heavens. 

Yea,  thy  judicial  slumber  weighs  thee  down, 

And  gives  thee,  oh  I  lost  city,  to  the  Gentile 

Defenceless,  unresisting. 

It  rolls  down. 

As  though  the  Everlasting  raged  not  now 

Against  our  guilty  Zion,  but  did  mingle 
'    The  universal  world  in  our  desi ruction  ; 

And  all  mankind  were  destined  for  a  sacrifice 
'    On  Israel's  funeral  pile.    Oh  Crucified! 

Here,  here,  where  thou  didst  suffer,  I  beseech  thee 

Even  by  thy  Cross ! 

Hark!  now  in  impious  rivalry 
'    Man  thunders.    In  the  centre  of  our  streets 

The  Gentile  trumpet,  the  triumphant  shouts 
'    Of  onset :  and  I, — I,  a  trembling  girl 

Alone,  awake,  abroad. 

Oh,  now  ye  wake. 

Now  ye  pour  forth,  and  hideous  Massacre, 
i    Loathmg  his  bloodless  conquest,  joys  to  see  you 

Thus  naked  and  unarm'd — But  where  's  my  father? 
.    Upon  his  couch  in  dreams  of  future  glory. 

Oh  !  where  's  my  sister?  in  her  bridal  bed. 


Many  Jews. 

FIRST  JEW. 

'    To  the  Temple  !  To  the  Temple!  Israel !  Israel ! 
1    Your  walls  are  on  the  earth.  )-our  houses  burn 
j    Like  fires  amid  the  autumnal  olive  grounds. 

The  Gentile  's  in  the  courts  of  the  Lord's  house. 
'    To  the  Temple!  save  or  perish  with  the  Temple! 

j  SECOND   JEW. 

To  the  Temple  !  haste,  oh  all  ye  circumcised ! 
Stay  not  for  wife  or  child,  for  gold  or  treasure ! 
Pause  not  for  light !  the  heavens  are  all  on  fire. 
The  Universal  City  burns  ! 

THIRD    JEW. 

Arras  I  Arms ! 

Our  women  fall  like  doves  into  the  nets 
I    Of  the  fowler,  and  they  dash  upon  the  stones 

Our  innocent  babes.    Arms !  Arms !  before  we  die 
'    Let 's  reap  a  bloody  harvest  of  revenge. 

To  the  Temple ! 

i  FOURTH  JEW. 

Simon  I  lo,  the  valiant  Simon. 

The  above,  SiMO>f. 

SIMON. 

He  comes!  he  comes !  the  black  night  blackens  with 

him. 
And  'he  winds  groan  beneath  his  chariot  wheels — 
He  comes  from  heaven,  the  .Avenger  of  Jerusalem ! 

36*  3D 


Ay,  strike,  proud  Roman!  fall,  thou  useless  wall ! 
And  vail  your  heads,  ye  towers,  that  have  discharged 
Your  brief,  your  fruitless  duty  of  resistance. 
I've  heard  thee  long,  fierce  Gentile!  th' earthquake 

shocks 
Of  thy  huge  engines  smote  upon  my  soul. 
And  my  soul  .scorn'd  them.   Oh !  and  hcar'st  not  thou 
One  mightier  than  thyself  that  shakes  the  heavens? 
Oh  pardon,  that  I  thought  that  He,  whose  coming 
Is  promised  and  reveal'd,  would  calmly  wait 
The  tardy  throes  of  human  birth.     Messiah, 
I  know  thee  now,  I  know  yon  lightning  fire, 
Thy  robe  of  glory,  and  thy  steps  in  heaven 
Incessant  thundering. 

I  had  brought  mine  arms. 
Mine  earthly  arms,  my  breastplate  and  my  sword. 
To  cover  and  defend  me — Oh !  but  thou 
Art  jealous,  nor  endurest  that  human  arm 
Intrude  on  thy  deliverance.     I  forswear  them, 
I  cast  them  from  me.     Helmless,  with  nor  shield 
Nor  sword,  I  stand,  and  in  my  nakedness 
Wait  thee,  victorious  Roman 

JEWS. 

To  the  Temple  • 

SIMON. 

.4y,  well  thou  say'st,  "  to  theTemple" — there  't  will  be 
Most  visible.     In  his  own  house  the  Lord 
Will  shine  most  glorious.    Shall  we  not  behold 
The  Fathers  bursting  from  their  yielding  graves. 
Patriarchs  and  Priests,  and  Kings  and  Prophets,  met 
A  host  of  spectral  watchmen,  on  the  towers 
Of  Zion  to  behold  the  full  accomplishing 
Of  every  Type  and  deep  Prophetic  word  ? 

Ay,  to  the  Temple!  thither  will  I  too. 
There  bask  in  all  the  fulness  of  the  day 
That  breaks  at  length  o'er  the  long  pight  of  Judah. 


Chorus,  of  Jeu;s flying  towards  the  temple. 
Fly!  fly!  fly! 
Clouds,  not  of  incense,  from  the  Temple  rise. 
And  there  are  altar-fires,  but  not  of  sacrifice. 

And  there  are  victims,  yet  nor  bulls  nor  goals  ; 
And  Priests  are  there,  but  not  of  Aaron's  kin  ;  ■ 
And  he  that  doth  the  murtherous  rite  begin, 

To  stranger  Gods  his  hecatomb  devotes  ; 
His  hecatomb  of  Israel's  chosen  race 
All  foully  slaughter'd  in  their  Holy  Place. 
Break  into  joy,  ye  barren,  that  ne'er  bore  !  (20) 

Rejoice,  ye  breasts,  where  ne'er  sweet  infant  hung! 

From  you,  from  you  no  smiling  babes  are  wrung, 
Ye  die,  but  not  amid  your  children's  gore. 
But  howl  and  weep,  oh  ye  that  are  with  child. 

Ye  on  whose  bosoms  unwean'd  babes  are  laid  ; 
The  sword  that 's  with  the  mother's  blood  defiled 

Still  with  the  infant  gluts  the  insatiate  blade. 

Fly!  fly!  fly! 
Fly  not,  1  say,  for  Death  is  every  where. 

To  keen-eyed  Lust  all  places  are  the  same : 
There  's  not  a  secret  chamber  in  whose  lair 
Our  wives  can  shroud   them   from   th'  abhorred 
shame. 

437 


428 


MILM/VN'S  POETICAL  \^  ORKS. 


Where  the  sword  fails,  the  fire  will  find  us  there, 
All,  all  is  death — the  Gentile  or  the  flame. 

On  to  the  Temple!  Brethren,  Israel  on! 

Though  every  slippery  street  with  carnage  swims, 
Ho!  spite  of  famisli'd  hearts  and  wounded  limbs. 

Still,  slill,  while  yet  there  stands  one  holy  stone, 
Fight  for  your  God,  his  sacred  house  to  save, 
Or  have  its  blazing  ruins  for  your  grave ! 


The  Streets  of  Jerusalem. 

MIRIAM. 

Thou  hard  firm  earth,  thou  wilt  not  break  before  me, 
And  hide  me  in  thy  dark  and  secret  bosom ! 
Ye  burning  towers,  ye  fall  upon  your  children 
With  a  compassionate  ruin — not  on  me — 
Ye  spare  me  only,  I  alone  am  mark'd 
And  seal'd  for  life  :  death  cruelly  seems  to  shun  me. 
Me,  who  am  readiest  and  most  wish  to  die. 
Oh!  I  have  sat  me  by  the  ghastly  slain 
In  envy  of  their  state,  and  wept  a  prayer 
That  I  were  cold  like  them,  and  safe  from  th'  hands 
Of  the  remorseless  conqueror.    I  have  fled. 
And  fled,  and  fled,  and  slill  I  fly  the  nearer 
To  the  howling  ravagers — they  are  every  where. 
I  've  closed  mine  eyes,  and  rush'd  I  know  not  whither, 
And  still  are  swords  and  men  and  furious  faces 
Before  me,  and  behind  me,  and  around  me. 
But  ah  !  the  shrieks  that  come  from  out  the  dwell- 
ings 
Of  my  youth's  loved  companions — every  where 
I  hear  some  dear  and  most  familiar  voice 
In  its  despairing  frantic  agonies. 
Ah  me!  that  I  were  struck  with  leprosy, 
That  sinful  meij  might  loathe  me  and  pass  on. 

And  I  might  now  have  been  by  that  sweet  fountain 
Where  the  winds  whisper   through   the  moonlight 

leaves, 
I  might  have  been  with  Javan  there — OfT,  off— 
These  are  not  thoughts  fur  one  about  to  die — 
Oh,  Lord  and  Saviour  Christ! 

An  Old  Max,  Miriam. 

OLD  MAN. 

Who  spake  of  Christ? 
What  hath  that  name  to  do  with  saving  here  ? 
He  's  here,  he's  here,  the  Lord  of  desolation, 
Begirt  with  vengeance!  in  the  fire  above. 
And  fire  below !  in  all  the  blazing  city 
Behold  him  raunilesi! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh!  aged  man 
.And  miserable,  on  the  verge  of  the  grave 
Thus  lingering  to  behold  thy  country's  ruin 
What  know'st  thou  of  the  Christ  ? 

OLD  MAN. 

I,  I  beheld  him. 
The  Man  of  Nazareth  whom  thou  mean'st — I  saw  him 
When  he  went  labouring  up  the  accursed  hill. 
Heavily  on  his  scourged  and  bleeding  shoulders 
Press'd  the  rough  cross,  and  from  his  crowned  brow 
(Crown'd  with  no  kingly  diadem)  the  pale  blood 


Was  shaken  off  as  with  a  patient  pity 
He  look'd  on  us,  the  infuriate  multitude. 

MIRIAM. 

Didst  thou  not  fall  and  worship? 

OLD  MAN. 

I  had  call'd 
The  curse  upon  my  head,  my  voice  had  cried 
Unto  the  Roman,  "On  us  be  his  blood. 
And  on  our  children!" — and  on  us  it  hath  been — 
My  children  and  my  children's  children,  all. 
The  Gentile  sword  hath  reap'd  them  one  by  one, 
And  I,  the  last  dry  wither'd  shock,  await 
The  gleaning  of  the  slaughterer. 

MIRIAM. 

Couldst  thou  see 
The  Cross,  the  Agony,  and  slill  hard  of  heart? 

1  OLD    MAN 

Fond  child,  I  tell  thee,  ere  the  Cross  was  raised 
He  look'd  around  him,  even  in  that  last  anguish, 
With  such  a  majesty  of  calm  compassion. 
Such  solemn  adjuration  to  our  souls — 
But  yet  't  was  not  reproachful,  only  sad — 
As  though  our  guilt  had  been  the  bitterest  pang 
Of  suflTering.     And  there  dwelt  about  him  still. 
About  his  drooping  head  and  fainting  limb, 
A  sense  of  power;  as  though  he  chose  to  die, 
Yet  might  have  shaken  off  the  load  of  death 
Without  an  effort.     Awful  breathlessness 
Spread  round,  too  deep  and  too  intense  for  tears. 

MIRIAJI.  , 

Thou  didst  believe  ? 

OLD   MAN. 

Away !  Men  glared  upon  me 
As  though  they  did  detect  my  guilty  pity  ; 
Their  voices  roar'd  around  me  like  a  tempest. 
And  every  voice  was  howling  "  Crucify  him  !" — 
I  dared  not  be  alone  the  apostate  child 
Of  Abraham 

MIRIAJI. 

Ah!  thou  didst  not  join  the  cry? 

OLD   MAN. 

Woman,  I  did,  and  with  a  voice  so  audible 
Men  turn'd  to  praise  my  zeal.    And  when  the  dark- 
ness. 
The  noonday  darkness,  fell  upon  the  earth, 
.And  the  earth's  self  shook  underneath  my  feet, 
I  stofid  before  the  Cross,  and  in  my  pride 
Rejoiced  that  I  had  shaken  from  my  Soul 
The  soft  compunction. 

MIRIAM. 

Ha ! — but  now,  oh  !  now, 
Thou  own'st  him  for  the  eternal  Son  of  (iod. 
The  mock'd,  and  scourged,  and  crown'd  and  crucified 
Thou  dost  believe  the  blazing  evidence 
Of  yon  fierce  flames  !  thou  bow'st  thyself  before 
The  solemn  preacher.  Desolation, 
That  now  on  Zion's  guilty  ruins  .seated 
Bears  horrible  witness. 

OLD    MAN. 

Maiden,  I  believe  tiiera, 
I  dare  not  disbelieve;  it  is  my  curse, 
My  agony,  that  cleaves  to  me  in  dealh. 

438 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


429 


MIRIAM. 

Oh .'  not  a  curse,  it  is  a  gracious  blessing- 
Believe,  and  thuu  shall  live! 

OLD   MAX. 

Back,  insolent ! 
What !  wouUist  thou  school  these  grey  hairs,  and  be- 
come 
Mine  age's  teacher? 

MrRIAM. 

Hath  not  Cod  ordain'd 
Wisdom  from  babes  and  sucklings  ? 

OLD   MAN. 

Back,  I  say ; 
I  have  lived  a  faithful  child  of  Abraham, 
And  so  will  die. 

MIRIAM. 

For  ever! lie  is  gone, 

Yet  he  looks  round,  and  shakes  his  hoary  head 
In  dreadful  execration  'gainst  himself 

And  me 1  dare  not  follow  him. 

What's  here? 
It  is  mine  home,  the  dwelling  of  my  youth. 
O'er  which  the  flames  climb  up  witii  such  fierce  haste. 
Lo,  lo !  they  burst  from  that  house-top,  where  oft 
My  sister  and  myself  have  sale  and  .sang 
Our  pleasant  airs  of  gladness !     Ah*,  Salone ! 
Where  art  thou  now  ?  These,  these  are  not  the  lights 
That  should  be  shining  on  a  marriage-bed. 
Oh !  that  I  had  been  call'd  to  dress  thy  bier, 
To  pour  sweet  ointments  on  thy  shrouded  corpse. 
Rather  than  thus  to  weave  thee  bridal  chaplets 
To  be  so  madly  worn,  so  early  wilher'd ! 
Where  art  thou  ?  I  dare  only  wish  thee  dead, 
Even  as  I  wish  myself. 

'Tis  she,  herself! 
Thank  God,  she  hath  not  perish'd  in  the  flames ! 
'Tis  she — she's  here — she's  here — the  unladed  crown 
Hanging  from  her  loose  tresses,  and  her  raiment 

Only  the  bridal  veil  wrapt  round  her Sister ! 

Oh  !  by  my  mother's  blessings  on  us  both. 
Stay,  stay  and  speak  lo  me — Salone ! 

SALONE. 

Thee ! 
'Tis  all  thy  bitter  envy,  that  hath  made 
The  exquisite  music  cease,  and  hath  put  out 
The  gentle  lamps,  and  with  a  jealous  voice 
Hath  call'd  him  from  me. 

MIRIAM. 

Seest  thou  not,  Salone, 
The  city's  all  on  fire,  the  foe's  around  us  ? 

SALONE. 

The  fire !  the  foe !  what 's  fire  or  foe  to  me  ? 
What 's  aught  but  Amariuh  ?    lie  is  mine. 
The  eagle-eyed,  the  noble  and  the  brave. 
The  Man  of  Men,  the  glory  of  our  Zion, 
And  ye  have  rent  him  from  me. 

MIRIAM. 

Dearest,  who  ? 

SALONE. 

I  tell  thee,  he  was  mine,  oh !  mine  so  fondly, 
And  I  was  his — I  had  begun  to  dare 
The  telling  how  I  loved  him — ami  the  night 
It  was  so  rapturously  siill  around  us — 


When,  even  as  though  he  heard  a  voice,  and  yet 
There  was  no  sound  I  heard,  he  sprung  from  me 
Unto  the  chamber-door,  and  he  liwk'd  out 
Into  the  city 

MIRIAM. 

Well !— Nay,  lot  not  fall 

Thy  insuflicient  raiment Merciful  Heaven, 

Thy  bosom  bleeds !    What  rash  and  barbarous  hand 
Hath 

SALONE. 

He  came  back  and  kiss'd  me,  and  he  said — 
I  know  not  what  he  said — but  there  was  something 
Of  Gentile  rnvisher,  and  his  hcautcons  bride, — 
Me,  me  he  meant,  he  call'd  me  beauteous  bride, — 
And  he  stood  o'er  me  with  a  sword  so  bright 
My  dazzled  eyes  did  close.    And  presently, 
Methought,  he  smote  me  with  the  sword,  but  then 
He  fell  upon  my  neck,  and  wept  upon  me, 
And  I  felt  nothing  but  his  burning  tears. 

MIRIAM. 

She  faints !     Look  up,  sweet  sister !  I  have  stanch'd 
The  blood  awhile — but  her  dim  wandering  eyes 
Are  fixing — she  awakes — she  speaks  again. 

SALONE. 

Ah  !  brides,  they  say,  should  be  retired,  and  dwell 

Within  in  modest  secresy;  yet  here 

Am  I,  a  this  night's  bride,  in  the  open  street, 

My  naked  feet  on  the  cold  stones,  the  wind 

Blowing  my  raiment  off— it 's  very  cold — 

Oh,  Amariah  !  let  me  lay  my  head, 

Upon  thy  bosom,  and  so  fall  asleep. 

MIRIA.M. 

There  is  no  Amariah  here — 'tis  I, 
Thy  Miriam. 

SALONE. 

The  Christian  Miriam! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh !  that  thou  too  wert  Christian !  I  could  give  thee 
A  cold  and  scanty  baptism  of  niy  tears. 
Oh !  shrink  not  from  me,  lift  not  up  thy  head, 
Thy  dying  head,  from  thy  loved  sister's  lap. 

SALONE. 

Off"!  set  me  free!  the  song  is  almost  done, 

The  bridegroom  's  at  the  door,  and  I  nmst  meet  him, 

Though  my  knees  shake  and  tremble.     If  he  come, 

And  find  me  sad  and  cold,  as  I  am  now. 

He  will  not  love  me  as  he  did. 

MIRIA.M. 

Too  true. 
Thou  growest  cold  indeed. 

SALONE. 

Might  closes  round. 
Slumber  is  on  my  soul.     If  Amariah 
Return  with  morning,  glorious  and  adorn'd 
In  spoil,  as  he  is  wont,  thou  'It  wake  me,  sister? 

Ah!  no,  no,  no!  this  is  no  waking  sleep. 

It  bursts  upon  me — Yes,  and  Simon's  daughter. 

The  bride  of  Amariah,  may  not  fear. 

Nor  shrink  from  dying.     My  halffailing  spirit 

Comes  back,  my  soft  love-melted  heart  is  strong : 

I  know  it  all,  in  mercy  and  in  love 

Thou'st  wounded  me  lo  dealh — and  I  will  bless  thee, 

True  lover!  noble  husband  !  my  la.st  breath 

Is  thine  in  blessincr — .-Vmariah  ! — Ixjve! 

439 


430 


MIOIAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  yet  thou  shouldst  have  staid  to  close  mine  ey?s, 
Oh  Amariah  I — and  an  hour  ago 
I  was  a  happy  bride  upon  thy  bosom, 

And  now  am Oh  God,  God  !  if  he  have  err'd, 

And  should  come  baciv  again,  and  find  me dead ! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh,  God  of  Mercies !  she  is  gone  an  infidel, 

An  infidel  unrepentant,  to  thy  presence. 

The  partner  of  my  cradle  and  my  bed, 

My  own,  my  only  sister  I — oh  .'  but  thou, 

Lord,  knowest  that  thou  hast  not  drawn  her  to  thee, 

By  making  the  fond  passions  of  the  heart. 

Like  mine,  thy  ministers  of  soft  persuasion. 

She  hath  not  loved  a  Christian,  hath  not  heard 

From  lips,  whose  very  lightest  breath  is  dear, 

Thy  words  of  comfort. 

I  will  cover  her. 
Thy  bridal  veil  is  now  thy  shroud,  my  sister, 
And  long  thou  wilt  not  be  v^ithout  a  grave. 
Jerusalem  will  bury  all  her  children 
Ere  many  hours  are  past. 

There  's  some  one  comes 

A  Gentile  soldier 'tis  the  same  who  oft 

Hath  cross'd  me,  and  I  've  fled  and  'scap'd  him.  JVow, 

How  can  I  fly,  and  whither?    Will  the  dead 

Protect  me  ?    Ha!  whichever  way  I  turn. 

Are  others  fiercer  and  more  terrible. 

I  '11  speak  to  him, — there's  something  in  his  mien 

Less  hideous  than  the  rest. 

Miriam,  the  Soldier 

MIRIAM. 

Oh !  noble  warrior, 
I  see  not  that  thy  sword  is  wet  with  blood : 
And  thou  didst  turn  aside  lest  thou  shouldst  tread 
Uix)n  a  dying  man ;  and  e'en  but  now. 
When  a  bold  ruflian  almost  seized  on  me. 
Thou  didst  stand  forth  and  scare  him  from  hi.s  prey. 
Hast  thou  no  voice  ?  perhaps  thou  art  deaf  too, 
And  I  am  plea,ding  unto  closed  ears — 

Keep  from  me  !  stand  aloof!     I  am  infected. 

Oh!  if  the  devil,  that  haunts  the  souls  of  men. 
They  say,  with  lawless  and  forbidden  thoughts. 
If  he  possess  thee,  here  I  lift  my  voice — 
By  Jesus  Christ  of  Nazareth,  I  adjure 
The  evil  spirit  to  depart  from  thee. 

Alas !  I  feel  thy  grasp  upon  mine  arm, 
And  I  must  follow  thee.    Oh!  thou  hast  surely 
In  thine  own  land,  in  thine  own  native  home, 
A  wife,  a  child,  a  sister:  think  what  'twere 
To  have  a  stranger's  violent  arms  around  her. 

Ha !  every  where  are  more — and  this  man's  hand 
Did  surely  tremble ;  at  the  holy  name 
He  seem'd  to  bow  his  head.    I  'II  follow  thee. 
Let  me  but  kiss  the  body  of  my  sister. 

My  dead  lost  sister 

Bless  thee  !  and  thou  'It  spare  me — 
At  least  thou  art  less  savage  than  the  rest. 
And  He  that  had  a  virgin  mother,  He 
Will  surely  listen  to  a  virgin's  prayer. 
There  's  hope  and  strength  within  my  soul ;  lead  on, 

I  '11  follow  thee Salone,  oh  that  thou 

Hadst  room  in  thy  cold  marriage-bed  for  me ! 


The  Front  of  the  Temple. 

SIMON. 

They  fight  around  the  altar,  and  the  dead 

Heap  the  choked  pavement.    Israel  tramples  Israel, 

And  Gentile  Gentile,  rushing  where  the  Temple, 

Like  to  a  pit  of  frantic  gladiators. 

Is  howling  with  the  strife  of  men,  that  fight  not 

For  conquest,  but  the  desperate  joy  of  slaying. 

Priests,  Levites,  women,  pass  and  hurry  on 

At  least  to  die  within  the  sanctuary. 

I  only  wait  without — I  lake  my  stand 

Here  in  the  vestibule — and  though  the  thunders 

High  and  aloof  o'er  the  wide  arch  of  heaven 

Hold  their  calm  march,  nor  deviate  to  their  vengeance, 

On  earth  in  holy  patience.  Lord,  I  wait. 

Defying  thy  long  lingering  to  subdue 

The  faith  of  Simon. 

'T  was  but  now  I  pas.s'd 
The  corpse  of  Amariah,  that  display 'd 
In  the  wild  firelight  all  its  wounds,  and  lay 
Embalm'd  in  honour.    John  of  Galilee 
Is  prisoner;  I  beheld  him  fiercely  gnashing 
His  ponderous  chains.    Of  me  they  take  no  heed. 
For  I  disdain  to  tempt  them  to  my  death, 
And  am  not  arm)^  to  slay. 

The  light  within 
Grows  redder,  broader.    'T  is  a  fire  that  burns 
To  save  or  to  destroy.    On  Sinai's  top. 
Oh  Lord !  thou  didst  appear  in  flames,  the  mountain 
Burnt  round  about  thee.    Art  thou  here  at  length, 
And  must  I  close  mine  eyes,  lest  they  be  blinded 
By  the  full  conflagration  of  thy  presence  ? 

Titus,  Placidus,  Terentius,  Soldiers,  Simon. 

TITUS. 

Save,  save  the  Temple !  Placidus,  Terentius, 
Haste,  bid  the  legions  cease  to  slay ;  and  quench 
Yon  ruining  fire. 

Who 's  this,  that  stands  unmoved 
'Mid  slaughter,  flame,  and  wreck,  nor  deigns  to  bow 
Belbre  the  Conqueror  of  Jerusalem  ? 
What  art  thou  ? 

SI.'\I0\. 

Titus,  dost  thou  think  that  Rome 
Shall  quench  the  fire  that  burns  within  yon  Temple  ? 
Ay,  when  your  countless  and  victorious  cohorts. 
Ay,  w  hen  your  Csesar's  throne,  your  Capitol 
Have  liiUen  before  it. 

TITUS. 

Madman,  speak!  what  art  thou? 

SI.MO.\. 

The  uncircumcised  have  known  me  heretofore. 
And  thou  may'st  know  hereafter. 

PLACIDUS. 

It  is  he — 
The  bloody  Captain  of  the  Rebels,  Simon, 
The  Chief  Assassin.     Seize  him,  round  his  limbs 
Bind  straight  your  heaviest  chains.     An  unhoped  pa- 
geant 
For  Cssar's  high  ovation.    We  '11  not  slay  him, 
Till  we  have  made  a  show  to  the  wives  of  Rome 
Of  the  great  Hebrew  Chieftain. 

4-10 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


431 


SIMON. 

Knit  them  close, 
See  tliat  ye  rivet  well  tiieir  galling  liiilis. 

(IIMiiig  up  l/te  chains.) 
And  ye  've  no  tlner  lliix  to  gyve  me  with  ? 

TKIIKNTIL'S. 

Burst  these,  and  we  will  lorge  iliee  stronger  then. 

SIMON. 

Fool,  'tis  not  yet  the  hour. 

TITUS. 

Hark !  hark !  the  shrieks 
Of  those  that  perish  in  the  flames.    Too  late 
I  came  to  spare,  it  wrap.s  the  fiibric  round. 
Fate,  Fate,  1  (eel  thou  'rt  mightier  than  C^sar, 
He  cannot  save  what  thou  hast  doam"dl  Back,  Romans, 
Withdraw  your  angry  cohorts,  and  give  place 
To  the  inevitable  ruin.     Destiny, 
It  is  thine  own,  and  Ccesar  yields  it  to  thee. 
Lead  oH'  the  prisoner. 

SIJIOX. 

Can  it  l)e  ?  the  fire 
Destrovs,  the  thunders  cease.     I  '11  not  believe, 
And  yet  how  dare  I  doubt  ? 

A  moment,  Romans. 
Is't  then  thy  will,  .\lmighty  Lord  of  Israel, 
That  this  thy  Temple  be  a  heap  of  ashes  I 
Is  't  then  thy  will,  that  I,  thy  chosen  Captain, 
Put  on  the  raiment  of  captivity  ? 
By  Abraham,  our  father!  by  the  Twelve, 
The  Patriarch  Sons  of  Jacob  I  by  the  Law, 
In  thunder  spoken  I  by  the  untouch'd  Ark! 
By  David,  and  the  Anointed  Race  of  Kings! 
By  great  Klias,  and  the  gifted  Prophets! 
I  here  demand  a  sign  ' 

'Tis  there — I  see  it. 
The  fire  that  rends  the  \eil! 

We  are  then  of  thee 

Abandon'd not  abandon'd  of  ourselves. 

Heap  woes  upon  us,  scatter  us  abroad, 
F.arlh's  scorn  and  hissing;  to  the  race  of  men 
A  loathsome  proverb ;  spurn'd  by  every  loot, 
And  cursed  by  every  tongue  ;  our  heritage 
And  birthright  bondage;  and  our  very  brows 
Bearing,  like  Cain's,  the  outcast  mark  of  hate: 
Israel  will  still  be  Israel,  still  will  boast 
Her  fallen  Temple,  her  departed  glory  ; 
.And,  wrapt  in  conscious  righteousness,  defy 
Earth's  utmost  hate,  and  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 


lite  Fountain  of  Siloe. 
Miriam,  Me  Soldier. 


MllilAM. 

•    Here,  here — not  here^th  I  any  where  but  here — 

!    Not  toward  the  fountain,  not  by  this  lone  path. 
If  ihou  wilt  bear  me  hence,  I  'II  kiss  thy  feet, 
I  '11  call  down  blessings,  a  lost  virgin's  blessings, 

^    Upon  thy  head.    'J'hoii  hast  hurried  me  along, 
Thronsh  darkling  street,  and  over  smoking  ruin, 
And  yet  ttiere  seem'd  a  soft  solicitude. 
And  an  officious  kindness  in  thj'  violence — 

fi   But  I  've  not  heard  thy  voice. 


Oh,  strangely  cruel ! 
And  wilt  thou  make  me  sit  even  on  thi.s  stone. 
Where  1  have  sale  so  oft,  when  the  calm  moonlight 
Lay  in  its  slumber  on  tiie  slumbering  l()untain  ? 
Ah !  w  here  art  thou,  thou  that  wcrt  ever  with  me, 
Oh  Javan  !  Javan  ! 

THE  soldier 
When  was  Javan  call'd 
By  Miriam,  that  Javan  answer'd  not  ? 
Forgive  me  all  thy  tears,  thy  agonies. 
I  dared  not  speak  to  thee,  lest  the  strong  joy 
Should  overpower  thee,  and  thy  feeble  limbs 
Refuse  to  bear  thee  in  thy  flight. 

MIRIA.M. 

\Vhat  's  here  ? 
Am  I  in  heaven,  and  thou  forehasted  thither 
To  welcome  me  ?  Ah,  no!  thy  warlike  garb. 
And  the  w^ld  light,  that  reddens  all  the  air. 
Those  shrieks — and  yet  this  could  not  be  on  earth, 
The  sad,  the  desolate,  the  sinful  earth. 
And  thou  couldst  venture  amid  fire  and  death. 
Amid  thy  country's  ruins  to  protect  me, 
Dear  Javan  ? 

JAVA.N. 

'Tis  not  now  the  first  lime,  Miriam, 
That  I  have  held  my  Jife  a  worthless  sacrifice 
For  thine.    Oh  !  all  these  later  days  of  siege 
I  've  slept  in  peril,  and  I  've  woke  in  peril. 
For  every  meeting  I  've  defied  the  cross. 
On  which  the  Roman,  in  his  merciless  scorn. 
Bound  all  the  sons  of  Salem.    Sweet,  I  boast  not; 
But  to  thank  rightly  our  Deliverer, 
We  must  know  all  the  extent  of  his  deliverance. 

MIItlAM. 

And  I  can  only  weep! 

JAVAN. 

Ay,  thou  shouldst  weep. 
Lost  Zion's  daughter. 

.MIRIAM. 

Ah  !  I  thought  not  then 
Of  my  dead  sister,  and  my  captive  fniher — 
Said  they  not  "  captive"  as  we  pass'd  ? — 1  thought  not 
Of  Zion's  ruin  and  the  Temple's  waste. 
Javan,  I  fear  that  mine  are  tears  of  joy  ; 
'T  is  sinful  at  such  times — but  thou  art  here, 
And  I  am  on  thy  bosom,  and  I  cannot 
Be,  as  I  ought,  entirely  miserable. 

JAVAN. 

My  own  beloved  !  I  dare  call  thee  mine, 

For  Heaven  hath  given  thee  to  me — cho.sen  out, 

As  we  two  are,  ior  solitary  blessing. 

While  the  universal  curse  is  jwur'd  nround  us 

On  every  head,  't  were  cold  and  barren  gratitude 

To  stifle  in  our  hearts  the  holy  gladness. 

Hut,  oh  Jerusalem!  Ihv  rescued  children 
May  not,  retired  within  their  secret  joy. 
Shut  out  the  mournful  sight  of  thy  calamities. 

Oh,  beauty  of  earth's  cities!  throned  queen 
Of  thy  milk-flowing  valleys!  crown'd  with  glory! 
The  envy  of  the  nations!  now  no  more 

A  fity One  by  one  thy  palaces 

Sink  into  ashes,  and  the  nnilorm  smoke 
O'er  half  thy  circuit  hath  brought  back  the  night 

441 


432 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Which  the  insulting  flames  had  made  give  place 
To  their  untimely  terrible  day.     The  flames 
That  in  the  Temple,  their  last  proudest  conquest, 
Now  gather  all  their  might,  and  furiously, 
Like  revellers,  hold  there  exulting  triumph. 
Round  every  pillar,  over  all  the  roof. 
On  the  wide  gorgeous  front,  the  holy  depth 
Of  the  far  sanctuary',  every  portico. 
And  every  court,  at  once,  concentrated. 
As  though  to  glorify  and  not  destroy. 

They  burn,  they  blaze 

Look,  Miriam,  how  it  stands ! 
Look! 

MIRIAM. 

There  are  men  around  us ! 

JAVAN. 

They  are  friends. 
Bound  here  to  meet  me,  and  behold  the  last 
Of  our  devoted  city.     Ixjok,  oh  Christians! 
Still  the  Lord's  house  survives  man's  fallen  dwellings, 
And  wears  its  ruin  with  a  majesty 
Peculiar  and  divine.     Still,  still  it  stands, 
All  one  wide  fire,  and  yet  no  stone  hath  fallen. 

Hark — hark ! 
The  feeble  cry  of  an  expiring  nation. 

Hark — hark ! 
The  awe-struck  shout  of  the  unboasting  conqueror. 

Hark — hark ! 
It  breaks — it  severs— it  is  on  the  earth. 
The  smother'd  fires  are  quench'd  in  their  own  ruins : 
Like  a  huge  dome,  the  vast  and  cloudy  smoke 
Hath  cover'd  all. 

And  it  is  now  no  more. 
Nor  ever  shall  be  to 'the  end  of  time, 

The  Temple  of  Jerusalem  ! Fall  down, 

My  brethren,  on  the  dust,  and  worship  here 
The  mysteries  of  God's  wrath. 

Even  so  shall  perish. 
In  its  own  ashes,  a  most  glorious  Temple, 
Yea,  God's  own  architecture,  this  vast  world, 
This  fated  universe — the  same  destroyer. 

The  same  destruction Earth,  Earth,  Earth,  behold ! 

And  in  that  judgment  look  upon  thine  own! 

IIYM.V. 

Even  thus  amid  thy  pride  and  luxury. 

Oh  Earth!  shall  that  last  coming  burst  on  thee. 

That  secret  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man, 
When  all  the  cherub-throning  clouds  shall  shine, 
Irradiate  with  his  bright  advancing  sign: 

When  that  CJreat  Ilusbamlman  shall  wave  his  fan. 
Sweeping,  like  cliaff,  thy  wealth  and  pomp  away : 
Still  to  the  noontide  of  that  nightless  day, 

Shalt  thou  thy  wonted  dissolute  course  maintain. 
Along  the  busy  mart  and  crowded  street, 
The  buyer  and  the  seller  still  shall  meet. 

And  marriage  feasts  begin  their  jocund  strain: 
Still  to  the  pounng  out  the  Cup  of  Woe  ; 
Till  Earth,  a  drunkard,  reeling  to  and  fro. 
And  mountains  molten  by  his  burning  feel. 
And  Heaven  his  presence  own,  all  red  with  ftunace 
heat. 


The  hundred-gated  Cities  then. 

The  Towers  and  Temples,  named  of  men 

Eternal,  and  the  Thrones  of  Kings; 
The  gilded  summer  Palaces, 
The  courtly  bowers  of  love  and  ease. 

Where  still  the  Bird  of  pleasure  sings; 
Ask  ye  the  destiny  of  them  ? 
Go  gaze  on  fallen  Jerusalem  ! 
Yea,  mightier  names  are  in  the  fatal  roll, 

'Gainst  earth  and  heaven  God's  standard  is  unfurl'd. 
The  skies  are  shrivell'd  like  a  burning  scroll. 
And  the  vast  common  doom  ensepulchres  the  world. 

Oh  !  who  shall  then  survive? 
Oh !  who  shall  stand  and  live  ? 
When  all  that  hath  been,  is  no  more : 
When  for  the  round  earth  hung  in  air. 
With  all  its  constellations  fair 
In  the  sky's  azure  canopy; 
When  for  the  breathing  Earth,  and  sparkling  Sea, 

Is  but  a  fiery  deluge  without  shore, 
Heaving  along  the  abyss  profound  and  dark, 
A  fiery  deluge,  and  without  an  Ark. 

Lord  of  all  power,  when  thou  art  there  alone 
On  thy  eternal  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
That  in  its  high  meridian  noon 
Needs  not  the  perish'd  sim  nor  moon : 
When  thou  art  there  in  thy  presiding  state. 
Wide-sceptred  Monarch  o'er  the  realm  of  doom : 
When  from  the  sea-depths,  from  earth's  darkest 
womb, 
The  dead  of  all  the  ages  round  thee  wait : 
And  when  the  tribes  of  wickedness  are  strewn 
Like  forest  leaves  in  the  autumn  of  thine  ire : 
Faithful  and  True  !  thou  still  wilt  save  thine  own  ! 
The  Saints  shall  dwell  within  tli'  unharming  fire. 
Each  white  robe  spotless,  blooming  every  palm. 
Even  safe  as  we,  by  this  still  fountain's  side. 
So  shall  the  Church,  thy  bright  and  mystic  Bride, 
Sit  on  the  stormy  gulf  a  halcyon  bird  of  calm. 
Yes,  'mid  yon  angry  and  destroying  signs, 
O'er  us  the  rainbow  of  thy  mercy  shines. 
We  hail,  we  bless  the  covenant  of  its  beam, 
Almighty  to  avenge,  Almightiest  to  redeem ! 


NOTES. 


Note  1. 
Advance  the  eagles,  Caius  Placidus. 
Placidus,  though  not  expressly  mentioned  as  one  of 
the  Roman  generals  engaged,  had  a  command  pre- 
viously in  Syria. 

Note  2. 

A  mount  of  snow  fretted  with  golden  pinnacles! 

Tot;  ye  fn)V  itaa<piKvov^ivoii  ff'i'Oi;,  -nAyindBtv  ojxoioi 

Spct  ^(oi'oj  TrXrjpct  KnTt(fiaivCTO,  Kai  yap  KaOa  /iri  Kf^pv- 

awro  XfiKoruTo;  ;)i'.     JOSEPHUS,  lib.  V.  C.  5.     See  the 

whole  description. 

Note  3. 
Ttiy  hrnlliren  of  the  Porch,  imperial  Titus. 
Mr.  Reginald  Heber's  "  Stoic  tyrant's  philosophic 

442 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


433 


pride"  will  occur  to  the  memory  at  least  of  academic 
readers 

Note  4.  • 

I<rt  this  niclit 
Our  wide  encircling  walls  coinplole  their  circuit. 
"The  days  shall  come  upon  thee  wlien  thine  ene- 
mies shall  cast  a  trench  alx)iit  thee,  and  compass  thee 
round,  and  keep  thee  in  on  every  side."  Li;kk,  xix,  43. 
For  the  remarkable  and  perfect  completion  of  this 
prophecy,  see  the  description  of  the  wall  built  by 
Titus. — JosEPiius,  lib.  v,  ch.  12. 

Note  5. 
I  should  give  to  the  flame 
Whale'er  opposed  the  sovenign  Bway  of  (Jocsiir. 
Terentius,  or  Turnus  Rufus,  is  marked  with  singu- 
lar detestation  in  the  Jewish  traditions. 

Note  6. 
Sweet  fountain,  once  acain  I  visit  thco  1 
The  fountain  of  Siloe  was  just  without  the  walls. 
The  upper  city,  occupied  by  Simon  (JosKriius,  v,  (>.), 
ended  nearly  on  a  line  with  the  fountain.  Though, 
indeed,  Simon  had  possession  of  parts  also  of  the 
lower  city. — Josephus,  v,  1. 

Note  7. 
Let  Gischala,  let  fallen  Jotapata. 
Gischala  and  Jotapata,  towns  before  taken  by  the 
Romans. 

Note  8. 

Our  bridal  songs,  etc.  . 

It  must  be  recollected,  that  the  unmarried  state  was 

looked  on  with  peculiar  horror  by  the  Jewi^  maidens. 

By  marriage  there  was  a  hope  of  becoming  the  mother 

of  the  Messiah. 

Note  9. 
Did  old  iMathias  hold. 
Simon  put  to  death  Mathias  the  High  Priest  and 
his  sons,  by  whom  he  had  been  admitted  into  the  city. 

Note  10. 
Ye  want  not  testimonies  to  your  mildness. 
Titus  crucified  round  the  city  those  who  fled  from 
the  famine   and   cruelly   of   the   leaders  within. — 
(Josephus,  V,  ch.  13.)    Sometimes,  according  to  Jo- 
sephus, (lib.  V,  c.  11,)  500  in  a  day  suffered. 

Note  11. 
Even  on  the  hills  where  gleam  your  myriad  spears. 
The  camp  of  Titus  comprehended  a  sjxice  called  the 
'•  Assyrian's  Camp." 

Note  12. 
A  javelin  to  his  pale  and  coward  heart  I 
Josephus  gives  more  than  one  speech  which  he  ad- 
dressed to  his  roimtrymen.    They  only  mocked  and 
once  wounded  him. 


Note  13. 
Behold,  oh  Lord  !  the  lloulhcn  tread,  etc. 
See  Psalm  Ixxx,  7,  etc. 

Note  14. 
Even  in  the  garb  and  with  the  speech  of  worship. 
Went  he  not  up  into  the  vety  Teuiplc  7 
This  was  the  mode  in  which  John  surprised  Eleazar, 
who  before  was  in  possession  of  the  Temple. 

Note  15. 
There  hath  be  held  the  palace  of  his  lusts. 
ri)vaifC(^(i/<fi'oi    ic    Ti);    S<^cig,    iipdvayv    raij    it^iaii, 
Sfjv-Tdiiti'oi   f(  T'Hi  Gai^lanaaw,  e^a-nivtig  cytiovTo  toXc- 

liiarai. — JosEPiii^  s.  lib.  iv,  c.  9.    There  is  a  long  pas- 
sage to  the  same  effect. 

No.  16. 

And  where  is  now  the  wine  for  the  bridegroom's  rosy  cup. 

In  the  i)rophecy  of  our  Saviour  concerning  the  de- 
struction of  Jerusalem  and  that  of  the  world.it  is  said 
that  "  as  in  the  days  of  Xoe,  they  shall  marry  and  be 
given  in  marriage." — M.\  ttiiew,  xxiv. 

Note  17. 
That  when  the  signs  are  manifest. 
The  prodigies  are  related  by  Jrtsephus  in  a  magni- 
ficent page  of  historic  description. 

Note  18. 
To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet. 
The  bridal  ceremonies  are  from  Calmet,  Harmer, 
and  other  illustrators  of  scripture.  It  is  a  singular 
tradition  that  the  use  of  the  crowns  was  discontinued, 
after  the  fall  of  Jerusalem.  A  few  peculiarities  are 
adopted  from  an  account  of  a  Maronite  wedding  in 
Ilarmer. 

Note  19. 

The  tender  and  the  delicate  of  women. 
"The  tender  and  delicate  woman  among  you, 
which  would  not  adventure  to  set  the  sole  of  her 
foot  upon  the  ground  fiir  delicateiiess  and  tenderness, 
her  eye  shall  be  evil  toward  the  husband  of  her 
bosom,  and  tovvard  her  son  and  toward  her  datighter, 
and  toward  her  young  one  that  cometh  out  from 
betvi'een  her  feet,  and  toward  her  cliildren  which 
she  shall  bear  ;  fi)r  she  shall  eat  them  fi >r  want  of  all 
things  secretly  in  the  siege  and  in  the  straitness, 
wherewith  thine  enemy  shall  distress  thee  in  thy 
cafes."  (Deuler.  xxvni,  56and  57)  See  also  Lamen- 
tations, ii.  20.  The  account  of  the  unnatural  mother, 
is  detailed  in  Josephus. 

Note  20. 
Creak  into  joy,  ye  barren  that  ne'er  bore! 
"  And  woe  unto  them  that  are  with  child,  and  to 
them   that  give  suck  in   those  days." — Matthew 
xxiv,  19. 


434 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


J»C!5ccUfineottfi5  iiocmfis. 


THF.  BELVIDERE  APOLLO: 

A  PRIZE  rOEM, 

RF.CITED    I.V    THE    THEATRE,   OXFORD,    IN    THE    YEAR 
MDCCCXII. 

Heard  ye  ihc  arrow  hurtle  in  the  sk\'  ? 

Ilfard  ye  the  dragon  monster's  deathful  cry? 

In  sollled  majesty  of  calm  disdain. 

Proud  of  his  might,  yet  scornful  of  the  slain, 

The  heav'nly  Archer  stands* — no  human  birth, 

No  perishable  denizen  of  earth  ; 

Youth  blooms  immortal  in  his  beardless  face, 

A  God  in  strength,  with  more  than  godlike  grace  ; 

All,  all  divine — no  struggling  muscle  glows. 

Through  heaving  vein  no  mantling  life-blood  flows, 

But  animate  with  deity  alone. 

In  deathless  glory  lives  the  breathing  stone. 

Bright  kindling  with  a  conqueror's  stern  delight, 
His  keen  eye  tmcks  the  arrow's  fateful  flight  ; 
Burns  his  indignant  cheek  with  vengeful  fire. 
And  his  lip  quivers  with  insulting  ire  : 
Firm  fix'd  his  tread,  yet  light,  as  when  on  high 
He  walks  th'  impalpable  and  pathless  sky  : 
The  rich  luxuriance  of  his  hair,  confined 
In  graceful  ringlets,  wantons  on  the  wind. 
That  lifts  in  sport  his  mantle's  drooping  fold 
Proud  to  display  that  form  of  faultless  mould. 

Mighty  Ephesian  !t  with  an  eagle's  flight 
Thy  proud  soul  mounted  through  the  fields  of  light, 
Mew'd  the  bright  conclave  of  Heaven's  blest  abode. 
And  the  cold  marble  leapt  to  life  a  God  ; 
Contagious  awe  through  breathless  myriads  ran. 
And  nations  bow'd  before  the  work  of  man. 
For  mild  he  seem'd,  as  in  Elysian  bowers. 
Wasting  in  careless  ease  the  joyous  hours  ; 
Haughty,  as  bards  have  sung,  with  princely  sway 
Curbing  the  fierce  flame-breathing  steeds  of  day  ; 
Beauteous  as  vision  seen  in  dreamy  sleep 
By  holy  maid  on  Delphi's  haunted  sleep, 
'Mid  the  dim  twilight  of  the  laurel  grove, 
Too  fair  to  worship,  loo  divine  to  love. 

Yet  on  that  form  in  wild  delirious  trance 
With  more  than  rev'rence  gazed  the  Maid  of  France, 
Day  after  day  the  love-sick  dreamer  stood 
With  him  alon«,  nor  thought  it  solitude  ! 
To  cherish  grief,  her  last,  her  dearest  care. 
Her  one  fond  hope — to  perish  of  despair. 
Oft  as  the  shiflinir  light  her  sight  beguiled, 
Blushmg  she  shrunk,  and  thought  the  marble  smiled  : 


*The  Apollo  is  in  the  set  of  watching  the  arrow  with  which 
he  slew  the  nerpent  Python. 
t  Agasias  of  Ephosiis. 


I  Oft  breathless  list'ning  heard,  or  seem'd  to  hear, 

!  A  voice  of  music  melt  upon  her  ear. 
Slowly  she  waned,  and  cold  and  senseless  grown. 
Closed  her  dirn  eyes,  herself  beniimb'd  to  stone. 
Yet  love  in  death  a  sickly  strength  su[)plicd  : 
Once  more  she  gazed,  then  feebly  smiled  and  died. J 


JUDICIUM  REGALE, 
AN  ODE. 
I  SLEEP,  and  as  in  solemn  judgment  court 

Amid  a  tall  imperial  city  sate, 
The  sceptred  of  the  world  :  their  legal  port 

Show'd  lords  of  earth;  and  as  on  empires'  fate 
They  communed,  grave  each  brow,  and  front  serene; 
Holy  and  high  their  royalty  of  mien : 
Seem'd  nor  pale  passion,  nor  blind  interest  base 
Within  that  kingly  Sanhedrim  had  place. 

Abroad  were  sounds  as  of  a  storm  gone  past, 
Or  midnight  on  a  dismal  battle  field  ; 

Aye  some  drear  trumpet  spake  its  lonely  blast. 
Aye  in  deep  distance  sad  artillery  peal'd. 

Booming  their  sullen  thunders — then  ensued 
The  majesty  of  silence — on  her  throne 
Of  plain  or  mountain,  listening  sate  and  lone 
Each  nation  to  those  crowned  Peers'  decree; 

And  this  wide  world  of  restless  beings  rude 
Lay  mute  and  breathless  as  a  summer  sea.  . 

To  the  Universal  Judge,  that  conclave  projitl 
Their  diadem-starr'd  foreheads  lowly  bow'd  : 
When,  at  some  viewless  sunimoner's  stern  call. 
Uprose  in  place  the  Imperial  Criminal. 
In  that  wan  face  nor  ancient  majesty 

Left  wither'd  splendour  dim,  nor  old  renown 
Lofty  disdain  in  that  sad  sunken  eye  ; 
No  giant  ruin  even  in  wreck  elate 
Frowning  dominion  o'er  imperious  fate, 

But  one  to  native  lowliness  cast  down. 
A  sullen,  careless  desperation  gave 

The  hollow  semblance  of  intrepid  grief, 
Not  that  heroic  patience,  nobly  brave. 

That  even  from  misery  wrings  a  proud  reliefj 
Nor  the  dark  pride  of  haughty  spirits  of  ill, 

That  from  the  towering  grandeur  of  their  sin, 
Wear  on  the  brow  triumphant  gladness  still, 

Heedle-ss  of  racking  agony  within; 
Nor  penitence  was  there,  nor  pale  remorse. 

Nor  memory  of  his  fall  from  kingly  state, 
And  warrior  glory  in  his  sun-like  course, 

Fortune  his  slave,  and  Victory  his  mate. 


tThe  foregoing  fact  is  related  in  the  work  of  M.  Pinel  sur 
rinsanite. 

444 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


435 


Twere  doubt  if  that  dark  forni  could  truly  feel, 
Or  wore  indeed  a  sha(>e  and  soul  of  steel. 

With  thai  from  Xorth  and  South  an  ireful  train 
Forth  came  iliai  mighty  Culprit  to  arraign, 
The  First  was  as  a  savage  Horseman  bold. 

Uncouth  his  rude  attire,  his  hearing  wild; 
But  gallant  was  his  brow  that  ligliily  smiled, 

As  seeming  war  some  merry  s|)ort  to  hold  : 
The  air  whereon  his  fleet  steed  seem'd  to  prance 
Flamed  wilh  the  steely  bickering  oi  his  lance. 
And  on  the  waves  of  his  broad  banner's  fold 

.An  old  barbaric  Capital  he  bore, 
Like  some  tall  grove  of  pinnacle  and  spire. 
Or  snowy  white,  or  gleaming  rich  wilh  gold  : 
But  the  red  havoc  of  upspringing  fire 

\  fatal  flood  of  glory  seem'd  to  pour; 
And  still  from  gilded  roof  or  dome  upbroke 
In  dusky  pillars  huge  the  cloudy  smoke. 
A'or  word  that  Horseman  spake,  but  as  he  came 
Waved  his  grim  standard  like  a  pall  of  flame. 

And  next  came  one  all  trim  in  fearful  grace 

And  tall  majestic  symmetry  of  war, 

Musquet  and  bayonet  flashing  bright  and  far ; 
Deliberate  valour  in  his  slow  firm  pace. 
And  scorn  of  death — him  at  the  portal  arch 
Saluted  blithe  old  Frederick's  bugle  march. 
Heavy  his  charge — of  lordly  King  bovv'd  down 
In  his  own  royal  city  to  the  frown 

Of  the  base  minion  to  a  despot's  hate — * 
Then  blanch'd  the   Soldier's  bronzed  and  furrow'd 

cheek, 
While  of  coarse  taunting  outrage  he  'gan  speak. 

To  her  the  beautiful,  the  delicate. 
The  queenly,  but  too  gentle  lor  a  Queen — 
But  in  sweet  pride  upon  that  insult  keen 
She  smiled  —  then  drooping  mute,   though  broken- 
hearted. 
To  the  cold  comfort  of  the  grave  departed. 

The  next  like  some  old  Baron's  lordly  son 
Bore  what  a  rich  imperial  crown  had  been. 

But  from  its  stars  the  pnde  of  light  was  gone  ; 
The  joy  of  vengeance  on  that  warrior's  mien 

Was  chasing  the  red  hues  of  ancient  shame  : 
Not  of  Marengo's  fair-foiicht  field  he  told, 
Xor  the  wide  waves  of  blood  huse  Danube  roll'd; 

But  him  that  in  strong  Ulin  play'd  that  foul  game. 

Bartering  his  country  and  his  soul  for  gold  : 

And  that  fair  royal  Maid,  by  battle  won 
Like  thing  that  hath  nor  will  nor  sense,  and  borne 
A  bright  and  beauteous  trophy  to  adorn 

The  brittle  grandeur  of  an  upstart's  throne. 

Next  came  a  stately  Lady,  once  was  she 
Queen  of  the  Nations  :  of  her  despot  sway 

Earth  boasted,  every  flood  and  every  sea 
Water'd  her  tributary  realms,  and  day 

Rose  only  on  her  empire  :  now  it  seem'd 

That  she  had  cast  her  cumbrous  crown  away 

*  Alluding  to  a  governor  being  set  over  the  King  of  Pruseia 
io  Berlin. 

37  3E 


To  slumber  in  her  vales  that  basking  lie 

In  the  luxurious  azure  of  her  sky  ; 
On  Saint  or  \  irgin,  such  as  Raphael  dreain'd, 

In  almost  blameless  l()nd  idolatry, 

Speechless  to  gaze,  and    bow  the  adoring  knee; 
In  the  soul's  secret  chambers  to  prolong 
The  rapturous  ravishment  of  harp  and  song. 
Music  was  in  her  steps,  and  all  her  eye 
Was  dark  and  eloquent  with  ecstasy. 

Rapine  her  charge — of  Florence'  princely  halls, 
And  that  fall'n  F.mpress  by  old  Tiber's  side 
Reft  of  the  sole  sad  relics  of  her  pride  ; 

For  the  iron  conqueror  ravish'd  from  her  walls 

Those  shapes  that  in  their  breathing  colours  warm 
In  tall  arcade  or  saintly  cliapel  lived. 
And  all  wherein  the  soul  of  Creece  survived 

The  more  than  human  of  each  marble  form. 

Of  the  proud  bridegroom  of  the  Adrian  Sea, 
Once  like  his  bride  magnificent  and  free. 
Sunk  to  a  bond-slave's  desperate  apathy. 

And  him  the  Holiest  deem'd,  the  chosen  of  God, 
Beneath  an  earthly  lord  bow'd  down  to  kiss  the  rod. 
And  next  came  one,  the  bravery  of  whose  front 

Crested  hereditary  pride ;  his  arms 
Were  dark  and  dinted  by  rude  battle's  brunt : 

Of  Sovereign  young  he  spake,  by  wizard  charms 
Of  hollow  smiling  treachery  from  the  throne 

Of  two  fair  worlds  to  felon  durance  lured, 

A  King  in  narrow  prison  walls  immured ; 
And  some  rude  islander's  soul-groveling  son 
Set  up  to  be  a  princely  nation's  Lord  : — 

But  then  the  Spaniard  with  fierce  brow  and  bright 
Brandish'd  the  cloudy  flaming  of  his  sword  ; 

Full  was  his  soul  of  Zaragoza's  fight. 
And  the  high  Pyrenean  snows  o'erleap'd, 
Artd  other  Pavias  with  Frank  carnage  heap'd. 

The  brother  of  his  wrongs  and  of  his  wrath 

Was  wilh  him  in  the  triumph  of  his  palh. 

He  of  his  exile  Prince  'gan  loudly  boast ; 
To  be  a  sceptred  slave,  a  pageant  King, 
He  scorn'd,  and  on  his  fleet  bark's  gallant  wing 

For  kingly  freedom  the  wild  ocean  crust. 

Whom  saw  I  then  in  port  and  pride  a  Queen, 
Come  walking  o'er  her  own  obsequious  sea  ? 
1  knew  thee  well,  the  valiant,  rich,  and  free — 
As  when  old  Rome,  her  Roman  virtue  tame. 
Gazed,  when  in  arms  that  bold  Dictator  came  ; 
Wilh  the  iron  ransom  of  her  Capitol 
Startled  to  flight  the  fierce  insulting  Gaul — 

Camillus  of  mankind  !  thy  regal  mien 

Gladden'd  all  earth;  the  nations  from  their  rest 
Joyiiil  upleap'd  :  with  modest  front  elaie, 

Like  one  that  halh  proud  conscience  in  her  breast, 
Thou  brakest  the  blank  silence — "  Woe  and  hate 
To  this  bad  man  for  those  my  good  and  great, 

That  sleep  amid  the  Spaniard  s  mountains  rude 
In  ihe  sad  beauty  of  the  hero's  fate. 

To  this  bad  man  immortal  gratitude. 

For  he  hath  taught,  v\ho  slaves  the  free  of  earth 
Fettereth  the  whirlwind:  halh  given  glorious  bi.".h 


43G 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  deeds  that  dwarf  my  old  majestic  fame, 
Make  Blake  and  Marlborough  languid  sound 
and  tame 
To  Nelson  and  that  Chief  to  whom  defeat 
Is  like  an  undiscover'd  star — hath  shown 
More  than  the  Macedonian  victories  vain 
To  rivet  on  the  earth  tlie  Oppressor's  chain  : 
As  little  will  }'on  Sun's  empyrean  throne 
Endure  a  mortal  seat,  as  this  wide  globe 

Be  one  man's  appanage;  or  my  (iiir  isle, 
That  precious  gem  in  ocean's  azure  robe, 
Cast  Freedom's  banner  down,  by  force  or  guile 
Master'd,  and  fiirfeit  earth's  renown  and  love, 
And  her  bright  visions  of  high  meed  above." 

Then  all  at  once  did  from  all  earth  arise 
Fierce  imprecations  on  that  man  of  sin  ; 
And  all  the  loaded  winds  came  heavy  in 
With  exultations  and  with  agonies. 
F'rom  the  lone  coldness  of  the  widow's  bed, 
The  feverish  pillow  of  the  orphan's  head, 
From  dying  men  earth's  woful  valleys  heaping, 
From  smouldering  cities  in  their  ashes  sleeping. 
Like  the  hoarse  tumbling  of  a  torrent  flood 
Mingled  the  dismal  concord — "  blood  for  blood." 

But  then  arose  a  faded  shape  and  pale. 

Once  had  she  been  a  peerless  princely  dame ; 
Downcast  her  grace  of  grief;  she  seem'd  to  veil 

The  mournful  beauty  of  her  face  for  shame. 
And  is  this  she  whose  sprightly  laughing  mirth 
Was  like  the  blithe  spring  on  the  festal  earth  ; 
Aye  dancing  at  the  moonlight  close  of  day, 
'xMid  purple  vineyards,  graceful,  light,  and  gay ; 
Or  in  high  pomp  and  gallant  pride  of  port 
Holding  rich  revel  in  her  gorgeous  court  ? — 

Abrupt  her  speech  and  wild — "  When  I  'gan  wake 

From  that  my  sleep  of  madness,  all  around 
Of  human  blood  a  broad  and  livid  lake 

Was  in  my  splendid  cities;  mound  on  mound 
Rose  peopled  with  my  noble  princely  dead : 
And  o'er  them  the  fell  anarch,  Murther,  stood 
Grimly  reposing  in  his  weary  mood — 
I  turn'd,  all  trembling  turn'd,  my  guilty  head: 
There  humankind  had  leagued  their  arms  of  dread 
'Gainst  the  Blasphemer  of  fair  Freedom's  name. 
Heaven  gave  no  hope,  for  heaven  I  dared  disclaim. 

"  High  in  the  flaming  car  of  Victory  riding, 
From  Alp  to  Alp  his  chamois  warriors  guiding 
The  peril  of  wild  Lodi's  arch  bestriding, 

I  saw  yon  Chieftain  in  his  morn  of  fame ; 
Cities  and  armies  at  his  beck  sank  down. 
And  in  the  gaudy  colours  of  renown 

The  fabling  Orient  vested  his  young  nam  . 
The  bright  and  baleful  Meteor  I  adored. 
Low  bovv'd  I  down,  and  said — 'Be  thou  my  Lord !' 

Like  old  and  ruinous  towers,  the  ancient  thrones 
Crumbled,  and  dynasties  of  elder  time; 

The  banners  of  my  conquest-plumed  sons 
Flouted  the  winds  of  many  a  distant  clime: 

On  necks  of  vanquish'd  kings  I  fix'd  my  seat. 

And  the  broad  Rhine  roU'd  vassal  at  my  feet. 


Thrice  did  the  indignant  Nations  league  their  might, 

Thrice  the  red  darkness  of  the  battle  night 

Folded  the  recreant  terror  of  their  flight. 

Realms  sack'd  and  ravaged  empires  sooth'd  my  toils, 

And  Satrap  Chiefs  were  Monarchs  from  my  spoils. 

In  solitude  of  freedom  that  rich  Queen 

Sate  in  her  sanctity  of  waves  serene. 

From  cliff  and  beach,  dominion  in  their  motion, 
I  saw  her  stately  navies'  broad  array, 
Like  jealous  lords  at  watch,  that  none  but  they 

Adulterate  with  their  fair  majestic  ocean. 
And  cries  I  heard  like  frenzy  and  dismay 
Of  Nelson,  Nelson  deepening  on  their  way. 

But  what  to  me  though  red  the  western  deep 
With  other  fires  than  of  the  setting  sun  ? 

And  what  to  me  though  round  Trafiilgar's  steep 
My  haughty  pennon 'd  galleys,  one  by  one, 

Come  rolling  their  huge  wrecks  on  the  waves' sweep? 

Go  rule  thy  brawling  and  tumultuous  sea, 

Briton,  but  leave  the  servile  earth  to  me. 

And  what  to  me  though  in  my  dungeons  deep 
By  this  new  Charlemagne  dark  deeds  were  done — 
Will  the  stones  start  and  babble  to  the  sun 

How  that  bold  Briton  Wright,  and  Pichegru  sleep? 

At  noon  of  night  I  heard  the  drum  of  death. 
Like  evil  spirits  on  the  blasted  heath 

By  the  drear  torchlight  iron  men  were  met. 
The  mockery  of  justice  soon  was  past ; 

Again  the  drum  its  dismal  warning  beat : 
Then  flashing  musquets  deathful  lustre  cast 

A  moment  on  the  victim  ;  he  sedate 

In  calm  disdain  of  even  a  felon's  fate. 
His  royal  breast  bared  to  the  soldier's  mark. 

Seeming  to  pity  with  his  steady  sight 
Those  poor  mechanic  murderers — then  't  was  dark, 

All  but  yon  crown'd  Assassin's  visage  bright. 

Who  waved  his  torch  in  horrible  delight. 
O  blood  of  Conde!  could  thy  spirit  rest 
In  thy  tame  country's  cold  ungrateful  breast? 

Yet  in  my  drunkenness  of  pride  I  mock'd 

Mean  crimes  that  would  a  petty  tyrant  shame. 
For  still  in  glory's  cradle  was  I  rock'd. 

Mine  eagle  eyrie  crown'd  the  steep  of  fame. 
Nought  heeded  I,  that  the  proud  Son  of  Spain, 
Like  a  fierce  courser  that  has  burst  his  chain. 
Shook  the  base  slavery  from  his  floating  mane. 
And  that  new  British  .Arthur's  virgin  shield 
Won  its  rich  blazon  on  V'imeira's  field. 

For  lo,  my  cities  throw  their  portals  wide ; 
Gorgeous  my  festal  streets,  as  when  of  old 
The  monarchs  met  u[)on  the  plain  of  gold — 

Lo,  on  my  throne  a  bright  and  royal  bride. 

V^ain  all  my  pomp,  imperial  beauty  vain 

The  reveller  in  battles  to  restrain. 

And  at  his  word,  as  at  the  fabled  wand 
I  Of  old  magician,  from  the  teeming  land. 

Myriad  on  myriad,  harness'd  warriors  rise; 
The  earth  was  darken'd  with  excess  of  light, 

446 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


137 


Line  after  line,  insufferably  bright ; 

The  black  arlillery,  in  their  cloudy  might, 

Impious  deliaiico  laiich'd  aguitisi  the  skies. 
With  tamer  sounds  did  that  wild  Heathen*  vaunt 
Amid  his  thund'rous  heavens  high  Jove  to  daunt. 
Day  after  day  I  saw  their  (K)ini)  depart; 
Then  said  ilie  haughty  I'renzy  of  my  heart, 
When  o'er  this  world  thy  victor  wheels  are  driven, 
Wilt  thou  go  vanquish  the  bright  stars  of  Heaven? 

And  lo,  the  rival  nations  hurrying 

To  crowd  beneath  my  passing  eagle's  wing  ; 

Lo,  'mong  ray  captains  many  a  sceptred  king. 

Now,  now  the  northern  skies  are  all  on  fire 
As  with  some  mighty  Empire's  funeral  pyre  ! 
Why  bring  they  not  proud  Catherine's  trophies  home? 
I  hear  the  sound  of  wheels — •  They  come,  they  come.' 

A  solitary  sound — no  pomp  of  war 

One  dastard  pale  accomplice  of  his  flight. 

He  comes,  whom  earth,  and  all  earth's  sons  obey, 
The  peerless  and  the  paragon  of  might; 

The  pinnace  of  the  Persian  runaway 
Was  glory  to  his  lone  and  hurrying  car. 

I  ask'd  for  those  in  fight,  in  triumph  tried, 
The  partners  of  his  peril  and  his  pride. 
He,  in  a  tyrant's  mockery  of  my  woe. 
Bade  me  go  seek  them  in  the  Scythian  snow. 

Then  felt  I  what  a  pitiful  tame  slave 
Was  I,  who  vaunted  me  mankind's  sole  queen, 
The  satellite  of  one  man's  wayward  spleen — 
The  remnant  of  my  fair,  my  young,  my  brave, 
Were  rent  once  more  to  Ibrge  the  adamant  chain 
Burst  by  the  nations,  who  with  one  accord 
Shook   the    bright   vengeance   of   the   freeman's 
sword  — 
Another  year — and  the  broad  Rhine  again 
Shrouded  the  sceptred  fugitive's  pale  train. 
Then  turn'd  a  rebel,  roU'd  her  free  waves  to  the  main. 

And  now  the  banners  of  the  embattled  world 
Their  folds  of  vengeance  on  my  vales  unfurl'd. 
Oh,  bloody  was  the  evening  of  thine  ire. 
Thou  gorgeous  comet  of  disastrous  fire! 

I  wont  to  see,  as  from  some  quiet  star. 
Deluging  slaughter  this  fair  earth  o'erwhelm, 
On  the  rich  bosom  of  my  sunny  realm 

Gave  quarry  to  the  ravening  dogs  of  war. 

But  mercy  shone  upon  the  me;'ciles8! 
Strong  but  to  save  and  valiant  but  to  bless. 
Kg  ruthless  Cxsars  clad  in  blood  and  flame, 
Royal  in  virtue  the  Avengers  came. 
Those  w  hom  I  spoil'd,  no  spoilers  came  to  me, 
I  said, '  Be  slave,  O  earth  I'  but  they — 'O  France,  be 
free.' 

For  yon  dark  chief  of  woe.  and  guilt,  and  strife, 
0  sceptred  judges !  punish  him  with  life. 
Fear  not  he  seek  with  the  old  Roman  pride, 
That  weakness  to  the  noble  soul  allied, 
To  die  as  Cato,  and  as  Brutus  died. 


Fear  not  that  in  his  abject  heart  he  show 

That  martyr  fortitude,  that  smiles  in  woe. 

By  him  shall  that  great  secret  be  betray 'd, 

Of  what  poor  stuff'  are  earth's  dread  tyrants  made- 

Oh,  let  him  live  to  be  (lrs|)isc(l,  to  see 

France  happy,  and  the  glorious  nations  free; 

Death  were  delight  to  that  deep  misery !" — 

Then  did  that  kingly  conclave,  with  one  voice. 
Pass  the  dread  sentence  on  the  gloomy  man; 
In  his  soul's  icy  deadness  he  alone 
By  others'  woes  seem'd  harden'd  to  his  own. 

From  land  to  land  the  penal  tidings  ran; 
Earth  lifted  up  her  rich  face  to  rejoice. 
The  bright  blue  heavens  bade  wintry  warring  cease, 
And  spring  came  dancing  o'er  a  world  at  peace. 


ALEXANDER  TUMULUM  ACHILLIS  INVI- 
SENS,  POEMA. 

CA\CELL.\ItlI    PR.EMIO    DONATUM,    ET   I\    THEATRO 
SHELDO.MA.NO  RECITATUM  DIE  JU.N.  XXX"'".  A.D.  1813 

Jam  puer  Emathius  Thebarum  nigra  favilla 
Moenia,  Cadmeamque  areem,  jam  Palladis  urbem 
Immemorem  fama;,  pronamque  in  jussa  tyranni 
Fregerat;  at  violas  gentes  partosque  triumphos 
Spernit  atrox  animi,  et  pacem  fiistidit  inertem. 
Europes  angusta  pati  confinia  nescit 
Mentito  soboles  J'ove  non  indigna,  novumque 
Poscit  in  arma  orbem  ;  jam  transilit  Hellespontiim, 
Purpureique  Asia;  proceres  atque  agmina  regum, 
Sceptrigeri  quotquot  stipant  Babylonia  Medi 
Atria,  Grajiigeniim  horrescunt  nota  arma  virorum, 
Myrmidonumque  graves,  fatalia  tela,  sarissas, 
Confertos  clypeos,  inconcussamque  phalangen. — 

At  simul  ac  Phrygise  campos,  Priameia  regna, 
Conspicit,  et  G raise  late  loca  conscia  famaj 
Gramineosqueducumtumulos.subitundique  Achivum 
Gloria  et  adversis  bellantia  numina  in  armis, 
Et  Lacedamonia  sxvsi  pro  conjuge  clades. 
Omne  igitur  lustrare  juvat,  quod  mente  dolores 
Iliacos  renovet,  Danaumque  resuscitet  iras. 
Spumeus  hie  Xanthus  nemorosA  pronus  ab  Ida, 
Non  galeas,  non  scuta  viriim,  sed  proruta  saxa 
Arboreosque  rapit  violento  flumine  Iruncos. 
Hie,  ubi  luxuriat  flaventi  campus  arista, 
Laomedonteum  fuit  Ilion,  undique  nullje 
Reliquias  apparent  muri,  fractaeve  columnse, 
Oblita  non  musco  viridanti  saxa,  Pelasgi 
Usque  adeo  miseras  Trojse  invidere  rninas. 
Rhaeteasque  procul  rupes,  tumulumqiie  capacera, 
Ajacis,  vastii  elatum  super  a-quora  mole 
Cernere  erat— sed  nulla  quies— sed  iervidus  Heros 
Stare  loco  nescit,  flagratque  cupidine  pugnae. 
Devenit  at  tandem,  Sigeo  ubi  littore  collis 
Eminet  aprieus,  quem  suave  olentia  circum 
Serpylla,  et  viridi  cingunt  dumeta  corona. 
Hunc  et  Abydenus  sea  mollem  navita  Leshon, 
Pampineamve  Chion,  Samiive  altaria  Div» 
Invisit,  radiante  orientis  lumine  solis 
Prospicit  ardentem,  remotiue  acclinis,  Ilomeri 

447 


438 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Suave  aliquod  carmen  secum  meditatur,  et  hteret 
Ingentem  tumuliim,  et  Manes  veneratus  Acliillis. 

Qualis  I\feonii  divino  in  carmine  vatis 
Stat  torviis  vultii,  et  coelestibiis  horret  in  armis, 
Fulmineosque  agitat  currus  subliniis,  et  unnm 
Hectora,  per  Irepidas  unum  pelit  llectora  turmas: 
Hand  aliter  ca-cri  yEatides  teilure  videtur, 
Ceu  lituo  fremiluque  armoriim  exfitiis  araato, 
Tollere  se,  jiiveniqiie  ingens  graiarier  umbra. 
Hunc  videt,  et  viso  gaudet,  quin  lotus  inani 
Figitur  in  specie,  quamque  ipse  effinxerat  umbram 
Esse  putat  %eram,  mutoque  immobilis  ore 
Stat  Maoedo;  ast  Asian  fines  alijue  ultimus  orbis 
Sentit  Alexandri  requiem,  tardataque  fata. 

Turn  lecti  comites  instaurant  sacra,  et  odori 
Rite  coronatis  fumant  altaribus  ignes. 
Fervet  opus,  latices  pars  vivo  e  fonte,  Lyaeo 
Imniislos  roseo,  sinceraque  flumina  lactis 
Auratis  libant  pateris,  pars  florea,  circum 
Serta,  et  odorilisrus  dispergunt  veris  iionores. 
Quin  et  gramineam  niveus  mactatur  ad  aram 
Taurus,  et  humectat  sacratam  sanguine  arenam. 

At  procul  IdcEO  spectat  de  vertice  pompam 
Turba  Phrygura,  mistaque  ira  et  formidine  mussat, 
Hos  novns  angit  iionos  et  adlnic  invisus  Achilles. 
Atque  aliqiia  in  Irepida  nialer  slat  mcesta  caterva 
Andromachen  animo  reputans,  Iihaciqiie  cruenti 
Astyanacia  nianu  dejectum  moenibus  altis. 
DUeclumque  premit  pavefacta  ad  pectora  natum. 
Stat  virgo,  mcsstosque  fbvet  sub  corde  timores, 
Ne  nova  nialemo  direpta  Polyxena  collo 
Placet  Achilleos  infando  sanguine  Manes. 

At  Rex  Emathius  nodosa;  innititur  basts 
Majestate  rninax,  tacita,  ceu  numine  plenus 
Falidico  vates,  e  pectore  prdliniis  amens 
Exeutit  ille  Deuni,  pulchor  furor  occupat  ora. 
Terror  inest  oculis,  prooerior  emicat  ingens 
Forma  viri,  fluitant  agitata;  in  casside  crislie. 

"  Me  quf)que,  me,"  clamat,  "belli  post  mille  labores, 
Post  fniclas  urbes,  post  regna  h."ic  proruta  dextra 
Ultima  canlabit  tellus.  gens  nulla  silebit 
Nomen  Alexandri,  sobolemque  iaiebitur  Ilammon. 
Te,  magno  /Eacida,  decimus  te  vidorit  annus 
Iliacas  arces  el  dobita  Pcrgama  falls 
Oppugnaulcm  armis,  me  Sol  mirabitur  ire 
VictoreiTi,  cursuque  suos  prsverlere  currus. 
Jam  Susa,  et  prajclara  auro  niveoque  elephanto 
Fcbatana,  et  frusira  palrionuii  ope  frela  Deorum 
Persepolis  (trislcs  inhianl  ecu  iiubibus  alris 
Agricohp  diibii  qnos  fiilmine  proterat  agros 
.lupiler)  expoclanl  ruiiurum  in  maniia  Marlem ; 
Serviliuin  quibus  una  s-alus,  quibus  ultima  et  una  est 
Gloria  Alexandri  dexlra  meruisse  ruinam. 
Adsum  ego,  jam  Babylon  sratus  pandere  portas 
Feslinat,  patiturqne  superbo  flumine  pontem 
Euphrates,  Graiumque  minax  strepit  ungula  equorum, 
Et  Larissens  super  ardua  mrenia  currus  ; 
Quo  ferus  Ilystaspes,  quo  traraite  Cyrus  adegit 


Quadrijugos,  Lydoque  equitavit  fulgidus  auro, 
Et  non  fcemineis  animosa  Semiramis  armis. 
Delude  coloratos,  qualis  Jovis  ales,  ad  Indus, 
Et  matulinae  rosea  incunabula  lucis 
Deferor,  auriferos  Macedo  bibit  impiger  amnes. 
.Atcjue  ubi  Pellffiis  tellus  jam  deficit  armis, 
?vec  superest  nostro  gens  non  indigna  triumphu, 
Unus  Alexander  vicio  doniinabitur  orbi. 

"  Jamque  procul  Martis  strepilus,  jam  pervenit  aures 
Ferrea  vox  belli,  jam  dira  ad  praelia  Medus 
Aureus  accingit  galeam  gladiumque  coruscat 
Impatiens  fati,  et  Graiae  vim  provocat  uliro 
Cuspidis,  ardentique  superbit  barbariis  ostro — 
Non  aquas,  Darie,  malo  pelis  omine  pugnas! 
Ibat  ovans  ferrum  Argolicis  flammasque  carinis 
Insana  virtnfe  ferens  Priameius  Hector. 
Ilium  ergo  Jlliacfe  rediturum  vespere  sero 
Speravere  nurus,  Pelide  ca;de  madentem 
Atque  Agamemnonios  agitantem  ad  Pergania  currus. 
Speravere  diu — crines  procul  ille  venustos 
Formosumque  caput  fosdabat  pulvere  in  atro 
Sordidus,  Argivisque  dabat  ludibria  nautis. 

"Tartareas  fauces  reserabit  et  horrida  clanslra 
Rex  Erebi,  utque  meam  videat  coram  invidushastam, 
Mvrmidonumque  feros  referenlia  bella  parenies, 
Ad  superas  ingentem  auras  emiltit  .Achillem. 
Ille  mihi  pugnas  inter  fremituraque,  furoremque 
Addit  se  comitem,  et  curru  famulatur  ovanti. 
Vidi  egomet,  nisi  vana  oculos  illusit  imago, 
Spicula  crispanlem,  atque  minaci  cassida  fronte, 
Nutantem,  qua;  luce  vagos  iremefecit  ahena 
Priamidas,  nigrumque  auratis  Memnona  bigis. 
Vidi  egomet,  neque  vana  fides,  alroque  sub  Oreo 
Immorlalem  animam  tangit  laus  sera  nepolum, 
Famaque  Tarlareis  sonat  baud  ingrata  sub  umbris. 
Felix  yEacida  !  tacitas  ingloriu's  isses 
Ad  sedes  Erebi,  ca;ca(jue  oblivia  nocte 
Invida  pressissent  nomen,  quod  barbarus  Islri 
Potor,  et  Herculeis  gens  si  qua  admola  columnis 
Kovit,  et  .iElbiopcs  non  aequo  Sole  calentes. 
At  tibi  Ma»onides,  seu  quis  Deus,  aurea  Olympi 
Regna  procul  linquens,  ca-ei  senis  induitora, 
Et  plus  quam  mortale  melos,  bellumque,  tiimultura- 

que 
Infremuit,  divina  tua;  prosconia  laudis, 
..Eternumque  dedit  viridem  frondescere  famam. 

■'  Et  nobis  quandoque  dabunt  haec  ultima  dona 
Dii,  quibus  Emalhium  decus  et  mea  gloria  cune. 
Exoriare  aliquis,  nosirum  (pii  nomen,  Ilomerus, 
Pella;osque  feras  ad  sajcula  sera  triumphos, 
Exoriare,  novus  plectro  non  deerit  Achilles." — 

Ha;c  fatus,  clypeo  fremuit,  dirosque  dedere 
JEra.  sonos,  quassisque  armis  exercitus  omnis 
Intonuere,  simul  nemorosa  reniugiit  Ida. 
Quos  sonilus,  Granice,  tuum  ad  fatale  fluentum. 
Persarumque  acies  et  pictis  Medus  hi  armis 
Agnovere  procul,  solio  Darius  eburno 
Exsiluil,  (atique  pavens  prxsagia  iniqui 
JNon  audituro  fudit  vota  irrita  ccelo. 

448 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


439 


FORTUNE. 

FROM   THE   ITALIAN   OF  GUIDI. 

A  LADY,  like  to  Juiw  in  her  state, 

Upon  the  air  her  golden  tresses  streaming. 

And  with  celestial  eyes  of  azure  beaming, 
Enter'd  whilere  my  gate, 
Like  a  Barbaric  Queen 

On  the  F^.iiphrates  shore. 
In  purple  and  fine  linen  was  she  pall'd, 
Nor  flower  nor  laurel  green, 

Her  tresses  for  their  garland  wore 
The  splendour  of  the  Indian  emerald. 
But  through  the  rigid  pride  and  pomp  unbending 

Of  beauty  and  of  haughtiness, 
Sparkled  a  flattery  sweet  and  condescending ; 

And  from  her  inmost  bosom  sent, 
Came  accents  of  most  wonderous  gentleness, 

Officious  and  intent 
To  thrall  ray  soul  in  soft  imprisonment. 

And  "  Place," she  said,  "thy  hand  within  my  hair, 

And  all  around  ihou'ltsee 
Delightful  chances  fair 

On  golden  feet  come  dancing  unto  thee. 
Me  Jove's  daughter  shalt  thou  own. 

That  with  my  sister  Fate 

Sits  by  his  side  on  state 
On  the  eternal  throne. 
Great  Neptune  to  my  will  the  ocean  gives  : 

In  vain,  in  well-appointed  strength  secure, 
The  Indian  and  the  Briton  strives 

The  assaulting  billows  to  endure; 
Unless  their  flying  sails  I  guide 
Where  over  the  smooth  tide 
On  my  sweet  spirit's  wings  I  ride. 
I  banish  to  their  bound 
The  storms  of  dismal  sound. 
And  o'er  them  take  my  stand  with  foot  serene ; 

The  yEolian  caverns  under 
The  wings  of  the  rude  winds  I  chain. 

And  with  my  hand  I  burst  asunder 
The  tiery  chariot  wheels  of  the  hurricane  : 

And  in  its  fount  the  horrid  restless  fire 

I  quench  ere  it  aspire 
To  Heaven,  to  colour  the  red  Comet's  train. 

"  This  is  the  hand  that  forged  on  Ganges'  shore 

The  Indians'  empire ;  by  Orontes  set 
The  royal  tiar  the  Assyrian  wore  ; 
Hung  jewels  on  the  brow  of  Babylon, 

By  Tigris  wreath'd  the  Persian's  coronet, 
And  at  the  Macedonian's  foot  bow'd  every  throne. 
It  was  my  lavish  gift. 

The  triumph  and  tiie  song 
Around  the  youth  of  Pella  loud  uplift, 

When  he  through  .Asia  swept  along, 

A  torrent  swift  and  strong ; 
With  me,  with  me  the  Conqueror  ran 
To  where  the  Sun  his  golden  course  began  ; 
And  the  high  Monarch  left  on  earth 
A  faith  unquestioned  of  his  heavenly  birth ; 
37* 


By  valour  mingled  with  the  Gods  above, 

And  made  a  glory  of  himself  to  his  great  father  Jove. 

"  My  royal  spirits  oil 

Their  solemn  mystic  round 

On  Rome's  great  birih-day  wound  : 
And  I  the  haughty  Eagles  sprung  aloft 
Unto  the  Star  of  Mars  uplxirne. 

Till,  poising  on  their  plumy  sails. 

They  'gan  their  native  vales 
And  Sabine  palms  to  scorn  : 
And  I  on  the  seven  hills  to  sway 

That  Senate  House  of  Kings  convened, 
On  me  their  guide  and  stay 

Ever  the  Roman  counsels  lean'd 
In  danger's  lofty  way. 
i  I  guerdon'd  the  wise  delay 
j  Of  Fabius  with  the  laurel  crrjwn, 
I  And  hot  Marcellus'  fiercer  battle  tone; 
I  And  I  on  the  Tarpeian  did  deliver 

Afric  a  captive,  and  through  me  Nile  flow'd 
Under  the  laws  of  the  great  Latin  river; 
And  of  his  bow  and  quiver 
The  Parthian  rear'd  a  trophy  high  and  bn)ad  : 
The  Dacian's  fierce  inroad 
Against  the  gates  of  iron  broke, 
Taurus  and  Caucasus  endured  my  yoke  : 
Then  my  vassal  and  my  slave 

Did  every  native  land  of  every  wind  become. 

And  when  I  had  o'ercome 
All  earth  beneath  my  feet,  I  gave 

The  vanquish'd  world  in  one  great  gift  to  Rome. 

"I  know  that  in  thine  high  imagination. 

Other  daughters  of  Great  Jove 
Have  taken  their  Imperial  station. 

And  queen-like  thy  submissive  passions  move  ; 
From  them  thou  hopest  a  high  and  godlike  fate. 

From  them  thy  haughty  verse  presages 

An  everlasting  sway  o'er  distant  ages, 

And  with  their  glorious  rages 
Thy  mind  intoxicate. 
Deems  'tis  in  triumphal  motion. 

On  courser  fleet,  or  winged  bark, 
Over  earth  and  over  ocean  ; 

While  in  shepherd  hamlet  dark 
Thou  livest,  with  want  within,  and  raiment  coarse 
without ; 

And  none  upon  thy  state  hath  thrown 

Gentle  regard;  I,  I  alone 
To  new  and  lofty  venture  call  thee  out ; 
Then  follow,  thus  besought. 
Waste  not  thy  soul  in  thought ; 
Brooks  nor  sloth  nor  lingering 
The  great  moment  on  the  wing." 

"  A  blissful  lady  and  immortal,  born 
From  the  eternal  mind  of  Deity 
(I  answer'd  bold  and  free). 
My  soul  hath  in  her  queenly  care; 
She  mine  imagination  doth  upbear, 

And  steeps  it  in  the  light  of  her  rich  morn. 
That  overshades  and  sicklies  all  thy  shining; 

And  though  my  lowlv  hair 

'  419 


440 


IMILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Presume  not  to  bright  crowns  of  thy  entwining. 

Yet  in  my  mind  I  bear 

Gifts  nobler  and  more  rare 
Than  the  kingdoms  thou  canst  lavish, 
Gifts  tlioii  canst  nor  give  nor  ravish  : 
And  though  my  spirit  may  not  comprehend 

Thy  chances  bright  and  fair, 
Yet  neither  doih  her  sight  offend 

The  aspect  pale  of  miserable  care: 
Horror  to  her  is  not 

Of  this  coarse  raiment,  and  this  humble  cot; 
She  with  the  golden  Muses  dotli  abide. 
And  oh  I  the  darling  children  of  thy  pride 
Shall  then  be  truly  glorified. 
When  they  may  merit  to  be  wrapt  around 
With  my  Poesy's  eternal  sound." 

She  kindled  at  my  words  and  flamed,  as  when 

A  cruel  star  hath  wide  dispread 

Its  locks  of  bloody  red, 
She  burst  in  wrathful  menace  then.- 
"  Me  fears  the  Dacian,  the  band 

Of  wandering  Scythians  fears, 
Me  the  rough  mothers  of  Barbaric  kings; 
In  woe  and  dread  amid  the  rings 

Of  their  encircling  spears 
The  purple  tyrants  stand  ; 
And  a  shepherd  here  forlorn 
Treats  my  proffer'd  boons  with  scorn. 
And  fears  he  not  my  wrath  ? 
And  knows  he  not  my  works  of  scathe; 
Nor  how  with  angry  foot  I  went, 
Of  every  province  in  the  Orient, 
Branding  the  bosom  with  deep  tracks  of  death? 

From  three  Empresses  I  rent 
The  tresses  and  imperial  wreath, 

And  bared  them  to  the  pitiless  element. 
Well  I  remember  when  his  armed  grasp 

From  .Asia  stretch'd,  rash  Xerxes  took  his  stand 
Upon  the  formidable  bridge  to  clasp 

And  manacle  sad  Europe's  trembling  hand: 
In  the  g.-eat  day  of  battle  there  was  I, 

Busy  with  myriads  of  the  Persian  slaughter. 
The  Salaminian  sea's  fair  face  to  dye. 

That  yet  admires  its  dark  and  bloody  water; 
Full  vengeance  wreak'd  I  for  the  affront 
Done  ]Ve[)lune  at  the  fetter'd  Hellespont. 

"To  the  Nile  then  did  I  go. 

The  fafal  collar  wound 

The  fair  neck  of  the  Egyptian  Queen  around; 
And  I  t(ie  merciless  poison  made  to  flow 
Into  her  breast  of  snow. 
Ere  that  within  the  mined  cave, 

I  forced  dark  Afric's  valour  stoop 

Confounded,  and  its  dauntless  spirit  droop. 
When  to  the  Carthaginian  brave. 
With  mnie  own  hand,  the  hemlock  draught  I  gave. 

"  And  Rome  through  me  the  ravenous  flame 

In  the  heart  of  her  great  rival,  Carthage,  cast. 
That  went  through  Libya  wandering,  a  scorn'd  shade. 
Till,  sunk  to  equal  shame. 


Her  mighty  enemy  at  last 
A  shape  of  niockerj'  was  made  : 
Then  miserably  pleased, 

Her  fierce  and  ancient  vengeance  she  appeased ; 
And  even  drew  a  sigh 

Over  the  ruins  vast 
Of  the  deep-hated  Latin  majesty. 
I  will  not  call  to  mind  the  horrid  sword 

Upon  the  Memphian  shore, 

Steep'd  trea.sonously  in  great  Pompey's  gore  ; 
Nor  that  for  rigid  Calo's  death  abhorr'd  ; 

Nor  that  which  in  the  hand  of  Brutus  wore 
The  first  deep  colouring  of  a  Cajsar's  blood. 
Nor  will  I  honour  thee  with  thy  high  mood 
Of  w  rath,  that  kingdoms  doth  exterminate ; 
Incapable  art  thou  of  my  great  hate. 
As  my  great  glories.     Therefore  shall  be  thine 
Of  my  revenge  a  slighter  sign; 
Yet  will  I  make  its  fearful  sound 
Hoarse  and  slow  rebound. 
Till  seem  the  gentle  pipings  low 
To  equal  the  fierce  trumpet's  brazen  glow." 

Then  sprang  she  on  her  flight. 

Furious,  and  at  her  call. 
Upon  my  cottage  did  the  storms  alight. 

Did  hurricanes  and  thunders  fall. 
But  I,  with  brow  serene, 

Beheld  the  angry  hail 

And  lightning  flashing  pale. 
Devour  the  promise  green 

Of  my  poor  native  vale. 


THE  MERRY  HEART. 

I  WOULD  not  from  the  wise  require 

The  lumber  of  their  learned  lore ; 

Nor  would  I  from  the  rich  desire 

A  single  counter  of  their  store. 

For  I  have  ease,  and  I  have  health. 

And  I  have  spirits,  light  as  air; 

And  more  than  wisdom,  more  than  wealth,- 

A  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 

At  once,  'tis  true,  two  'witching  eyes 
Surprised  me  in  a  luckless  season, 
Turn'd  all  my  mirth  to  lonely  sighs, 
And  quite  subdued  my  better  reason. 
Yet  't  was  but  love  could  make  me  grieve, 
And  love  you  know  's  a  reason  liiir. 
And  much  improved,  as  I  believe. 
The  merry  heart,  that  laugh'd  at  care. 

So  now  from  idle  wishes  clear 
I  make  the  good  I  may  not  find  ; 
Adown  the  stream  I  gently  steer. 
And  shift  my  sail  with  every  wind. 
And  half  by  nature,  half  by  reason. 
Can  still  with  pliant  heart  prepare. 
The  mind,  attuned  to  every  season. 
The  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 
450 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


441 


Yet,  wrap  me  in  your  sweetest  dream, 
Ye  social  feelings  of  the  mind. 
Give,  sometimes  give,  your  sunny  gleam, 
And  let  the  rest  good-humoiir  (ind. 
Yes,  let  me  hail  and  welcome  give 
To  every  joy  my  lot  may  share. 
And  pleased  and  pleasing  let  me  Kve 
With  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


THE  TAKING  OF  TROY. 

CHORUS   FROM  THE   TROADES   OF   EURIPIDES. 

A  SAD,  unwonted  song, 
O'er  llion.  Muse!  prolong. 
Mingled  with  tears  of  woe. 
The  funeral  descant  slow. 

I  too,  with  shriek  and  frantic  cry. 
Take  up  the  dismal  melody ; 
How,  lost  through  that  strange  four-wheel'd  car. 
Stern  .\rgo's  captive  chains  we  wear. 
What  time  the  Greek,  or  ere  he  fled 
Left  at  our  gate  the  armed  steed, 
Menacing  the  heavens  viilh  giant  height. 
And  all  with  golden  housings  bright. 

Shouted  all  the  people  loud. 

On  the  rock-built  height  that  stood, — 

"Come,"  they  sang,  and  on  they  prest, — 

"Come,  from  ail  our  toils  released, 

Lead  the  blest  image  to  the  shrine 

Of  her,  the  Joveborn  Trojan  maid  divine  !" 

Linger'd  then  what  timorous  maid  ? 
Iler  age  his  tardy  steps  delay 'd  ;  — 
With  gladsome  shout,  and  jocimd  .song. 
They  drew  their  treacherous  liite  along  I 
And  all  the  Phrygian  rout 
Through  every  gate  rush'd  out. 
On  the  dangerous  gift  they  lead. 
The  beauty  of  th'  unyoked,  immortal  steed. 
With  its  ambush'd  warrior  freight, 
Argos'  pride  and  Ilion's  fate. 
Round  the  stately  horse,  and  round 
Cord  and  cable  soon  they  wound ; 
And  drag  it  on,  like  pinnace  dark 
Of  some  tall  and  stalely  bark. 
To  the  temple's  marble  floor. 
Soon  to  swim  with  Trojan  gore. 

O'er  the  toil,  the  triumph,  spread 

Silent  night  her  curtain'd  shade; 

But  Libyan  pipes  still  sweetly  rang, 

And  many  a  Phrygian  air  they  sang; 

And  maidens  danced  with  airy  feet. 

To  the  jocund  measures  sweet. 

And  every  house  was  blazing  bright. 

As  the  glowing  festival  light 

Its  rich  and  purple  splendour  stream'd. 

Where  the  mantling  wine-cup  gleam'd. 

But  [,  the  while,  the  palace-courls  around. 
Hymning  the  moun'.ain  queen,  Jove's  virgin  daughter, 


Went   with    blithe    dance,    and    music's    sprightly 

sound, — 
When,  all  at  once,  the  frantic  cry  of  slaughter 
All  through  the  wide  and  startled  city  rani 
The  shudd'ring  infiinis  on  their  mothers'  breasts 
Clung  with  their  hands,  and  cower'd  within  their  vesta. 
Forth  slalk'd  the  mighty  Mars,  and    the    fell  work 

began. 
The  work  of  Pallas  in  her  ire !  — 
Then  round  each  waning  altar-fire. 
Wild  Slaughter,  drunk  with  Phrygian  blood, 
And  murtherous  Desolation  strew'd ; 
Where,  on  her  couch  of  slumber  laid, 
Was  wont  to  rest  the  tender  maid. 
To  warrior  Greece  the  crown  of  triumph  gave. 
The  last  full  anguish  to  the  Phrygian  slave ! 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP. 


[Founded  on  the  following  fact : — "  The  case  of  the  liodeur, 
mentioned  by  Lord  Lansdowne.  A  ilreadl'ul  ophthalmia  pre- 
vailed among  the  slaves  on  board  this  ship,  which  was  com- 
municated to  the  crew,  so  that  there  was  but  a  single  man  who 
could  see  to  guide  the  vessel  into  port." — Quart.  Rev.  vol, 
26,  p.  71.] 

Old,  sightless  man,  unwont  art  thou, 

As  blind  men  use,  at  noon 
To  sit  and  sun  thy  tranquil  brow. 

And  hear  the  birds'  sweet  tune. 

There  's  something  heavy  at  thy  heart, 

Thou  dost  not  join  the  pray'r  ; 
Even  at  God's  word  thou  'It  writhe  and  start, 

"Oh!  man  of  God,  beware!" 

"  If  thou  didst  hear  what  I  could  say, 
'T  would  make  thee  doubt  of  grace. 

And  drive  me  from  God's  house  away. 
Lest  I  infect  the  place." 

"  Say  on  ;  there  's  nought  of  human  sin, 

Christ's  blood  may  not  alone :"  » 

"Thou  canst  not  read  what  load  's  within 
This  desperate  heart." — "  Say  on." 

"The  skies  were  bright,  the  seas  were  calm. 

We  ran  before  the  wind. 
That,  bending  Afric's  groves  of  palm. 

Came  fragrant  from  behind. 

"And  merry  sang  our  crew,  the  cup 

Was  gaily  drawn  and  qualT'd, 
And  when  the  hollow  groan  came  up 

From  the  dark  hold,  we  laugli'd. 

"  For  deep  below,  and  all  secure. 

Our  living  freight  was  laid. 
And  long  with  ample  gain,  and  sure, 

We  had  driven  our  awful  trade. 

"They  lay,  like  bales,  in  stifling  gloom, 

Man,  woman,  nursling  child. 
As  in  some  plague-struck  city'^s  tomb 

The  loathsome  dead  are  piled. 

451 


442 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  At  one  short  gust  of  that  close  air 

The  sickening  cheek  grew  pale  ; 

We  turn'd  away — 't  was  all  our  care, 

»     Heaven's  sweet  breath  to  inhale, 

"  'Mid  howl  and  yell,  and  shuddering  moan, 
The  scourge,  the  clanking  chain, 

The  cards  were  dealt,  the  dice  were  thrown, 
We  staked  our  share  of  gain. 

"  Soon  in  smooth  Martinico's  coves 
Our  welcome  bark  shall  moor, 

Or  underneath  the  citron-groves 
That  wave  on  Cuba's  shore. 

"  'T  was  strange,  ere  many  days  were  gone, 

How  still  gfew  all  below. 
The  wailing  babe  was  heard  alone, 

Or  some  low  sob  of  woe. 

"  Into  the  dusky  hold  we  gazed. 

In  heaps  we  saw  them  lie, 
And  dim,  unmeaning  looks  were  raised 

From  many  a  blood-red  eye. 

"  And  helpless  hands  were  groping  round 

To  catch  their  scanty  meal  ; 
Or  at  some  voice's  well-known  sound, 

Some  well-known  touch  to  feel. 

"  And  still  it  spread,  the  blinding  plague 

That  seals  the  orbs  of  sight ; 
The  eyes  were  rolling,  wild  and  vague ; 

Within  was  black  as  night. 

"  They  dared  not  move,  they  could  not  weep. 
They  could  but  lie  and  moan  ; 

Some,  not  in  mercy,  to  the  deep. 

Like  damaged  wares,  were  thrown. 

"  We  cursed  the  dire  disease  that  spread. 
And  cross 'd  our  golden  dream  ; 

Those  goldless  men  did  quake  with  dread 
To  hear  us  thus  blaspheme. 

"And  so  we  drank,  and  drank  the  more. 
And  each  man  pledged  his  mate; 

Here 's  better  luck,  from  Gambia's  shore. 
When  next  we  load  our  freight. 

"  Another  morn,  but  one — the  bark 

Lurch'd  heavy  on  her  way — 
The  steersman  shriek'd,  •  Hell 's  not  so  dark 

As  this  dull  murky  day.' 

"  We  look'd,  and  red  through  fdms  of  blood 

Glared  Ibrth  his  angry  eye  : 
Another,  as  he  mann'd  the  shroud. 

Came  toppling  from  on  high. 

"Then  each  alone  his  hammock  made. 

As  the  wild  beast  his  lair. 
Nor  friend  his  nearest  friend  would  aid. 

In  dread  his  doom  to  share. 

"  Yet  every  eve  some  eyes  did  close 

Upon  the  sunset  bright, 
And  when  the  glorious  morn  arose. 

It  bore  to  them  no  light. 


"Till  I,  the  only  man,  the  last 

Of  that  dark  brotherhood, 
To  guide  the  helm,  to  rig  the  mast, 

To  tend  the  daily  food. 

"  I  felt  it  film,  I  felt  it  grow. 

The  dim  and  misty  scale, 
I  could  not  see  the  compass  now, 

I  could  not  see  the  sail. 

"  The  sea  was  all  a  wavering  fog, 

The  sun  a  hazy  lamp, 
As  on  some  pestilential  bog, 

The  wandering  wild-fire  damp. 

"  And  there  we  lay,  and  on  we  drove. 
Heaved  up,  and  pitching  down  ; 

Oh !  cruel  grace  of  Him  above. 
That  would  not  let  us  drown. 

"And  some  began  to  pray  for  fear. 

And  some  began  to  swear ; 
Methought  it  was  most  dread  to  hear 

Upon  such  lips  the  prayer. 

"  And  some  would  fondly  speak  of  home, 
The  wife's,  the  infant's  kiss ; 

Great  God  I  that  parents  e'er  should  come 
On  such  a  trade  as  this ! 

"  And  some  I  heard  plunge  down  beneath. 
And  drown — that  could  not  I : 

Oh !  how  my  spirit  yearn'd  for  death. 
Yet  how  I  fear'd  to  die ! 

"  We  heard  the  wild  and  frantic  shriek 

Of  starving  men  below. 
We  heard  them  strive  their  bonds  to  break. 

And  burst  the  hatches  now. 

"  We  thought  we  heard  them  on  the  stair, 
And  trampling  on  the  deck, 

I  almost  felt  their  blind  despair. 
Wild  grappling  at  my  neck. 

"  Again  I  woke,  and  yet  again. 

With  throat  as  dry  as  dust. 
And  famine  in  my  heart  and  brain. 

And, — speak  it  out  I  must, — 

"  A  lawless,  execrable  thought. 

That  scarce  could  be  withstood. 

Before  my  loathing  fancy  brought 
Unutterable  food. 

"  No  more,  my  brain  can  bear  no  more, — 
Nor  more  my  tongue  can  tell ; 

I  know  1  breathed  no  air,  but  bore 
A  sick'ning  grave-like  smell. 

"  And  all,  save  I  alone,  could  die — 
Thus  on  death's  verge  and  brink 

All  thoughtless,  feelingless,  could  lie — 
I  still  must  feel  and  think. 

"At  length,  when  ages  had  pass'd  o'er, 

Ages,  it  seem'd,  of  night, 
There  came  a  .shock,  and  then  a  roar 

Of  billows  in  their  might, 

452 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


443 


"1  know  not  how,  when  next  I  woke, 

The  numb  waves  wrapp'd  me  round, 
And  in  my  luuileil  ears  there  broke 
A  dizzy,  bubbling  sound. 

"Again  I  woke,  and  living  men 
Stood  round — a  Christian  crew  ; 

The  first,  tiie  hist,  of  joy  was  then, 
That  suK-e  tiiose  days  1  knew. 

"  I  've  been,  I  know,  since  that  black  tide, 
Where  raving  madmen  lay. 

Above,  beneath,  on  ev'ry  side. 
And  1  as  mad  as  they. 

"And  I  shall  be  where  never  dies 
The  worm,  nor  slakes  the  (lame, 

When  those  two  hundred  souls  shall  rise. 
The  judge's  wrath  to  claim. 

"  I  'd  rather  rave  in  that  wild  room 
Than  see  what  I  have  seen; 

I  'd  rather  meet  my  final  doom, 
Than  be — where  I  have  been. 

"Priest,  I've  not  seen  thy  loathing  face, 
I  've  heard  thy  gasps  of  fear  ; — 

Away — no  word  of  hope  or  grace — 
I  may  not — will  not  hear!" 


THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

TWO  SONNETS. 
I. 

LovF.  Thee  I — oh,  Thou,  the  world's  eternal  Sire ! 
Whose  palace  is  the  vast  infinity. 
Time,  space,  height,  depth,  oh  God  !  are  full  of  Thee, 
And  sun-eyed  seraphs  tremble  and  admire. 
Love  Thee  1 — but  Thou  art  girt  with  vengeful  fire. 
And  mountains  quake,  and  banded  nations  flee, 
And  terror  shakes  the  wide  unfathom'd  sea. 
When  the  heavens  rock  with  thy  tempestuous  ire. 
Oh,  Tiioul  too  vast  for  thought  to  comprehend. 
That  wast  ere  time, — shalt  be  when  time  is  o'er; 
Ages  and  worlds  begin — grow  old — and  end. 
Systems  and  suns  thy  (;liangeless  throne  before, 
Commence  and  close  their  cycles  : — lost,  I  bend 
To  earth  my  prostrate  soul,  and  shudder  and  adore  ! 

11 
Love  Thee! — oh,  clad  in  human  lowliness, 
— In  whom  each  heart  its  mortal  kindred  knows — 
Our  flesh,  our  form,  our  tears,  our  pains,  our  woes, — 
A  fellow-wanderer  o'er  earth's  wilderness  ! 
Love  Thee!  whose  every  word  but  breathes  to  bless! 
Through  Thee,  from  long-seal'd  lips,  glad  language 

flows  ; 
The  blind  their  eyes,  that  laugh  with  light,  unclose; 
And  babes,  unchid.  Thy  garment's  hem  caress. 
— I  see  Thee,  doom'd  by  bitterest  pangs  to  die. 
Up  the  sad  hill,  with  willing  footsteps,  move. 
With  scourge,  and  taunt,  and  wanton  agony, 
^^  hile  the  cross  nods,  in  hideous  gl(X)m,  above. 
Though  all — even  there — be  radiant  Deity! 
— Speechless  I  gaze,  and  my  whole  soul  is  Love  I 

3r 


DEBORAH'S  HYMN  OF  TRIUMPH. 

Tmus  sang  Deborah  and  Barak,  son  of  .\binoam, 

In  the  day  of  victory  thus  they  sang; 

That  Israel  hath  wrought  her  mighty  vengeance, 

That  the  willing  people  rush'd  to  battle. 

Oh,  therefore,  praise  Jehovah! 

Hear,  ye  kings!  give  ear,  ye  princes! 
I  to  Jehovah,  I  will  lift  the  s<jng, 
I  will  sound  the  harp  to  Jehovah,  God  of  Israel ! 
Jehovah!  when  thou  wentest  forth  from  Seirl 
When  thou  marchedst  through  the  fields  of  Edom ! 
Quaked  the  earth,  and  pour'd  the  heavens. 
Yea,  the  clouds  pour'd  down  with  water: 
Before  Jehovah's  face  the  mountains  mplted, 
That  Sinai  before  Jehovah's  face, 
The  God  of  Israel. 

In  the  days  of  Shamgar,  son  of  Anatli, 

In  Jael's  days,  untrodden  were  the  highways. 

Through  the  winding  by-path  stole  the  traveller; 

Upon  the  plains  deserted  lay  the  hamlets. 

Even  till  that  I,  till  Deborah  arose. 

Till  I  arose  in  Israel  a  mother. 

They  chose  new  gods  : 
War  was  in  all  their  gates ! 
Was  buckler  seen,  or  lance, 
'Wong  forty  thousand  sons  of  Israel  ? 

My  soul  is  yours,  ye  chiefs  of  Israel ! 
And  ye,  the  self-devoted  of  the  people, 
Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  me  ! 
Ye  that  ride  upon  the  snow-white  asses; 
Ye  that  sit  to  judge  on  rich  divans 
Ye  that  plod  on  loot  the  open  way, 
Come,  meditate  the  song. 

For  the  noise  of  plundering  archers  by  the  wells  of 

water. 
Now  they  meet  and  sing  aloud  Jehovah's  righteous 

acts ; 
His  righteous  acts  the  hamlets  sing  upon  the  open 

plains. 
And  enter  their  deserted  gates  the  people  of  Jehovah. 

Awake,  Deborah  !  awake  ! 

Awake,  uplift  the  song! 

Barak,  awake !  and  lead  your  captives  captive, 

Thou  son  of  Abinoam! 

With  him  a  valiant  few  wentdown  against  llie  mighty. 
With  me  Jehovah's  people  went  down  against  the 
strong. 

First  Ephraim,  from  the  Mount  of  Amalek, 
And  after  thee,  the  bands  of  Benjamin  ! 
From  Machir  came  the  rulers  of  the  people. 
From  Zebu  Ion  those  that  bear  the  mat^ha^s  staff; 
And  Issachar's  brave  princes  came  with  Deborah, 
Issachar,  the  strength  of  Barak  : 
They  burst  into  the  valley  on  his  footsteps. 

453 


444 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


By  Reuben's  fountains  there  was  deep  debating — 
VVhy  sat'st  thou  idle,  Reuben,  'mid  thy  herd-stalls? 
Was  it  to  hear  the  lowing  of  thy  cattle  ? 
By  Reuben's  fountains  there  was  deep  debating — 

And  Gilead  linger'd  on  the  shores  of  Jordan — 
And  Dan,  why  dwell'd  he  among  his  ships  ? — 
And  Asser  dwell'd  in  his  sea-shore  havens, 
And  sate  upon  his  rock  precipitous. 
But  Zebulon  was  a  death-defying  people. 
And  Napthali  from  off  the  mountain  heights. 

Came  the  kings  and  fought. 
Fought  the  kings  of  Canaan, 
By  Tannach,  by  Megiddo's  waters. 
For  the  golden  booty  that  they  won  not. 

From  the  heavens  they  fought  'gainst  Sisera, 
In  their  courses  fought  the  stars  against  him : 
The  torrent  Kishon  swept  them  down, 
That  ancient  river  Kishon. 
So  trample  thou,  my  soul,  upon  their  might. 

Then  stamp'd  the  clattering  hoofs  of  prancing  horses 
At  the  flight,  at  the  flight  of  the  mighty. 

Curse  ye  Meroz,  saith  the  angel  of  the  Lord, 
Curse,  a  twofold  curse  upon  her  dastard  sons ; 
For  they  came  not  to  the  succour  of  Jehovah, 
To  the  succour  of  Jehovah  'gainst  the  mighty. 

Above  all  women  blest  be  Jael, 

Heber  the  Kenite's  wife. 

O'er  all  the  women  blest,  that  dwell  in  tents. 

Water  he  ask'd — she  gave  him  milk. 
The  curded  milk,  in  her  costliest  bowl. 

Her  left  hand  to  the  nail  she  set, 

Her  right  hand  to  the  workman's  hammer — 

Then  Sisera  she  smote — she  clave  his  head 

She  bruised — she  pierced  his  temples. 

At  her  feet  he  bovv'd  ;  he  fell ;  he  lay; 

At  her  feet  he  bow'd  ;  he  fell ; 

Where  he  bovv'd,  there  he  fell  dead. 

From  the  window  she  look'd  forth,  she  cried, 
The  mother  of  Sisera,  through  the  lattice: 
"Why  is  his  chariot  so  long  in  coming? 
Why  tarry  the  wheels  of  his  chariot?" 
Her  prudent  women  answer'd  her — 
Yea,  she  herself  gave  answer  to  herself— 
"  Have  they  not  seized,  not  shared  the  spoil? 
One  damsel,  or  two  damsels  to  each  chief? 
To  Sisera  a  many-coloured  robe, 
A  many-coloured  robe,  and  richly  broider'd, 
IMany-colour'd,  and  broider'd  round  the  neck." 

Thus  perish  all  thine  enemies,  Jehovah; 

And  those  who  love  thee,  like  the  sun,  shine  forth, 

The  sun  in  all  its  glory.* 


'  In  the  above  translation  an  attempt  is  made  to  preserve 
Bomeihing  like  a  rhythmical  flow.  It  adheres  to  the  original 
langiiaee.  excepting  where  an  occasional  word  is,  but  rarely, 
inserted,  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity. 


DOWNFALL  OF  JERUSALEM;  FROM  THE 
BOOK  OF  JEREMIAH. 

How  solitary  doth  she  sit,  the  many-peopled  city! 
She  is  become  a  widow,  the  great  among  the  iS'ations; 
The  Queen  among  the  provinces,  how  is  she  tributary! 

Weeping — weeps  she  all  the  night ;  the  tears  are  on 

her  cheeks ; 
From  among  all  her  lovers,  she  hath  no  comforter; 
Her  iriends  have  all  dealt  treacherously;  they  are 

become  her  foes.  i.  1,  2. 

The  ways  of  Sion  mourn :  none  come  up  to  her  feasts. 
All  her  gates  are  desolate;  and  her  Priests  do  sigh; 
Her  virgins  wail!  herself  she  is  in  bitterness. — i.  4. 

He  hath  pluck'd  up  his  garden-hedge.  He  hath  de- 

stroy'd  His  Temple ; 
Jehovah  hath  forgotten  made  the  solemn  feast  and 

Sabbath ; 
And  in  the  heat  of  ire  He  hath  rejected  King  and 

Priest. 

The  Lord  his  altar  hath  disdain'd,  abhorred  his  Holy 

place, 
And  to  the  adversary's  hand   given  up  his  palace 

walls ; 
Our  foes  shout  m  Jehovah's  house,  as  on  a  festal  day. 

ii.  7,  8. 

Her  gates  are  sunk  into  the  earth,  he  hath  bro.ke 

through  her  bars ; 
Her  Monarch  and  her  Princes  are  now  among  the 

Heathen ; 
The  Law  hath  ceased ;  the  Prophets  find  no  vision 

from  Jehovah.  ii.  10. 

My  eyes  do  fail  with  tears ;  and  troubled  are  my 
bowels ; 

My  heart's  blood  gushes  on  the  earth,  for  the  daugh- 
ter of  my  people ; 

Children  and  suckling  babes  lie  swooning  in  the 
squares — 

They  say  unto  their  Mothers,  where  is  corn  and  wine? 
They  swoon  as  they  were  wounded,  in  the  city 

squares  ; 
While  glides  the  soul  away  into  their  Mother's  bosom. 

ii.  11,  12. 

Even  dragons,  with  their  breasts  drawn  out,  give  suck 

unto  their  young; 
But  cruel  is  my  people's  daughter,  as  the  ostrich  in 

the  desert; 
The  tongues  of  sucking  infants  to  their  palates  cleave 

with  thirst. 

Young  children  ask  for  bread,  and  no  man  breaks  it 

for  them  ; 
Those  ihat  fed  on  dainties  are  desolate  in  theslreets; 
Those  brought  up  in  scarlet,  even  those  embrace  the 

dunghill.  iv.  3,  4,  5. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


445 


Behold,  Jehovah,  think  to  whom  thou  e'er  hast  deal'd 

thus ! 
Ha%'e  women  ever  eat  their  young,  babes  fondled  in 

their  hands  ? 
Have  Priest  and  Prophet  e'er  been  slain  in  the  Lord's 

Holy  place  ? 

In  tlie  streets,  ujKjn  the  ground,  lie  slain  the  young 

and  old  ; 
My  virgins  and  my  youth  have  fallen  by  the  sword  ; 
In  thy  wrath  thou'st  slain  them,  thou    hast  had  no 

mercy. 

Thou  hast  summon'd  all  my  terrors,  as  to  a  solemn 

feast ; 
None  'scaped,  and  none  was  left  in  Jehovah's  day  of 

wrath ; 
All  that  mine  arms  have  borne  and  nursed,  the  enemy 

hath  slain.  ii.  20.  1,  2. 

Remember,  Lord  what  hath  befallen, 

Look  down  on  our  repro.ich. 
Our  heritage  is  given  to  stangers. 

Our  home  to  foreigners. 
Our  water  have  we  drank  for  money. 

Our  fuel  hath  its  price — v.  1,  2,  3. 

We  stretch  our  hands  to  Egypt, 

To  Assyria  for  our  bread. 
At  our  life's  risk  we  gain  our  food, 

From  the  sword  of  desert  robbers. 
Our  skins  are  like  an  oven,  parched, 

By  the  fierce  heat  of  famine. 
Matrons  in  Sion  have  they  ravish'd. 

Virgins  in  Judah's  cities. 
Princes  were  hung  up  by  the  hand. 

And  age  had  no  re.spect. 
Young  men  are  grinding  at  the  mill, 

Boys  faint  'neath  loads  of  wood. 
The  Elders  from  the  gate  have  ceased, 

The  young  men  from  their  music. 
The  crown  is  fiillen  from  her  head, 

Woe!  woe  I  that  we  have  sinn'd. 
'Tis  therefore  that  our  hearts  are  faint. 

Therefore  our  eyes  are  dim. 
For  Sion's  mountain  desolate, 

The  foxes  walk  on  it. 


HYMNS  FOR  CHURCH  SERVICE. 

SECOND  SU.VDAY  I.N  ADVE.NT. 

The  chariot !  the  chariot !  its  wheels  roll  on  fire 
As  the  Lord  cometh  down  in  the  pomp  of  his  ire: 
Self-moving  it  drives  on  its  pathway  of  cloud. 
And  the  Heavens  with  the  burthen  of  Godhead  are 
l»w"d. 

The  glory  !  the  glory  I  by  myriads  are  pour'd 
The  host  of  the  Angels  to  wait  on  their  Lord, 
And  the  glorified  saints  and  the  martyrs  are  there. 
And  all  who  the  palm-wreath  of  victory  wear. 

The  trumpet !  the  trumpet!  the  dead  have  all  heard  : 
Lo,  the  depths  of  the  stone-cover'd  charnel  are  stirr'd  : 


I  From  the  sea,  from  (tie  land,  from  the  south  and  the 

north. 
The  vast  generations  of  men  are  come  forth. 

The  judgment !  the  judgment !  the  thrones  are  all  set. 
Whore  the  Lamb  and  the  white-vested  Elders  are  met  I 
All  flesh  is  at  once  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord, 
And  the  doom  of  eternity  hangs  on  His  word! 

Oh  mercy  !  oh  mercy !  look  down  from  above, 
Creator!  on  us  thy  sad  children,  with  love! 
When  beneath  to  their  darkness  the  wicked  are  driven, 
May  our  sanctified  souls  find  a  mansion  in  heaven! 


FOURTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANy. 

Lord  !  Thou  didst  arise  and  say 

To  the  troubled  waters  "  Peace," 
And  the  tempest  died  away, 

Down  they  sank,  the  foamy  seas  ; 
And  a  calm  and  heaving  sleep 
Spread  o'er  all  the  glassy  deep, 
All  the  azure  lake  serene 
Like  another  heaven  was  seen  I 

Lord !  Thy  gracious  word  repeat 

To  the  billows  of  the  proud  ! 
Quell  the  tyrant's  martial  heat. 

Quell  the  fierce  and  changing  crowd  ' 
Then  the  earth  shall  find  repose 
From  its  restless  strife  and  foes; 
And  an  imaged  Heaven  appear 
On  our  world  of  darkness  here  ! 


FIFTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANV. 

The  angel  comes,  he  comes  to  reap 

The  harvest  of  the  Lord  ! 
O'er  all  the  earth  with  fatal  sweep 

Wide  waves  his  flamy  sword. 

And  who  are  they,  in  sheaves  to  bide 
The  fire  of  Vengeance  bound  I 

The  tares,  whose  rank  luxuriant  pride 
Choked  the  fair  crop  around. 

And  who  are  they,  reserved  in  store 
God's  treasure-house  to  fill  ? 

The  wheat  a  hundred-fold  that  bore 
Amid  surrounding  ill. 

O  King  of  Mercy  !  grant  us  power 

Thy  fiery  wrath  to  flee! 
In  thy  destroying  angel's  hour, 

O  gather  us  to  Thee  ! 


aUINaUAGESIMA. 

Lord!  we  sit  and  cry  to  Thee, 
Like  the  blind  beside  the  way: 

Make  our  darken'd  souls  to  see 
The  glory  of  thy  perfect  day  1 

Lord  !  rebuke  our  sullen  night. 

And  give  Thyself  unto  our  sight! 


455 


446 


MILMAN'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Lord  !  we  do  not  ask  to  gaze  • 
On  our  dim  and  earthly  sun  : 

But  the  light  that  still  shall  blaze 
When  every  star  its  course  hath  run ; 

The  light  that  gilds  thy  blest  abode, 

The  glory  of  the  Lamb  of  God  ! 


SECOND  SUNDAY  IN  LENT. 

Oh  help  us,  Lord  !  each  hour  of  need 
Thy  heavenly  succour  give  ; 

Help  us  in  thought,  and  word,  and  deed, 
Each  hour  on  earth  we  live. 

Oh  help  us,  when  our  spirits  bleed 

With  contrite  anguish  sore, 
And  when  our  hearts  are  cold  and  dead, 

O  help  us,  Lord,  the  more. 

O  help  us,  through  the  prayer  of  faith 

More  firmly  to  believe  ; 
For  still  the  more  the  servant  hath. 

The  more  shall  he  receive. 

If  strangers  to  Thy  fold  we  call, 

Imploring  at  Thy  feet 
The  crums  that  from  Thy  table  fall, 

'Tis  all  we  dare  entreat. 

But  be  it,  Lord  of  Mercy,  all, 
So  Thou  wilt  grant  but  this ; 

The  crums  that  from  Thy  table  fall 
Are  light,  and  life,  and  bliss. 

Oh  help  us,  Jesus  !  from  on  high, 
We  know  no  help  but  Thee  ; 

Oh  !  help  us  so  to  live  and  die 
As  thine  in  Heaven  to  be. 


SIXTH  SUNDAY  IN  LENT. 

RiDF.  on  I  ride  on  in  majesty  ! 
Hark !  all  the  tribes  Ilosanna  cry  ! 
Thine  humble  beast  pursues  his  road, 
With  palms  and  scatter'd  garments  strow'd  ! 

Ride  on  1  ride  on  in  majesty  ! 

In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die ! 

Oh  Christ !  Thy  triumphs  now  begin 

O'er  captive  death  and  conquer'd  Sin! 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty  ! 
The  winged  squadrons  of  the  sky 
Look  down  with  sad  and  wondering  eyes, 
To  see  the  approaching  sacrifice ! 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty .' 
Thy  la.'^t  and  fiercest  strife  is  nigh  ; 
The  father  on  His  sapphire  throne 
Expects  His  own  anointed  Son ! 

Ride  on !  ride  on  in  majesty ! 

In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die  ! 

Bow  Thy  meek  head  to  mortal  pain  ! 

Then  take,  oh  God !  Thy  power,  and  reign ! 


GOOD  FRIDAY. 

Bound  upon  th'  accursed  tree. 
Faint  and  bleeding,  who  is  He? 
By  the  eyes  so  pale  and  dim, 
Streaming  blood  and  writhing  limb, 
By  the  flesh  with  scourges  torn, 
By  the  crown  of  twisted  thorn, 
By  the  side  so  deeply  pierced, 
By  the  baffled  burning  thirst. 
By  the  drooping  death-dew'd  brow, 
Son  of  Man!  'tis  Thou!  'tis  Thou! 

Bound  upon  th'  accursed  tree, 
Dread  and  awful,  who  is  He  ? 
By  the  sun  at  noon-day  pale, 
Shivering  rocks,  and  rending  veil. 
By  earth  that  trembles  at  His  doom, 
By  yonder  saints  who  burst  their  tomb. 
By  Eden,  promised  ere  He  died 
To  the  felon  at  His  side, 
Lord !  our  suppliant  knees  we  bow. 
Son  of  God!  'tis  Thou!  'tis  Thou! 

Bound  upon  th'  accursed  tree, 

Sad  and  dying,  who  is  He  ? 

By  the  last  and  bitter  cry 

The  ghost  given  up  in  agony  ; 

By  the  lifeless  body  laid 

In  the  chamber  of  the  dead  ; 

By  the  mourners  come  to  weep 

Where  the  bones  of  Jesus  sleep ; 

Crucified  !  we  know  Thee  now ; 

Son  of  Man!  'tis  Thou!  'tis  Thou! 

Bound  upon  th'  accursed  tree. 
Dread  and  awful,  who  is  He  ? 
By  the  prayer  for  them  that  slew, 
"Lord!  they  know  not  what  they  do!" 
By  the  spoil'd  and  empty  grave, 
By  the  souls  He  died  to  save, 
By  the  conquest  He  hath  won, 
By  the  saints  before  His  throne, 
By  the  rainbow  round  His  brow, 
Son  of  God  !  't  is  Thou  !  't  is  Thou  ! 


SI.\TH  SUNDAY   AFTER  TRINITY. 

Lord  !  have  mercy  when  we  strive 
To  save  through  Thee  our  souls  alive  I 
When  the  pamper'd  flesh  is  strong, 
When  the  strife  is  fierce  and  long; 
When  our  wakening  thoughts  begin, 
First  to  loathe  their  cherish'd  sin, 
And  our  weary  spirits  fail. 
And  our  aching  brows  are  pale, 
Oh  then  have  mercy !  Lord ! 

Lord !  have  mercy  when  we  lie 
On  the  restless  bed,  and  sigh, 
Sigh  for  Death,  yet  fear  it  still. 
From  the  thought  of  former  ill; 
When  all  other  hope  is  gone; 
When  our  course  is  almost  done : 

456 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


447 


When  the  dim  advancing  gloom 

Tells  us  that  our  hour  is  come, 

Oh  then  have  mercy !  Lord ! 

Lord!  have  mercy  when  we  know- 
First  liow  vain  this  world  below; 
When  the  earliest  gleam  is  given 
Of  Thy  bright  but  distant  Heaven! 
When  our  darker  thoughts  oppress. 
Doubts  perplex  and  fears  distress. 
And  our  sadden'd  spirits  dwell 
On  tlie  open  gates  of  Hell, 
Oh  then  have  mercy  I  Lord! 


SIXTEENTH  SUNDAY   AFTER  TRINITY. 

When  our  heads  are  bow'd  with  woe, 
When  our  bitter  tears  o'erflow ; 
When  we  mourn  the  lost,  the  dear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

Thou  our  throbbing  flesh  hast  worn, 
Thou  our  mortal  griefs  hast  borne, 
Thou  hast  shed  the  human  tear :    . 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear! 

When  the  sullen  death-bell  tolls 
For  our  own  departed  souls ; 
When  our  final  doom  is  near. 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

Thou  hast  bow'd  the  dying  head ; 
Thou  the  blood  of  life  hast  shed ; 
Thou  hast  fiU'd  a  mortal  bier: 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

When  the  heart  is  sad  within 
With  the  thought  of  all  its  sin ; 
When  the  spirit  shrinks  with  fear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear! 

Tliou  the  shame,  the  grief  hast  known. 
Though  the  sins  were  not  thine  own, 
Thou  hast  deign'd  their  load  to  bear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 


se\t:nteexth  su.nday  after  trinity. 

Great  God  of  Hosts  !  come  down  in  thy  glory! 

Shake  earth  and  heaven  with  thine  awful  tread  ; 
Seal  Thou  the  book  of  our  world's  dark  story: 
.Summon  to  judgment  the  quick  and  the  dead! 
38 


Great  God  of  Hosts !  come  down  to  rule  o'er  ns ! 

Long  have  we  pray'd  for  thy  peaceful  reign : 
Change  this  sad  earth  to  an  Eden  before  us  ; 

Make  it  the  mansion  of  bliss  again  ! 

Great  God  of  Hosts!  the  dreadful,  the  glorious! 

Come  and  set  up  thy  kingly  Throne . 
Over  the  legions  of  Hell  victorious, 

Rule  in  the  world  of  thy  saints  alone ! 


eighteenth  SUNDAY   AFTER   TRINITY. 

When  God  came  down  from  Heav'n  —  the  living 
God— 

What  signs  and  wonders  mark'd  his  stately  way  ? 
Brake  out  llie  winds  in  music  where  He  trode  ? 

Shone  o'er  the  heav'ns  a  brighter,  softer  day  ? 

The  dumb  began  to  speak,  the  blind  to  see. 

And  the  lame  leap'd,  and  pain  and  paleness  fled ; 

The  mourner's  sunken  eye  grew  bright  with  glee, 
And  from  the  tomb  awoke  the  wondering  dead  ! 

When  God  went  back  to  heav'n — the  living  God — 
Rode  He  the  heavens  ujion  a  fiery  car  ? 

Waved  seraph-wings  along  his  glorious  road  ? 
Stood  still  to  wonder  each  bright  wandering  star  ? 

Upon  the  cross  He  hung,  and  bow'd  the  head, 
And  pray'd  for  them  that  smote,  and  them  that 
curst; 

And,  drop  by  drop,  his  slow  life-blood  was  shed. 
And  his  last  hour  of  suffering  was  his  worst ! 


TWENTIETH  SUNDAY   AFTER  TRINITY. 

Lord,  have  mercy,  and  remove  us 

Early  to  thy  place  of  rest, 
Where  the  heavens  are  calm  above  us 

And  as  calm  each  sainted  breast! 

Holiest,  hear  us!  by  the  anguish 
On  the  cross  Thou  didst  endure, 

Let  no  more  our  sad  hearts  languish 
In  this  weary  world  obscure' 

Gracious!  —  yet  if  our  repentance 

Be  not  perfect  and  sincere, 
Lord,  suspend  thy  fatal  sentence. 

Leave  us  still  in  sadness  here! 

Leave  us,  Saviour !  till  our  spirit 
From  each  earthly  taint  is  free, 

Fit  thy  kingdom  to  inherit. 
Fit  to  take  its  rest  with  Thee! 

457 


THE 


fT^^r^Tf^T!^^ 


OF 


JOHN   KEATS. 


(S^ontentfii, 


Page 

MEMOIR  OF  JOHN  KEATS t 

ENDYMION ;  a  Poetic  Romance 1 

LAIVHA 34 

ISABELLA,  OR  THE  POT  OF  BASIL;   a 

Story  from  Boccaccio 40 

THE  E\E  OF  ST.  AGNES 44 

Hi'PERION 48 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  :— 

Dedication  to  Leigh  Hunt,  Esq 55 

"  I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill " ib. 

Specimen  of  an  Induction  to  a  Poem  ....  57 

Calidore  ;  a  Fragment 58 

To  some  Ladies  on  receiving  a  curious  Shell  59 
On  receiving  a  Copy  of  A'crses  from  the 

same  Ladies ib. 

To 60 

To  Hope ib. 

Imitation  of  Spenser 61 

"  WomanI  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain"  ib. 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale ib. 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 62 

Ode  to  Pysche 63 

Fancy ib. 

Ode 64 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern ib. 

Robin  Hood 65 

To  Autumn ib. 

Ode  on  Melancholy ib. 

Sleep  and  Poetry 66 

38*  3G 


Page 

Sonnet.  To  my  Brother  George 69 

To 26. 

Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh 

Hunt  left  Prison t6. 

"  How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses 

of  time  ! " li. 

To  a  Friend  who  sen  t  me  some  Roses  ib. 

ToG.  A.  VV 70 

"  O  SoUtude !  if  I  must  with  thee 

dwell " ib. 

To  my  Brothers ib 

"  Keen  fitful  gusts  are  whispering 

here  and  there " ib. 

"  To  one  who  has  been  long  in 

city  pent " ib. 

On   first  looking  into   Chapman's 

Homer ib. 

On  leaving  some  Friends  at  an 

early  hour ib. 

Addressed  to  Haydon 71 

the  same ib. 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket  .  ib. 

To  Kosciusko ib. 

"  Happy  is  England  !   I  could  be 

content " ib. 

The  Human  Seasons ib. 

On  a  Picture  of  Leander ib. 

To  Ailsa  Rock ib. 

Epistles.  To  George  Felton  Mathew 72 

To  my  Brother  George ib. 

To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke 74 

Stanzas 75 

527 


JW^rmoir  of  Sofiu  Utnta. 


The  short  career  of  John  Keats  was  marked  by 
the  development  of  powers  which  have  been  rarely 
cxliibited  in  one  at  so  iniraatured  an  age.  He  had 
but  just  completed  liis  twenty-fourth  year  when 
he  was  snatched  away  from  the  world,  and  an  end 
put  for  ever  to  a  genius  of  a  lofty  and  novel  order. 
Certain  party  critics,  who  made  it  their  object  to 
lacerate  the  fcelmgs,  and  endeavor  to  put  down  by 
vituperation  and  misplaced  ridicule  every  effort 
which  emanated  not  from  their  own  servile  de- 
pendants or  followers,  furiously  attacked  the  wri- 
tings of  Keats  on  their  appearance.  Their  promise 
of  greater  excellence  was  unquestionable,  their 
beauties  were  obvious, — but  so  also  were  defects, 
which  might  easily  be  made  available  for  an  attack 
upon  the  author ;  and  which  certain  writers  of  the 
Quarterly  Review  instantly  seized  upon  to  gratify 
party  malice, — not  against  the  author  so  much  as 
against  his  friends.  The  immeritcd  abuse  poured 
upon  Keats  by  this  periodical  work  is  supposed  to 
have  hastened  his  end,  which  was  slowly  ap- 
proaching when  the  criticism  before-mentioned 
appeared. 

This  original  and  singular  example  of  poetical 
genius  was  of  humble  descent,  and  was  born  in 

:  Moorfields,  London,  October  29,  1796,  at  a  livery- 
stables  which  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather. 
He  received  a  classical  education  at  Enfield,  under 

1    a  Mr.  Clarke,  and  was  apprenticed  to  Mr.  Ham- 

'  mond,  a  surgeon  at  Edmonton.  The  son  of  his 
schoolmaster  Clarke  encouraged  the  first  germs  of 
the  poetical  faculty  which  he  early  observed  in  the 
young  poet,  and  introduced  him  to  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt,  who  is  reported  to  have  been  the  means  of 
his  introduction  to  the  public.  Keats  was  an  indi- 
vidual of  extreme  sensitiveness,  so  that  he  would 
betray  emotion  even  to  tears  on  hearing  a  noble 
action  recited,  or  at  the  mention  of  a  glowing 
thought  or  one  of  deep  pathos :  yet  both  his  moral 
and  personal  courage  were  above  all  suspicion. 
His  health  was  always  delicate,  for  he  liad  been 

I  a  seven  months'  child ;  and  it  appears  that  the 
symptoms  of  premature  deca}',  or  rather  of  fragile 
vitality,  were  long  indicated  by  his  organization, 
before  consumption  decidedly  displayed  itself. 

The  juvenile  productions  of  Keats  were  pub- 
Ushed  in  1817,  the  author  being  at  that  time  in 

'  his  twenty-first  year.  His  favorite  sojourn  appears 
to  have  been  Hampstead,  the  localities  of  which 


village  were  tlie  scenes  of  his  earliest  abstractions, 
and  the  prompters  of  many  of  his  best  poetical 
productions  :  most  of  his  personal  friends,  too,  re- 
sided in  the  neighborhood.  His  first  published 
volume,  tliough  the  greater  part  of  it  was  not 
above  mediocrity,  contained  passages  and  lines  of 
rare  beauty.  His  political  sentiments  differing 
from  those  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  bemg  manly 
and  independent,  were  sins  never  to  be  forgiven ; 
and  as  in  that  party  work  literary  judgment  was 
alvi-ays  dealt  out  according  to  pohtical  congeniali- 
ty of  feeling,  with  the  known  servility  of  its  wri- 
ters, an  author  like  Keats  had  no  chance  of  being 
judged  fairly.  He  was  friendless  and  imknown, 
and  could  not  even  attract  notice  to  a  just  com- 
plaint if  he  appealed  to  the  public,  from  his  being 
yet  obscure  as  an  author.  This  Gilford,  the  editor 
of  tlie  Quarterly,  well  knew,  and  poured  his  ma- 
lignity upon  his  mioffcnding  victim  in  proportion 
as  he  was  conscious  of  the  want  of  power  in  the 
object  of  his  attack  to  resist  it.  A  scion  of  nobility 
might  have  scribbled  nonsense  and  been  certain 
of  applause ;  but  a  singular  genius  springing  u\> 
by  its  own  vitality  in  an  obscure  corner,  was  by 
all  means  to  be  crushed. — Gifford  had  been  a  cob- 
bler, and  the  son  of  the  livery-stable-keeper  was 
not  wortliy  of  his  critical  toleration  !  Thus  it  al- 
ways is  with  those  narrow-minded  persons  who 
rise  by  the  force  of  accident  from  vulgar  obscu- 
rity :  they  cannot  tolerate  a  brother,  nmcli  less  su- 
perior power  or  genius  in  that  brotlier.  On  the 
publication  of  Kcats's  next  work,  "  Endymion," 
Gilford  attacked  it  with  all  the  bitterness  of  which 
his  pen  was  capable,  and  did  not  licsitate,  before 
he  saw  the  work,  to  announce  his  intention  of 
doing  so  to  tlie  publislier.  Keats  had  endeavored, 
as  much  as  was  consistent  with  inde[>endent  feel- 
ing, to  conciliate  the  critics  at  large,  as  may  be 
observed  in  his  preface  to  that  poem.  He  merited 
to  be  treated  witli  indulgence,  not  wounded  by  tin- 
envenomed  shafts  of  political  animosity  for  literary 
errors.  His  book  abounded  in  passages  of  true 
poetry,  which  were  of  course  passed  over ;  and  it 
is  difHcult  to  decide  whether  the  cowardice  or  the 
cruelty  of  the  attack  upon  it,  most  deserve  c^xccra- 
tion.  Of  great  sensitiveness,  as  already  observed, 
and  his  frame  already  touched  by  a  mortal  dis- 
temper, he  felt  his  hopes  withered,  and  liis  at- 
tempts to  obtain  honorable  public  notice  in  his 

52a 


VI 


MEMOIR  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 


own  scantily  allotted  days  frustrated.  He  was 
never  to  see  his  honorable  fame :  this  preyed  upon 
his  spirit  and  hastened  his  end,  as  has  been  alrea- 
dy noticed.  The  third  and  last  of  his  works  was 
the  little  volume  (his  best  work)  containing  "  La- 
mia," "  Isabella,"  "  The  E\  e  of  St.  Agnes,"  and 
"  Hyperion." — That  he  was  not  a  finished  writer, 
must  be  conceded  ;  that,  like  Ka;rner  in  Germany, 
he  gave  rich  promise  rather  than  matured  fruit, 
may  be  granted ;  but  they  must  indeed  be  ill 
judges  of  genius  who  are  not  delighted  with  what 
he  left,  and  do  not  see  that,  had  he  lived,  he  might 
have  worn  a  wreath  of  renown  which  time  would 
not  easily  have  withered.  His  was  indeed  an  "  un- 
toward fate,"  as  Byron  observes  of  him  in  the 
eleventh  canto  of  "  Don  Juan." 

For  several  years  before  his  death,  Keats  had 
felt  that  the  disease  which  preyed  upon  him  was 
mortal, — that  the  agents  of  decay  were  at  work 
upon  a  body  too  imperfectly  organized,  or  too 
feebly  constructed  to  sustain  long  the  fire  of  exist- 
ence. He  had  neglected  his  own  health  to  attend 
a  brother  on  his  death-bed,  when  it  would  liave 
been  far  more  prudent  that  he  had  recollected  it 
was  necessary  he  should  talic  care  of  himself. 
Under  the  bereavement  of  this  brother  he  was 
combating  his  keen  feelings,  when  the  Zoilus  of 
the  Quarterly  so  ferociously  attacked  him.  The 
excitement  of  spirit  was  too  much  for  his  frame  to 
sustain  ;  and  a  blow  from  another  quarter,  coming 
about  the  same  time,  shook  him  so  much,  that  he 
told  a  friend  with  tears  "  his  heart  was  breaking." 
— He  was  now  persuaded  to  try  the  climate  of 
Italy,  the  refuge  of  those  who  have  no  more  to 
hope  for  in  their  own ;  but  which  is  commonly  de- 
layed until  the  removal  only  leads  the  traveller  to 
the  tomb.  Thither  he  went  to  die.  He  was  ac- 
companied by  Mr.  Severn,  an  artist  of  considerable 
talent,  well  known  since  in  Rome.  Mr.  Severn 
was  a  valuable  and  attached  friend  of  the  poet ; 
and  they  went  first  to  Naples,  and  thence  journey- 
ed to  Rome, — where  Keats  closed  his  eyes  on  the 
world  on  the  24th  of  February,  1821.  He  wished 
ardently  for  death  before  it  came.  The  springs  of 
vitality  were  left  nearly  dry  long  before ;  his  lin- 
gering as  he  did  astonislied  his  medical  attendants. 
His  sufferings  were  great,  hut  he  was  all  resigna- 
tion. He  said,  not  long  before  he  died,  that  he 
"  felt  the  flowers  growing  over  liim." 

On  the  examination  of  his  body,  post  mortem, 
by  his  physicians,  tiiey  found  that  life  rarely  so 
long  tenanted  a  body  sliattered  as  his  was :  liis 
lungs  were  well-nigh  annihilated. — His  remains 
were  deposited  in  the  cemetery  of  the  Protestants 
at  Rome,  at  the  foot  of  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Ces- 
tius,  near  the  Porta  San  Paolo,  where  a  white 
marble  tombstone,  bearing  the  following  inscrip- 
tion, surmoimted  by  a  lyre  in  basso  relievo,  has 
been  erected  to  his  memory  : — 


This  Grave 
contains  all  that  was  mortal 

of  a 

YOUNG  ENGLISH  POET, 

who, 

on  his  death-bed, 

in  tlw  bitteriioss  of  his  heart 

at  the  malicious  power  of  his  enemies, 

desired 

these  words  to  be  engraved  on  his  tombstone— 

HERE  LIES  ONE 
WHOSE  NAME  WAS  WRIT  IN  WATER. 

Feb.  24lh,  1821. 

The  physiognomy  of  the  young  poet  indicated 
his  character.  Sensibility  was  predominant,  but 
there  was  no  deficiency  of  power.  His  features 
were  well-defined,  and  delicately  susceptible  of 
every  impression.  His  eyes  ^ycrc  large  and  dark, 
but  his  cheeks  were  sunk,  and  his  face  pale  when 
he  was  tranquil.  His  hair  was  of  a  brown  color, 
and  curled  naturally.  His  head  was  small,  and 
set  upon  broad  high  shoulders,  and  a  body  dispro- 
portionately large  to  his  lower  limbs,  wlilch,  how- 
ever, were  well-made.  His  stature  was  low ;  and 
his  hands,  says  a  friend  (Mr-  L.  Hunt),  were 
faded,  having  prominent  veins — which  he  would 
look  upon,  and  pronounce  to  belong  to  one  who 
had  seen  fifty  years.  His  temper  was  of  the  gen- 
tlest description,  and  lie  felt  deeply  all  favors  con- 
ferred upon  him :  in  fact,  he  was  one  of  those 
marked  and  rare  characters  which  genius  stamps 
from  their  birth  in  her  own  mould ;  and  whose 
early  consignment  to  the  tomb  has,  it  is  most 
probable,  deprived  the  world  of  works  calculated 
to  delight,  if  not  to  astonish  mankind — of  produc- 
tions to  which  every  congenial  spirit  and  kind 
quality  of  the  human  heart  would  have  done 
homage,  and  confessed  the  power.  It  is  to  be  la- 
mented that  such  promise  should  liave  been  so 
prematurely  blighted. 

Scattered  through  the  writings  of  Keats  will 
be  found  passages  which  come  home  to  every 
bosom  alive  to  each  nobler  and  kindlier  feeling  of 
the  human  heart.  There  is  much  in  them  to  be 
corrected,  much  to  be  altered  for  the  better ;  but 
there  are  sparkling  gems  of  tlie  first  lustre  ever}'- 
where  to  be  found.  It  is  strange,  that  in  civilized 
societies  writings  should  be  judged  of,  not  by  their 
merits,  but  by  the  faction  to  which  their  author 
belongs,  though  their  productions  may  be  solely 
confined  to  suiyccts  the  most  remote  from  contro 
versy.  In  England,  a  party-man  must  yield  up 
every  thing  to  the  opinions  and  dogmatism  of  liis 
caste.  He  must  reject  truths,  pervert  reason,  mis- 
represent all  things  coming  from  an  opponent  of 
another  creed  in  rehgion  or  politics.  Such  a  state 
of  virulent  and  lamentable  narrow-mindedness,  is 
the  most  certain  that  can  exist  for  blighting  the 
tender  blossoms  of  genius,  and  blasting  the  inno- 
cent and  virtuous  hopes  of  the  young  aspirant  af- 
ter honest  fame.  It  is  not  necessary  that  a  young 
530 


MEMOIR  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 


and  ardent  mind  avow  principles  hostile  to  tliose 
who  set  up  for  its  enemies — if  lie  be  but  the  friend 
of  a  friend  oiKiily  opjwsed  to  tliem,  it  is  enoui,Hi ; 
and  tlie  worst  is,  that  the  iiostility  dis])layed  is 
neither  hniited  by  truth  and  candor,  sound  princi- 
ples of  critieisui,  luunanit}-,  or  lionorahle  feelinjj  : 
it  figlits  with  all  weapons,  in  the  dark  or  in  the 
ligrht,  by  craft,  or  in  any  mode  to  obtain  its  bitter 
objects.  Tlie  critics  wlio  hastened  the  end  of 
Keats,  had  his  works  been  set  before  them  as  beino- 
tliose  of  an  unluiown  writer,  would  have  acknow- 
ledged their  talent,  and  applauded  where  it  was 
due,  for  their  attacks  upon  him  were  not  made 
from  lack  of  judgment,  but  from  wilful  hostility. 
One  knows  not  how  to  characterize  such  demonia- 


cal insincerity.  Keats  belonged  to  a  school  of 
politics  which  they  from  tiieir  ambush  anathema- 
tized :— iience,  and  hence  alone,  tlioir  malice  to- 
wards him. 

Keats  was,  as  a  poet,  like  a  rich  fruit-tree  wiiich 
the  gardener  has  not  pruned  of  its  luxuriance : 
time,  had  it  been  allotted  him  by  Heaven,  would 
Iiave  seen  it  as  trim  and  rich  as  any  brotlier  of  the 
garden.  It  is  and  will  ever  be  regretted  by  the 
readers  of  his  works,  that  lie  lingered  no  longer 
among  living  men,  to  bring  to  perfection  what  he 
meditated,  to  contribute  to  British  literature  a 
greater  name,  and  to  delight  the  lovers  of  true 
poetry  with  the  rich  melody  of  his  musically  cm- 
bodied  thoughts. 

531 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 


SntrjjwCon ; 


A  POETIC  ROMANCE. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


The  stretched  metre  of  an  Antique  Song. 


PREFACE. 


Knowixg  w-ithin  myself  the  manner  in  which  this 
Poem  has  been  produced,  it  is  not  without  a  feeling 
of  regret  that  I  make  it  public. 

What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear  to  the 
reader,  who  must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience, 
immaturity,  and  every  error  denoting  a  feverish  at- 
tempt, rather  than  a  deed  accomplished.  The  two 
first  book's,  and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel  sensible 
are  not  of  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their  pa.ssing 
the  press ;  nor  should  they,  if  I  thought  a  year's  cas- 
tigation  would  do  thom  any  good  ; — it  will  not :  the 
foundations  arc  too  sandy.  It  is  just  that  this  youngster 
should  die  away :  a  sad  thought  for  me,  if  I  had  not 
some  hope  that  while  it  is  dwindling  I  may  be  plot- 
ting, and  fitting  myself  for  verses  fit  to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptuously,  and 
may  deserve  a  punishment :  but  no  feeling  man  will 
'•e  lorward  to  infUct  it :  he  will  leave  me  alone,  with 
il^c  conviction  that  there  is  not  a  fiercer  hell  than  the 
failure  in  a  great  object.  This  is  not  written  with 
the  least  atom  of  purpose  to  forestall  criticisms  of 
course,  but  from  the  desire  I  have  to  conciliate  men 
who  are  competent  to  look,  and  who  do  look  with  a 
jealous  eye,  to  the  honor  of  English  literature. 

The  imagination  of  a  lx)y  is  healthy,  and  the  ma- 
ture imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy ;  but  there  is  a 
space  of  life  between,  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  fer- 
ment, the  character  undecided,  the  way  of  life  un- 
certain, the  ambition  thick-sighted :  thence  proceed 
mawkishness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters  which 
those  men  I  speak  of,  must  necessarily  taste  in  going 
over  the  following  pages. 

I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the 
beautiful  mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  bright- 
ness :  for  I  wish  to  try  once  more,  before  I  bid  it 
farewell. 

Teigxmocth,  April  10,  1818. 


ENDYMION. 


BOOK  I. 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever : 

Its  loveliness  increases ;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  th'  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkcn"d  ways 

Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon. 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep;  and  such  are  daflfbtlils 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid-forest  brake, 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms  • 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 

We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead ; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read: 

An  cndlpss  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 

Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
Tiiat,  whellier  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast, 
They  always  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 
533 


IvEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  slory  of  Endyniion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys  :  so  I  will  begin  . 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ; 
IS'ovv  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests ;  while  the  willow  trails 
lis  delicate  amber ;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  1  '11  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours. 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary. 
See  it  half  finisli'd  :  but  let  Autumn  bold. 
With  univereal  tinge  of  sober  gold. 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness: 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 


Upon  the  sides  of  Latmos  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest ;  for  the  moist  earth  fed 
So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 
Into  o'erhanging  boughs,  and  precious  fruits. 
And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequester'd  deep. 
Where  no  man  went ;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 
A  lamb  stray 'd  far  adown  those  inmost  glens, 
Never  again  saw  he  the  happy  pens 
Whither  his  brethren,  bleating  with  content. 
Over  the  hills  at  every  nitrhtlall  went. 
Among  the  shepherds  't  was  believed  ever. 
That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 
From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 
By  any  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head. 
Until  it  came  to  .some  uiifboted  plains 
Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan :  ay,  great  his  gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.  Paths  there  were  many. 
Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  fenny, 
And  ivy  banks;  all  leading  pleasantly 
To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 
Stems  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 
Of  turf  and  slanting  branches :  who  could  tell 
The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above, 
Edged  round  with  dark  tree-tops  ?  through  which  a 

dove 
Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
\  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 


Full  in  the  middle  of  this  plea-santness 
Tliere  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress 
Of  flowers  budded  newly ;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  fantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve, 
.And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive. 
For  'twas  the  morn:  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 


Of  brightness  so  unsullied,  that  thereui 

A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 

Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 

Into  the  winds  :  rain-scented  eglantine 

Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing  sun ; 

The  lark  was  lost  in  him ;  cold  springs  had  rim 

To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass ; 

Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains ;  and  the  mass 

Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  pulsed  tenfold. 

To  feel  this  sunrise  and  its  glories  old. 

Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  with  joyful  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  children  garlanded  ; 
Who,  gathering  roimd  the  altar,  seem'd  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  faint  breath  of  music,  which  ev'n  then 
Fill'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 
Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 
Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave. 
To  light-hung  leaves,  in  smoothest  echoes  breaking 
Through  copse-clad  valleys, — ere  their  death,  o'ei- 

taking 
The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  w'ood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  lynx's  eye,  there  glimmer'd  light 
Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white. 
Plainer  and  plainer  showing,  till  at  last 
Into  the  widest  alley  tiiey  all  past. 
Making  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 
O  kindly  muse  !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  falter 
In  telling  of  this  goodly  company. 
Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee  : 
But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul ;  that  1  may  dare,  in  wayfaring. 
To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing. 

Leading  the  way,  young  damsels  danced  along. 
Bearing  the  burden  of  a  sheplierd's  song ; 
Each  having  a  white  wicker  over-brimm'd 
With  April's  tender  younglings :  next,  well  trimm'd 
A  crowd  of  shepherds  v\ilh  as  sunburnt  loolis 
As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books  ; 
Such  as  sat  listening  round  Apollo's  pipe, 
When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe, 
Let  his  divinity  o'erflovving  die 
In  music,  through  the  vales  of  Thessaly : 
Some  idly  trail'd  their  sheep-hooks  on  the  ground 
And  some  kept  up  a  shrilly  mellow  .sound 
With  ebon-lipped  llules :  close  after  these. 
Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 
A  venerable  priest  full  soberly. 
Begirt  with  ministering  looks :  alway  his  eye 
Steiliast  upon  the  matted  turf  he  kept. 
And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 
From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  vase,  milk-wliite 
Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous  light; 
And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 
Of  all  sweet  herbs  that  searching  eye  could  cull  • 
Wild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  whiter  still 
Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 
534 


ENDYMION. 


His  aged  head,  crowii'd  with  beechen  wreath, 

Seera'd  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth 

01'  winter  hoar.    Then  came  another  crowd 

Of  shepherds,  lifting  in  due  time  aloud 

Their  share  of  the  ditty.    After  them  appear'd, 

Up-foUow'd  by  a  multitude  that  rear'd 

Their  voices  to  the  clouds,  a  fair  wrought  car 

Easily  rolling  so  as  scarce  to  mar 

The  freedom  of  three  steeds  of  dapple  brown : 

Who  stood  therein  did  seem  of  great  renown 

Among  the  throng.    His  youth  was  fully  blown, 

Showing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown ; 

And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments  were 

A  chieftain  king's :  beneath  his  breast,  half  bare, 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle,  and  between 

His  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 

A  smile  was  on  his  countenance ;  he  seem'd. 

To  common  lookers-on.  like  one  who  dream'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian  : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A  lurkmg  trouble  in  his  nether  lip. 

And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 

Through  his  forgotten  hands:  then  would  they  sigh, 

And  think  of  j-ellovv  leaves,  of  owlets'  cry. 

Of  logs  piled  solemnly. — Ah,  well-a-day. 

Why  should  our  young  Endymion  pine  away  ! 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  ranged. 
Stood  silent  ix)und  the  shrine;  each  look  was  changed 
To  sudden  veneration  :  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence  ;  while  each  cheek 
Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  loo,  without  a  forest  peer. 
Stood,  wan,  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed  face, 
Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase. 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the  least, 
And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands. 
Thus  spake  he  :  •'  Men  of  Latmos  I  shepherd  bands  I 
Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks : 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains ;  whether  come 
From  valleys  where  the  pipe  is  never  dumb; 
Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet  air  stirs 
Blue  harebells  lightly,  and  where  prickly  furze 
Buds  lavish  gold  ;  or  ye,  whose  precious  charge 
IS'ibble  their  till  at  ocean's  very  marge, 
Whose  mellow  reeds  are  touch'd  with  sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn  : 
Mothers  and  wives !  who  day  by  day  prepare 
The  scrip,  with  needments,  for  the  mountain  air ; 
.\nd  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 
Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup 
Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favor'd  youth  : 
Yea,  every  one  attend  I  for  in  good  truth 
Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god  Pan. 
-Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  than 
iS'ight-swollen  mushrooms  ?    Are  not  our  wide  plains 
Speckled  with  countless  fleeces  ?   Have  not  rains 
Green'd  over  .April's  lap  ?  IVo  howling  sad 
Sickens  our  fearful  ewes;  and  we  have  had 
Great  bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 
The  earth  is  glad :  the  merry  lark  has  pour'd 
His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky, 
That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity." 

Thus  ending,  on  the  shrine  he  heap'd  a  spire 
Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindling  sacred  fire  ; 
39  3H 


Anon  he  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wine,  in  honor  of  the  shepherd-god. 
Now  while  the  eartii  was  drinking  it,  and  while 
Bay  leaves  were  crackling  in  the  fragrant  pile. 
And  gummy  frankincense  was  sparkling  bright 
'Xealh  smothering  parsley,  and  a  hazy  light 
Spread  grayly  eastward,  thus  a  chorus  sang : 


"  O  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  pcacefulness ; 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thoa  now. 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow ! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan ! 


"0  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles. 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  tig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  rijien'd  fruitage ;  yellow-girled  bees 
Their  golden  lioneycombs ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  (wppied  corn ; 
The  chuckling  hnnet  its  five  young  unborn. 
To  sing  for  thee ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness;  pent  up  butterihes 
Their  freckled  wings;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 
All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine  ! 


"  Thou,  to  v\hom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit  ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  fht 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells. 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping. 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  brown — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring. 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king ! 


"  O  Hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating :  Winder  of  the  horn. 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsman  :  Breather  round  our  fars  ■ 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms : 
535 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a-swoouing  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  : 
Dread  opene*  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see. 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  ihat  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows  ! 

"  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourn  of  Heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain :  be  still  the  leaven, 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth, 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth: 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity ; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea ; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 
An  unknown — but  no  more  :  we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending. 
And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending. 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Ptean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  !  " 

Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a  close, 
A  shout  from  the  whole  multitude  arose. 
That  linger'd  in  the  air  like  dying  rolls 
Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals 
Of  dolphins  bob  iheir  noses  through  the  brine. 
Meantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine. 
Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 
To  the  swift  treble  pipe,  and  humming  string. 
Aye,  those  fair  living  forms  swam  heavenly 
To  tunes  forgotten — out  of  memory : 
Fair  creatures!  whose  young  childrens'  children  bred 
Thermopylse  its  heroes — not  yet  dead. 
But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful. 
High  genilors,  unconscious  did  they  cull 
Time's  sweet  first-fruits — they  danced  to  weariness, 
And  then  in  quiet  circles  did  they  press 
The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 
Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send 
A  young  mind  from  its  bodily  tenement. 
Or  they  might  watch  the  quoit-pitchers,  intent 
On  either  side  ;  pitying  the  sad  death 
Of  Hyacinthiis,  when  tlie  cruel  breath 
Of  Zephyr  slew  him, — Zephyr  penitent, 
Who  now,  ere  Phoebus  mounts  the  firmament. 
Fondles  tlie  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 
The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain. 
Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft, 
And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the  raft 
Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 
Call'd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelop 
Those  who  would  watch.  Perhaps,  the  trembling  knee 
\nd  frantic  gape  of  lonely  IS' lobe. 
Poor,  lonely  iN'iobe  !  when  her  lovely  young 
Were  dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressiiig  tongue 
Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  ])aly  lip, 
And  very,  very  deadiincss  did  nip 
Her  motherly  cheeks.    Aroused  from  this  sad  mood 
By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo'd, 
Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  the  air. 
Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare: 
After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 
Tossing  about  on  Neptune's  restless  w^ays, 


Until,  from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side. 

There  shot  a  golden  splendor  far  and  wide. 

Spangling  those  million  poulings  of  the  brine 

With  quivering  ore  :  't  was  even  an  awful  shine 

From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow ; 

A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe. 

Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating. 

Might  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober  ring 

Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 

'Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  whose  looks  increased 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 

There  they  discoursed  upon  the  fragile  bar 

That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal ; 

And  what  our  duties  there  :  to  nightly  call 

Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather ; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 

For  the  sun's  purple  couch  ;  to  emulate 

In  ministering  the  potent  rule  of  fate 

With  speed  of  fire-tail'd  exhalations  ; 

To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who  cons 

Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight :  besides  these, 

A  world  of  other  unguess'd  offices. 

Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse. 

Into  Elysium  ;  vying  to  rehearse 

Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 

One  felt  heart-certain  that  he  could  not  miss 

His  quick-gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd  boughs, 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 

Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming. 

Another  wish'd,  'mid  that  eternal  spring. 

To  meet  his  rosy  child,  witii  feathery  sails. 

Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond  vales: 

Who,  suddenly,  should  stoop  through  the  smooth  wind 

And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind; 

And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 

His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 

Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 

Their  fellow-huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  champaign 

In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  with  them,  and  talk 

Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk ; 

Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 

Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors. 

Benighted,  close  they  huddled  from  the  cold. 

And  shared  their  famish'd  scrips.    Thus  all  out-told 

Their  fond  imaginations, — saving  him 

Whose  eyelids  curtain'd  up  tlieir  jewels  dim, 

Endymion  :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 

To  hide  the  cankering  venom,  that  had  riven 

His  fainting  recollections.     Aow  indeed 

His  senses  had  swoon'd  ofl":  lie  did  not  heed 

The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low. 

Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe. 

Or  anxious  cal'ls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms. 

Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms : 

But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept, 

Like  one  who  on  the  earth  liad  never  slept 

Aye,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man. 

Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantingly  and  close  ? 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister  :  of  all  those. 
His  friends,  the  dearest.    Hushing  signs  she  made 
And  breathed  a  sister's  sorrow  to  persuade 
A  yielding  up,  a  cradhng  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse : 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
536 


ENDYMION. 


Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams, 

Along  a  path  between  two  little  streams, — 

Guarding  his  Ibrehead,  with  her  round  ellww. 

From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps  slow 

From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks  small ; 

Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets  fall, 

With  mingled  babblings  and  a  gentle  rush. 

Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  Hush 

With  crystal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky. 

A  little  shallop  floating  there  hard  by. 

Pointed  its  beak  over  tlie  fringed  bank ; 

And  soon  it  lightly  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank, 

And  dipt  again,  with  the  young  couple's  weight, — 

Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight, 

Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite ; 

Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  light 

Into  a  shady,  Iresii,  and  ripply  cove, 

^Vliere  nested  was  an  arbor,  overwove 

By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering ; 

'I'o  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring 

Her  playmates,  with  their  needle  broidery, 

And  minstrel  memories  of  limes  gone  by. 


So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  lavorile  bovver's  quiet  shade. 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower  leaves, 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  sun  his  autumn  Ires.ses  shook. 
And  the  tann'd  harvesters  rich  armfuls  took. 
Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest: 
But,  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 
Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips. 
And  still,  a-sleeping,  held  her  finger-tips 
In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  that  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace  :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  blue-bells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 
Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be  heard. 


O  magic  sleep  !  O  comfortable  bird, 
Tliat  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  1  O  unconfined 
Restraint !  imprison'd  liberty  !  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy. 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  eaves, 
F.choing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonlight ;  aye,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
Of  silvery  enchantment! — who,  upfurl'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour. 
But  renovates  and  lives  ? — Thus,  in  the  bower, 
Kndymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 
Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain. 
He  said  :  "  I  leel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom :  thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
Alx)ut  me ;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 
Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 
As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 
From  those  kind  eyes, — the  very  home  and  haunt 
Of  sisterly  affection.     Can  I  want 
Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such  tears  ? 
Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 
That,  any  longer,  1  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     jN'o,  I  will  once  more  raise 


My  voice  upon  the  nioimtain-heighls;  once  more 
Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  lijrcheads  hoar: 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll 
Around  the  breathed  boar:  again  I'll  poll 
The  fair-grown  yew-tree,  for  a  chosen  l)ow  : 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low. 
Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  meail 
To  hear  the  speckled  thruslies.  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet ! 
And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  entreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  tlieir  silver  source. 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow-drops  with  glad  exclaim, 
And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'Twas  a  lay 
More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child  ; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influence  rare 
Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand ; 
For  still,  with  Delphic  empha-sis,  she  spann'd 
The  quick  invisible  sirings,  even  I'nough  she  saw 
Endymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 
Before  the  deep  intoxication. 
But  soon  she  came,  with  sudden  burst,  ujion 
Her  self-possession — swung  the  lute  aside. 
And  earnestly  said  :  "  Brother,  'tis  vain  to  hide 
That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious. 
Immortal,  starry ;  such  alone  cotild  thus 
Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd  in  aught 
Offensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  >.  Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent  ? 
Thy  deathful  bow  against  some  deer-herd  bent. 
Sacred  to  Dian  ?  Haply,  thou  hast  seen 
Pier  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green  ; 
And  that,  alas  I  is  death.     No,  I  can  trace 
Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy  face  1 " 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland 
And  merry  in  our  meadows  >.  How  is  this  ? 
Tell  me  thine  ailment :  tell  me  all  amiss ! — 
Ah !  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change 
Wrought  suddenly  in  me.   What  indeed  more  strange? 
Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise  >. 
Ambition  is  no  sluggard:  'tis  no  prize. 
That  toiling  years  would  put  within  my  grasp. 
That  I  have  sigh'd  for:  with  so  deadly  gasp 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 
These  things  which  happen.  Rightly  have  they  done  • 
I,  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 
Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of  the  world, 
Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  theti  had  hurl'd 
My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chase — 
I,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby ;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire — 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil-breeding  firo, 
And  sink  thus  low  I  but  I  will  ease  my  breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"  This  river  does  not  sec  the  naked  sky, 
I  Till  it  begins  to  prttjcress  silverly 

■^37 


G 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Around  ihe  western  border  of  the  wood, 

Whence,  from  a  cerlain  spot,  its  winding  flood 

Seenis  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon : 

And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 

Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves ; 

The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 

So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power. 

And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  liour. 

When  he  doth  lighten  up  the  golden  reins, 

And  pa<'fis  leisurely  down  amber  plains 

His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot  last 

Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast. 

There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 

Of  sacred  ditamj',  and  poppies  red  : 

At  w  hich  I  wonder'd  greatly,  knowing  well 

That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery  spell ; 

And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 

AVhat  it  might  mean.     Perhaps,  thought  I,  Morpheus, 

In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook  ; 

Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uplook 

Her  elx)n  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth. 

Had  dipt  his  rod  in  it :  such  garland  wealth 

Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I  thought, 

I'ntil  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 

Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies  stole 

A  breeze,  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul; 

And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 

Of  colors,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  light ; 

The  which  became  more  strange,  and  strange,  and 

dim, 
And  then  were  gulf'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim: 
And  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befell  ? 
Vet  it  was  but  a  dream :  yet  such  a  dream 
That  never  tongue,  altliongh  it  overteem 
With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern  spring, 
Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Melhought  I  lay 
Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky  way 
Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendor  pours ; 
And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors 
Of  heaven  appear'd  to  open  for  my  flight, 
I  became  loih  and  fearful  to  alight 
From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance : 
So  kept  me  sledfast  in  that  airy  trance. 
Spreading  imaginary  pinion.s  wide. 
When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide. 
And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view : 
At  which  1  sigh'd  that  I  could  not  pursue. 
And  lirojit  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge  ; 
And  lol  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 
The  lovelifwt  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 
A  shell  for  Neptune's  gol)Ict;  she  did  soar 
So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 
Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roll 
Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 
At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapory  tent — 
Whereat,  mnthoughl,  the  lidless-eyod  train 
Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 
To  comuiinie  willi  those  orbs,  once  more  I  raised 
My  siglit  right  upward  :  but  it  was  quite  dazed 
By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace, 
Making  nie  (piickly  veil  my  eyes  and  face: 
Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 
Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies! 
Whence  tliat  completed  form  of  all  completeness? 
Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweetness? 


Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  O  where 
Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  liair ! 
Nor  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western  sim , 
Not — thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister!  let  me  shun 
Such  follying  before  thee — yet  she  had. 
Indeed,  locks  bright  enougii  to  make  me  mad  ; 
And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 
Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded. 
Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  aiid  orbed  brow , 
The  which  were  blended  in,  1  know  not  how. 
With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes. 
Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  (iiintest  sighs. 
Thai,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 
And  [)lays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  slings 
Of  human  neighborhood  envenom  all. 
Unto  what  awful  jmwer  sliall  I  call  >. 
To  what  high  fane  ? — Ah !  see  her  hovering  feel 
More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweei 
Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 
From  out  her  cradle  shell.     Tlie  wind  out-blovvs 
Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 
'Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 
Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wcrt  to  shed. 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  bluebell  bed, 
Handfuls  of  daisies." — "  Endymion,  how  strange ! 
Dream  within  dream!" — "She  took  an  airy  range, 
And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid. 
Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid. 
And  press'd  me  by  the  iiand  :  Ah  I  'i  was  loo  math 
Methought  I  fainted  at  llie  charmed  touch. 
Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  tjue 
Wiio  dives  three  fathoms  wliere  the  waters  run 
Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral :  for  anon, 
I  felt  upmotinted  in  that  region 
Where  falling  stars  dart  tlieir  artillery  for'h. 
And  eagles  struggle  with  the  bufleting  north 
That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ; — 
Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone. 
But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  dangerous  sky- 
Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying  iiigli, 
And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd  ; 
Such  as  aye  muster  where  gray  time  has  scoop'd 
Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side  : 
There  hollow  sounds  aroused  him,  and  I  sigh'd 
To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss — 
I  was  distracted  ;  madly  did  I  kiss 
The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 
My  eyes  at  once  to  death  :   but  'twas  to  live. 
To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  foimt 
Of  kind  and  passionate  looks ;  to  count,  and  count 
The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd 
A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd 
And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness. 
Ah,  desperate  mortal!  I  ev'n  dared  to  press 
Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 
And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 
Into  a  warmer  air  :  a  moment  more. 
Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 
Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 
A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 
I/)iler'd  around  us ;  then  of  honey  cells. 
Made  delicate  from  all  while-flower  bells; 
And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest. 
An  arch  face  peep'd, — an  Oread  as  I  guess'd. 

"  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'erpower'd  me 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?  Why  not  see, 
538 


ENDYMION. 


Far  off;  ihe  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark, 

And  stare  them  from  me  ?    But  no,  like  a  spark 

That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 

Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 

Fell  into  nothing — into  stupid  sleep. 

And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 

A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears, 

And  up  I  started:  Ah  I  my  sighs,  my  tears. 

My  clenched  hands  ;— for  lo  !  the  poppies  himg 

Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 

A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 

Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 

With  leaden  looks :  the  solitary  breeze 

Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  tease 

Willi  wayward  melancholy;  and  I  thought, 

Mark  me,  Pcona  !  that  sometimes  it  brought 

Faint  fare-thee-wells,  and  sigh-shrilled  adieus  I — 

Away  I  wander"d — all  the  pleasant  hues 

Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 

Were  deepest  dungeons ;  heaths  and  sunny  glades 

Were  full  of  pestilent  light ;  our  taintless  rills 

Seem'd. sooty,  and  o"er-spread  viith  uplurn'd  gills 

Of  dying  /ish  ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 

In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  out-grown 

Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 

Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and  stirr'd 

In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it 

A  disguised  demon,  missioned  to  knit 

My  soul  with  under  darkness ;  to  entice 

My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  precipice : 

Therefore  I  eager  follovv'd,  and  did  curse 

The  disappointment.     Time,  that  aged  nurse, 

Rock'd  me  to  patience.    Now,  thank  gentle  heaven ! 

These  things,  with  all  their  comfortings,  are  given 

To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee, 

Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 

Of  weary  life." 


Thus  ended  he,  and  both 
Sat  silent :  for  the  maid  wa»  very  loth 
To  answer ;  feeling  well  that  breathed  words 
Would  all  be  lost,  luiheard,  and  vain  as  swords 
Against  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of  grasshoppers  against  the  sun.     She  weeps, 
And  wonders  ;  struggles  to  devise  some  blame ; 
To  put  on  such  a  look  as  would  say,  S/iame 
On  this  poor  u-eakriess .'  hut,  for  all  her  strife. 
She  could  as  soon  have  crusli'd  away  the  life 
F'rom  a  sick  dove      At  lengih,  (b  break  the  pause. 
She  said  with  trembling  chance  :  "  Is  this  the  cause  I 
This  all '.  Yet  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas  ! 
That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 
Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 
His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 
IVo  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood. 
Singing  alone,  and  fearfully, — how  the  blood 
Left  his  young  cheek  ;  and  how  he  used  to  stray 
He  knew  not  where;  and  how  he  would  say,  nay, 
If  any  said  'twas  love  :  and  yet  'twas  love ; 
^Vhal  could  it  be  but  love  ?    How  a  ring-dove 
Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew-tree  in  his  path ; 
And  how  he  died  :  and  then,  that  love  doth  scathe, 
The  gentle  heart,  as  northern  blasts  do  roses; 
And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 
^Vitll  sighs,  and  an  alas  I — Endymion  ! 
Be  rather  m  the  trumpet's  mouth, — anon 
39* 


Among  the  winds  at  large — that  all  may  hearken  I 

Although,  before  the  crystal  heavens  darken, 

I  watch  and  dole  upon  the  silver  lakes 

Pictured  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes 

The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright  gold  sands. 

Islands,  and  creeks,  and  amber-fretted  strands 

With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 

And  towers  of  amethyst, — would  I  so  tease 

My  pleasant  days,  because  I  could  not  mount 

Into  those  regions  ?    The  Morphean  fount 

Of  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams, 

And  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of,  streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle. 

So  thin  a  breathing,  that  the  spider's  shuttle. 

Circled  a  million  times  within  the  space 

Of  a  swallow's  nesl-door,  could  delay  a  trace, 

A  tinting  of  its  quality :  how  light 

Must  dreams  themselves  be ;   seeing  they  're  more 

slight 
Than  the  mere  nothing  that  engenders  them  I 
Then  wherefore  sully  the  intrusted  gem 
Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick  ? 
Why  pierce  high-fronted  honor  to  the  quick 
For  nothing  but  a  dream?"    Hereat  the  youth 
Look'd  up:  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  riiih 
Was  in  his  plaited  hrow :  yet,  his  eyelids 
Widen'd  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 
A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 
Of  careless  butterfhes  :  amid  his  pains 
He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 
Full  palatable  ;  and  a  color  grew 
Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifeful  spake. 

"  Poena  I  ever  have  I  long'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises :  nothing  base. 
No  merely  slumberous  phantasm,  could  luilace 
The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  prepared — 
Though  now  'tis  tatler'd ;  leaving  my  bark  bared 
And  sullenly  drifting:  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope, 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness  ?    In  that  which  becks 
Our  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine. 
A  fellowship  with  essence ;  till  we  shine. 
Full  alchemized,  and  free  of  space.     Behold 
The  dear  religion  of  heaven  !  Fold 
A  rose-leaf  round  thy  finger's  taperness. 
And  soothe  thy  lips  :  hist !  when  the  airy  stresiij 
Of  music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds. 
And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 
Eolian  magic  from  their  lucid  wombs  : 
Then  old  songs  waken  from  enclouded  tombs ; 
Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave ; 
Ghosts  of  melodious  prophecyings  rave 
Round  every  spot  where  trod  Ajwllo's  foot ; 
Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit. 
Where  long  ago  a  giant  battle  was ; 
And,  from  the  turf,  a  lullaby  doth  pass 
In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept. 
Feel  we  these  things  I — that  moment  iiave  we  slept 
Into  a  sort  of  oneness,  and  our  state 
Is  like  a  floating  spirit's.     But  there  are 
Richer  entanglements,  enthralments  far 
More  self-destroying,  leading,  by  degrees. 
To  the  chief  intensity :  the  crown  of  these 
Is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  and  sits  high 
Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 

53D 


8 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  its  iiiiire  potulei-ous  ami  bulky  worth 

Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 

A  steady  splendor;  but  at  the  tip-top, 

There  hangs  by  unseen  tilni,  an  orbed  drop 

Of  light,  and  that  is  love :  its  influence 

Thrown  in  our  eyes,  genders  a  novel  sense, 

At  whicli  we  start  and  fret ;  till  in  the  end. 

Melting  into  its  radiance,  we  blend, 

Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it, — 

Nor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 

So  wingedly  :  when  we  combine  therewith, 

Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith. 

And  we  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 

Aye,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food, 

I'hat  men,  who  might  have  lovver'd  in  the  van 

Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 

And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 

All  chaff  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime 

Left  by  inen-slugs  and  human  serpentry, 

Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die. 

Whilst  tliey  did  sleep  in  love's  elysium. 

And,  truly,  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb. 

Than  speak  against  this  ardent  listlessness : 

For  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  might  bless 

The  world  with  benefits  unknowingly ; 

As  di>es  the  nightingale,  up-])erched  high. 

And  cloister'd  among  cool  and  bunched  leaves — 

She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives 

iiow  tiptoe  Night  holds  back  her  dark-gray  hood. 

Just  so  may  love,  although  'tis  understood 

'i'he  mere  commingling  of  passionate  breath. 

Produce  more  than  our  searching  witnesseth  : 

What  1  know  nut :  but  w  ho,  of  men,  can  tell 

That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green  fruits  would 

swell 
To  melting  pulp,  that  fish  would  have  bright  mail, 
The  earth  its  dower  of  river,  wood,  and  vale. 
The  meadows  runnels,  runnels  pebble-stones, 
The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones. 
Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet. 
If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet  ? 

"  Now,  if  this  earthly  love  has  power  to  make 
Men'.s  being  mortal,  immortal ;  to  shake 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content ;  what  merest  whim. 
Seems  all  this  poor  endeavor  after  fame. 
To  one,  who  keeps  within  his  stedfast  aim 
A  love  immortal,  an  immortal  too. 
Look  not  so  wilder'd  ;  for  these  things  are  true, 
And  never  can  be  bom  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain-flies, 
leaving  us  fiucy-sick.     No,  no,  I'm  sure. 
My  restless  spirit  nover  could  endure 
To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury, 
Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 
A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
My  sayings  will  the  less  obscured  seem 
When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  waking  sight 
lias  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same  night 
Was  pass'd  in  dreaming.     Hearken,  sweet  Peona ! 
Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 
Which  we  should  see  but  for  these  darkening  boughs, 
Lies  a  deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged  brows 
Bushes  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart, 
And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  outraught, 


And  spreaded  rail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 
Past  them,  but  he  must  Ijrush  on  every  side 
Some  monlder'd  sle()s  lead  into  this  cool  cell. 
Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well, 
Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 
Right  ujiward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the  sky. 
Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their  stalks  set 
Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet 
Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden  pits : 
'Twas  there  I  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and  slits 
In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my  seat, 
When  all  above  was  faint  with  midday  heat. 
And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to  heed, 
I'd  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed  ; 
So  reaching  back  to  boyhood :  make  me  ships 
Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips. 
With  leaves  stuck  in  them  ;  and  the  Neptune  be 
Of  their  petty  ocean.     Oftener,  heavily. 
When  lovelorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a  child, 
I  sat  contemplating  the  figures  wild 
Of  o'er-head  clouds  melting  the  mirror  through. 
Upon  a  day,  while  thus  I  watch'd,  by  flew 
A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver; 
So  plainly  character'd,  no  breeze  would  shivp' 
The  happy  chance:  so  happy,  I  was  fain 
To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain. 
And,  therefore,  was  just  going;  when,  behold  ! 
A  wonder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told — 
The  same  bright  face  I  tasted  in  my  sleep. 
Smiling  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did  leap 
Through  the  cool  depth. — It  moved  as  if  to  flee — 
I  started  up,  when  lo !  refreshfully. 
There  came  upon  my  face,  in  plenteous  showers. 
Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and  flowers- 
Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smother'd  sight. 
Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 
Aye,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 
Alone  preserved  me  from  the  drear  abyss 
Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again.       ^ 
Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant;  but  pain 
Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth. 
On  the  deer's  tender  haunches:  late,  and  loth 
'Tis  scared  away  by  slow-returning  pleasure. 
How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  leisure 
Of  weary  days,  made  deeper  exquisite 
By  a  foreknowledge  of  unslumbrous  night ! 
Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still. 
Than  when  I  wander'd  from  the  poppy-hill  : 
And  a  whole  age  of  lingering  moments  crept 
Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 
Away  at  once  the  deadly  yellow  spleen. 
Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  enchantment  seen; 
Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 
When  last  the  wintry  gusts  gave  over  strife 
With  the  conquering  sun  of  spring,  and  Icl't  the  skies 
Warm  and  serene,  but  ye'  vvi'h  moisten'd  eyes 
In  pity  of  the  shatter'd  infant  buds, — 
That  time  thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber  studs, 
My  hunting-cap,  because  I  laugh'd  and  smiled, 
Chatted  with  thee,  and  many  days  exiled 
All  torment  from  my  breast; — 'twas  even  then. 
Straying  about,  yet,  coop'd  up  in  the  6en 
Of  helpless  discontent, — hurling  my  lance 
From  place  to  place,  and  following  at  chance. 
At  last,  by  hap,  through  some  young  trees  it  struck, 
And,  plashing  among  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 
540 


ENDYMION. 


In  the  middle  of  a  brook, — whose  silver  ramble 

Down  twenty  little  falls,  through  reeds  and  bramble 

Tracing  along,  it  brought  me  to  a  cave, 

Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white  did  lave 

The  nether  sides  of  mossy  stones  and  rock, — 

'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blithe  adieus,  to  mock 

Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.    Overhead, 

Hung  a  lusii  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and  spread 

Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-nymph's  home. 

'Ah!  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam?' 

Said  I,  low-voiced  :  '  All,  whither!  'Tis  the  grot 

Of  Piteerpiiie,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot, 

Doth  her  resign:  and  wliere  her  tender  hands 

She  dabbles,  on  the  cool  and  sluicy  sands  : 

Or  'tis  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits. 

And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 

Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and  anon. 

Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  dying  tone 

Of  sadness.    O  that  she  would  take  my  vows, 

And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the  boughs, 

To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head, 

Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their  bed, 

And  weave  them  dyingly — send  honey-whispers 

Round  every  leaf,  that  all  those  gentle  lispers 

May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying! 

O  charitable  eclio  I  hear,  and  sing 

This  ditty  to  her  I — tell  her' — so  I  stay'd 

My  foolish  tongue,  and  listening,  half  afraid, 

Stood  stupefied  with  my  own  empty  folly, 

And  blusliing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 

Salt  tears  were  coming,  when  I  heard  ray  name 

Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents  came : 

'  Kndyinion  I  the  cave  is  secreter 

Than  the  isle  of  Delos.    Echo  hence  shall  stir 

.No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light  noise 

Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travelling  cloys 

And  trembles  through  my  labyrinthine  hair.' 

At  that  oppress'd,  I  hurried  in. — Ah!  where 

Are  those  swilt  momenis  >.  Whither  are  they  fled  ? 

I'll  smile  no  more,  Peoiia;  nor  will  wed 

Sorrow,  the  way  to  death  ;  but  patiently 

Hear  up  against  it :  so  farewell,  sad  sigh ; 

And  come  instead  demurest  meditation, 

To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 

My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 

]Vo  more  will  I  count  over,  link  by  link. 

My  chain  of  grief:  no  longer  strive  to  find 

A  half-lbrgetfulness  in  mountain  wind 

Blustering  about  my  ears :  ay,  thou  shall  see, 

Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  sliall  be ; 

^Vhat  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 

There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 

Where'er  I  look  :  but  yet.  I'll  say  'tis  naught — 

And  here  I  bid  it  die.    Have  not  I  caught. 

Already,  a  tnore  healthy  countenance  ? 

By  this  the  sun  is  setting;  we  may  chance 

Meet  some  of  our  near-dwellers  with  my  car." 

This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling  hke  a  star 
Tnrough  autumn  mists,  .and  took  Peona's  hand  : 
TUey  f  lept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from  land. 


BOOK  II. 

O  sovERKiGN  power  of  love !  O  grief!  O  balm  ! 

All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm, 

And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  ol'  passed  years: 

For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 

Have  become  indolent ;   but  loucliing  thine. 

One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine, 

One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried  days. 

The  woes  of  Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er  their  blaze 

StilT-holdeii  shields,  far-piercing  spears,  keen  blades. 

Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks — all  dimly  fades 

Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain  ; 

Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 

The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 

Hence,  pageant  history!  hence,  gilded  cheat! 

Swart  planet  in  the  univei-se  of  deeds  I 

Wide  sea,  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 

Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory! 

Many  old  rotten-timber'd  boats  there  be 

Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 

To  goodly  vessels;  many  a  sail  of  pride. 

And  golden-keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dr}'. 

But  wherefore  this?  What  care,  though  owl  did  fly 

About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast  ? 

What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 

The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers? 

Though  old  Ulysses  tortured  from  his  slumbers 

The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  ? — Juliet  leaning 

Amid  her  window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 

Tenderly  her  fancy  Irom  its  maiden  snow. 

Doth  more  avail  than  these:  the  silver  flow 

Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 

Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 

Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 

Than  the  death-day  of  empires.    Fearfully 

Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head, 

Who,  thus  far,  discontent,  has  dared  to  tread. 

Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest, 

The  path  of  love  and  poesy.    But  rest. 

In  chaluig  restlessness,  is  yet  more  drear 

Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uprear 

Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song. 

So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  mc  along. 

Like  legion'd  soldiers. 


Brain-sick  shepherd-prince 
What  promise  hast  thou  fiiithful  guarded  since 
The  day  of  sacrifice  ?    Or,  have  new  sorrows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn  ii|)on  thy  morrows? 
Alas!  'tis  his  old  grief    For  many  days. 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways : 
Through  wilderness,  and  woods  of  mossed  oaks  ; 
Counting  his  woe-worn  minutes,  by  the  strokes 
Of  the  lone  wood-cutler;  and  listening  still. 
Hour  after  hour,  to  each  lusli-leaved  rill. 
Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring. 
And  ellx)w-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  u|)bursting  cold  :  a  wild  n)se-tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doih  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy:  lo!  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water:  how 
It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  his  sight 
And,  in  the  middle,  there  is  softly  pight 
541 


10 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  golden  butterfly;  upon  whose  wings 

There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  things, 

For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft. 

Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd  by  glad  Endymion's  clasped  hands : 
Onward  it  flies.    From  languor's  sullen  bands 
His  limbs  are  loosed,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was ; 
And  like  a  new-born  spirit  did  he  pass 
Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun, 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  many  a  woodland  dim, 
Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dreams 
The  summer-time  away.    One  track  unseams 
A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fades  upon  him  ;  then,  anew, 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen. 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal  men, 
Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-lilce  cadences 
Melting  to  silence,  when  upon  the  breeze 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet. 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.    Still  his  feet 
Went  swift  beneath  the  merry-winged  guide, 
Until  it  reach'd  a  splashing  fountain's  side 
That,  near  a  cavern's  mouth,  for  ever  pour'd 
Unto  the  temperate  air:  then  high  it  soar'd, 
And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip. 
As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  'twould  sip 
The  crystal  spout-head  :  so  it  did,  with  touch 
Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch 
Even  with  mealy  gold  the  waters  clear. 
But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disappear 
So  fairy-quick,  was  strange  !  Bewildered, 
Endymion  sought  around,  and  shook  each  bed 
Of  covert  flowers  in  vain ;  and  then  he  flung 
Himself  along  the  grass.    What  gentle  tongue. 
What  whisperer  disturb'd  his  gloomy  rest  ? 
It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 
In  the  fountain's  pebbly  margin,  and  she  stood 
'Mong  lilies,  like  the  youngest  of  the  brood. 
To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  .softly  kist, 
And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 
Her  ringlets  round  her  fingere,  sa)ring :  "  Youth  ! 
Too  long,  alas,  hast  thou  starved  on  the  ruth, 
The  bitterness  of  love  :  too  long  indeed. 
Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.    Could  I  weed 
Thy  soul  of  care,  by  Heavens,  I  would  ofTet 
All  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 
To  Amphilriie;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish, 
Golden,  or  rainbow-sided,  or  purplish, 
Vermilion-tail'il,  or  (iuu'd  uilh  silvery  gauze  ; 
Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble-floor,  that  draws 
A  virgin  light  to  the  deep;  my  grotlo-sands 
Tawny  and  gold,  oozed  slowly  from  far  lands 
By  my  diligent  springs ;  my  level  lilies,  shells. 
My  charming  rod,  my  potent  river  spells; 
Yes,  evcrj'  thing,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 
Meander  gave  me, — for  I  bubbled  up 
To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 
But  woe  is  me,  I  am  but  as  a  child 
To  gladden  thee ;  and  all  I  dare  to  say, 
Is,  that  I  pity  thoe ;  that  on  this  day 
I  've  been  thy  guide  ;  that  thou  must  wander  far 
In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 


To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  canst  be  ta'en 
From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain, 
Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 
Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  in  Heaven  above : 
But,  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.    Farewell ! 
I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell." 


Hereat,  she  vanish'd  from  Endymion's  gaze, 
Who  brooded  o'er  the  water  in  amaze  : 
The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where  its  pool 
Lay,  half  asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool. 
Quick  waterflies  and  gnats  were  sporting  still. 
And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 
Had  fallen  out  that  hour.    The  wanderer. 
Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  off  the  burr 
Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down  f 
And,  while  beneath  the  evening's  sleepy  frown 
Glow-worms  began  to  trim  their  starry  lamps. 
Thus  breathed  he  to  himself:  "  Whoso  encamjs 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 
O  what  a  wretch  is  he!  and  when  'tis  his. 
After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 
The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than  vilely 
Yet,  for  him  there 's  refreshment  even  in  toil  : 
Another  city  doth  he  set  about, 
Free  from  the  smallest  pebble-head  of  doubt 
That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honeycombs : 
Alas,  he  finds  them  dry;  and  then  he  foams. 
And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 
But  this  is  human  life :  the  war,  the  deeds, 
The  disappointment,  the  anxiety. 
Imagination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh. 
All  human  ;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good, 
That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  food. 
To  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  show 
How  quiet  death  is.    Where  soil  is  men  grow. 
Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  for  me, 
There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in:  I  can  see 
Naught  earthly  worth  my  compassing;  so  stand 
Upon  a  misty,  jutting  head  of  land — 
Alone  ?  No,  no  ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute, 
When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  lo't, 
I'd  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak, 
With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek. 
But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thrice-seen  love. 
Than  be — I  care  not  what.    O  meekest  dove 
Of  Heaven !  O  Cynthia,  ten-times  bright  and  fair ! 
From  thy  blue  throne,  now  filling  all  the  air. 
Glance  but  one  little  beam  of  temper'd  light 
Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 
And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scared  ! 
Yet  do  not  so,  sweet  queen;  one  torment  spared, 
Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  niiserj'. 
Worse  than  the  torment's  self:  but  rather  tie 
Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point  out 
My  love's  far  dwelling.    Though  the  playful  rout 
Of  Cupids  shun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou, 
Too  keen  in  beauty,  for  thy  silver  provy 
Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle  stream 
O  be  propitious,  nor  severely  deem 
My  madness  impious ;  for,  by  all  the  stars 
That  tend  thy  bidding,  I  do  think  the  bars 
That  kepi  my  spirit  in  are  burst — that  I 
Am  .sailing  with  thee  through  the  dizzy  sky ! 
542 


ENDYMION. 


11 


How  b?autifiil  thou  art  I    The  world  how  deep  ! 
How  treinulous-dazzhiigly  the  vvlieels  sweep 
Around  tlieir  axle  I    Then  these  gleaming  reins. 
How  lithe !    When  this  thy  chariot  attains 
Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bower  veils 
Those  twilight  eyes  ?  Those  eyes  I — my  spirit  fails — 
Dear  goddess,  help!  or  the  wide-gaping  air 
Will  gull'nie — help!" — At  this,  with  madden'd  stare, 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips,  he  stood  ; 
Like  old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  Hood, 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 
And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  was  borne 
A  voice,  he  had  been  froze  to  senseless  stone ; 
Nor  sigh  of  his,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion'd  moan 
Had  more  been  heard.    Thus  svvell'd  it  forth  :  "  De- 
scend, 
Young  mountaineer !  descend  where  alleys  bend 
Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  tiie  world  ! 
Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of  the  thunder  hurl'd 
As  from  thy  threshold  ;  day  by  day  hast  been 
A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 
Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 
Into  the  deadening  ether  that  still  charms 
Their  marble  being :  now,  as  deep  profound 
As  those  are  high,  descend !  He  ne'er  is  crovvn'd 
With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 
Where  airy  voices  lead  :  so  tlirough  the  hollow, 
'Ihe  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend!" 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could  contend 
One  moment  in  reflection :  for  he  fled 
Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 
From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  coming  madness. 

'T  was  far  too  strange,  and  wonderful  for  sadness  ; 
Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite 
To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light, 
The  region  ;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up ;  a  gleaming  melancholy  ; 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems  ; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 
Ay,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold, 
Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  footsteps  told, 
With  all  its  lines  abrupt  and  angular: 
Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor-star. 
Through  a  vast  antre  ;  then  the  metal  woof. 
Like  Vulcan's  rainbow,  with  some  monstrous  roof 
Curves  hugely  :  now,  far  in  the  deep  abyss, 
It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 
Fancy  into  belief:  anon  it  leads 
Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness  breeds 
\'exing  conceptions  of  some  sudden  change  ; 
Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crjstal.     On  a  ridge 
JVovv  fareth  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 
Towers  like  an  ocean-clifTi  and  whence  he  seeth 
A  hundred  waterfalls,  whose  voices  come 
But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and  numb 
His  bosom  grew,  when  first  he,  far  away, 
Descried  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 
Old  Darkness  from  his  throne  :  't  was  like  the  sun 
Uprisen  o'er  chaos :  and  with  such  a  stun 
Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it, 
He  .saw  not  fiercer  wonders — past  the  wit 
Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those 
Wlio.  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close, 
31 


Will  i)e  its  high  remembrancers :  who  they  ? 

Tlie  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 

For  Greece  and  England.     While  astonishment 

With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,  he  went 

Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 

A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 

In  sacred  custom,  that  he  well-nigh  fear'd 

To  search  it  inwards  ;  whence  i'ur  oil  upi)car'd. 

Through  a  long  pillar'd  visia,  a  fan  .shrine, 

And,  just  beyond,  on  light  tiptoe  divine, 

A  quiver'd  Dian.     Stepping  awfully. 

The  youth  approach'd  ;  oft  turning  his  veil'd  C)e 

Down  sidelong  aisles,  and  into  niches  old : 

And,  when  more  near  against  Ihe  marble  cold 

He  had  touch'd  his  forehead,  he  began  to  thread 

All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead, 

Roused  by  his  whispering  footsteps,  murmur'd  faint : 

And  long  he  traversed  to  and  fro,  to  ac(iuaint 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  av^e  ; 

Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 

Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim, 

To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim. 

There,  when  new  wonders  ceased  to  float  Tiefoce, 

And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 

The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self! 

A  mad-pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf 

Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-biier. 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire, 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing. 


What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 
In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  caught 
The  goal  of  consciousness?    Ah,  'tis  the  thought 
The  deadly  feel  of  solitude  :  for,  lo  ! 
He  cannot  see  the  heavens,  nor  the  flow 
Of  rivers,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 
In  pink  and  purple  chequer,  nor  up-piled. 
The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the  west. 
Like  herded  elephants ;  nor  felt,  nor  j)rest 
Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  slumberous  air ; 
But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 
An  unknown  time,  surcharged  with  grief  away. 
Was  now  his  lot.     And  must  he  patient  stay. 
Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear? 
"  No!"  exclaimed  he,  "  Why  should  I  tarry  herel 
No  !  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable. 
At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan  tell 
His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief; 
Warming  and  glowing  strong  in  the  belief 
Of  help  from  Dian :  so  that  when  again 
He  caught  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain. 
Moving  more  near  the  while.    "O  Haunter  chaste 
Of  river  sides,  and  woods,  and  heathy  waste, 
Where  with  thy  silver  lx)w  and  arrows  keen 
Art  thou  now  forested  I    O  woodland  Queen, 
What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead  wooes  ? 
Where  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 
Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?    Through  what  dark  tree 
Glimmers  thy  crescent  ?  Wheresoe'er  it  be, 
'Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven:  thou  dost  taste 
Freedom  as  none  can  Inste  it,  nor  dost  waste 
Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements  ; 
But,  finding  in  our  green  earth  sweet  contents. 
There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 
It  feels  Eiysian,  how  rich  to  me, 

543 


12 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


An  exiled  mortal,  sounds  its  i)leasant  name! 
Witliin  my  breast  there  lives  a  choking  flame — 
O  let  me  cool  it  among  the  zephyr-boughs ; 
A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue — 
O  let  me  slake  it  at  tiie  running  springs !    ' 
Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings — 
O  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note ! 
Before  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows  float — 
O  let  me  'noinl  them  with  the  heaven's  light ! 
Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white  ? 
O  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening  sluice ! 
Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry-juice  ? 
O  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice ! 
If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 
O  think  how  I  should  love  a  bed  of  flowers ! — 
Young  goddess  !  let  me  see  my  native  bowers ! 
Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep ! " 

Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'erleap 
His  destiny,  alert  he  stood  :  but  when 
Obstinate  silence  came  heavily  again. 
Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 
And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  face. 
Desponding,  o'er  the  marble  floor's  cold  thrill. 
But  'twas  not  long  ;  for,  sweeter  than  the  rill 
To  its  old  ciiannel,  or  a  swollen  tide 
To  margin  sallows,  were  the  leaves  he  spied, 
And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle  crowns 
Up  peeping  through  the  slab :  refreshment  drowns 
Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide — 
Nor  in  one  spot  alone ;  the  floral  pride 
In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 
Before  his  footsteps ;  as  when  heaved  anew 
Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthen'd  wave  to  the  shore, 
Down  whose  green  back  the  shortlived  foam,  all  hoar, 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence. 

Increasing  still  in  heart,  and  pleasant  sense, 
Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes ; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One  moment  wiih  his  hands  among  the  sweets : 
Onward  he  goes — he  stops — his  bosom  beats 
As  plainly  in  his  ear,  as  the  faint  charm 
Of  which  the  throbs  were  born.     This  still  alarm, 
This  sleepy  music,  forced  him  walk  tiptoe : 
For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could  blow 
Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles ; 
Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the  smiles 
Of  throned  Apollo,  could  breathe  back  the  lyre 
To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 

O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man. 
Who  loved — and  music  slew  not?    'Tis  the  pest 
Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth, 
By  one  consuming  llamo:  it  dolh  immerse 
And  suffocate  true  blessings  in  a  curse. 
Ilalf-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss. 
Is  miserable.     'Twas  even  so  with  this 
Dew-dropping  melody,  in  the  Carian'sear; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  tlien  forgotten  clear, 
A'anish'd  in  elemental  passion. 

And  down  some  swart  abysm  he  had  gone, 
Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To  where  thick  myrtle  branches,  'gainst  his  head 


Brushing,  awaken'd  :  then  the  sounds  again 
Went  noiseless  as  a  passing  noontide  rain 
Over  a  bower,  where  little  space  he  stood  ; 
For  as  the  sunset  peeps  into  a  wood, 
So  saw  he  panting  light,  and  towards  it  went 
Through  winding  alleys ;  and  lo,  wondermenl 
Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there 
Cupids  a  slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 


After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone. 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle-wall'd,  embower'd  high, 
I'ull  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy. 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside  : 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride. 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth. 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  reach 
And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds. 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 
Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 
But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  fill'd  sight 
Ofliciously.     Sideway  his  face  reposed 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed. 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  fiiint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  pout;  just  as  the  morning  south 
Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.     Above  his  head, 
Four  lily  stalks  did  their  while  honors  wed 
To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  him  grew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue, 
Together  intertwined  and  tramell'd  fresh  : 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout ;  the  ivy  mesh, 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries;  and  woodbine, 
Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine  ; 
Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush  ; 
The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush; 
And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily; 
With  others  of  the  sisterhood.    Hard  by, 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touched  the  strings, 
Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber;  while  another  took 
A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  dew. 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  flutlering-vvise 
Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 


At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many  more, 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and  o'er) 
Until  impatient  in  embarrassment. 
He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading  went 
To  that  same  fealher'd  lyrist,  who  straightway, 
Smiling,  thus  whisper'd  :  "  Though  from  upper  day 
Tiiou  art  a  wanderer,  and  thy  presence  here 
Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer! 
For  'tis  the  nicest  touch  of  hiunan  honor. 
When  some  ethereal  and  high-favoring  donor 
Presents  immortal  bow"ers  to  mortal  sense ; 
As  now  'tis  done  to  thee,  Endymion.     Hence 
Was  I  in  nowise  startled.     So  recline 
Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wine, 
544 


ENDYMION. 


13 


Alive  wiili  sparkles — never,  I  aver. 

Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager. 

So  cool  a  purple  :  laste  these  juicy  pears, 

Sent  me  by  sad  V'ertumnus,  when  his  fears 

Were  high  about  Pomona :  here  is  cream, 

Deepening  to  richness  Irom  a  snowy  gleam ; 

Sweeter  tlian  that  nurse  Anialthea  skimm'd 

For  tlie  boy  Jupiter:  and  here,  undinim'd 

By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums 

Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums  : 

And  here  is  matma  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees, 

In  starlight,  by  the  three  Hesperides. 

Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee  know 

Of  all  these  things  around  lis."    lie  did  so, 

Still  brooding  o"er  the  cadence  of  liis  lyre ; 

And  thus :  '•  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 

By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pined 

For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to  bind 

Ifira  all  in  all  unto  her  doting  self 

Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  I  but,  fond  elf, 

He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 

Faint  through  his  careless  arms ;  content  to  see 

An  unseized  heaven  dying  at  his  feet ; 

Content,  O  fool  I  to  make  a  cold  retreat. 

When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  lovelorn, 

Lay  sorrowing ;  when  every  tear  was  born 

Of  diverse  passion ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 

Were  closed  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick  sighs 

Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nostrils  small. 

Hush  I  no  exclaim — yet,  justly  mighlst  thou  call 

Curses  upon  his  head. — I  was  half  glad, 

But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad. 

When  the  ooar  tusk'd  him  :  so  away  she  flew 

To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 

Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard ; 

Whereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'd 

F.ach  summer-time  to  hfe.    Lo !  this  is  he, 

That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep. 

Ay,  sleep;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  weep 

Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 

Ileal'd  up  t.he  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy  power, 

Medicined  death  to  a  lengthen'd  drowsiness: 

The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 

In  ail  this  quiet  luxury ;  and  hath  set 

I's  young  immortals,  without  any  let. 

To  watch  his  slumber  through.  'Tis  well-nigh  pass'd, 

Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 

She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through 

The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 

Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 

Look,  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this  while 

Stand  anxious:  seel   behold!" — This  clamant  word 

Bioke  through  the  careful  silence ;  for  they  heard 

A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there  flutter'd 

Pigeons  and  doves  :  Adonis  something  mutter'd. 

The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  his  thigh 

I^ay  dormant,  moved  convulsed  and  gradually 

Vp  to  his  forehead.    Then  there  was  a  hum 

Of  sudden  voices,  echoing,  "  Come  !  come  I 

Arise  I  awake  !  Clear  summer  has  forth  walk'd 

Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  has  talk'd 

Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  finch  : 

Rise,  Cupids!  or  we'll  give  the  bluebell  pinch 

To  your  dimpled  arms.  Once  more  sweet  life  begin!" 

At  this,  from  every  side  they  hurried  in, 


Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists, 

And  doubling  overhead  their  little  fists 

In  backward  yawns.    But  all  were  soon  alive  : 

For  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 

In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water  fair, 

So  from  the  arbor  roof  down  swell'd  an  air 

Odorous  and  enlivening;  making  all 

To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudly  call 

For  their  sweet  queen:  when  lo  !  ihe  wreathed  gieen 

Disparted,  and  iiir  upward  could  be  seen 

Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne. 

Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  mom. 

Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew, — which  falling  chill 

On  soft  Adonis'  shoulders,  made  him  still 

Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about. 

Soon  were  the  white  doves  plain,  with  necks  stretch'd 

out. 
And  silken  traces  ligliten'd  in  descent ; 
And  soon,  returning  from  love's  banishmert, 
Queen  \'enus  leaning  downward  open-arm'd  : 
Her  shadow  fell  upon  his  l)reast,  and  charmd 
A  tumult  to  his  heart,  and  a  new  life 
Into  his  eyes.    Ah,  miserable  strife. 
But  for  her  comforting !  unhappy  sight. 
But  meeting  her  blue  orbs !  Who,  who  can  v,Tile 
Of  tiiese  first  minutes  ?  The  unchariest  muse 
To  embracements  warm  as  theire  makes  coy  ext  use. 

O  it  has  ruffled  every  sjiirit  llioro. 
Saving  Love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to  share 
The  general  gladness:  awfully  he  stands; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands , 
No  sight  can  bear  the  liglitning  of  his  bow ; 
His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 
What  themselves  think  of  it ;  from  forth  his  eyes 
There  darts  strange  light  of  varied  hues  and  dyes  ; 
A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 
L(jok  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 
Of  his  fair  eyes  run  liquid  through  their  sotils. 
Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 
The  burning  prayer  within  him;  so,  bent  low. 
He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  woe. 
But  \'enus,  bending  iiirward,  said  :  "  My  child. 
Favor  this  gentle  youth;  liis  days  are  wild 
With  love — he — but  alas  !  too  well  I  see 
Thou  know'st  the  deepness  of  his  iniser\'. 
Ah,  smile  not  so,  mv  son  :  1  icU  thee  true. 
That  when  through  heavy  hours  I  used  to  rue 
The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-born  Adon', 
This  stranger  aye  I  pitied.    For  upon 
A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 
Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 
For  this  my  love:  for  vexing  Mars  had  teased 
Me  even  to  tears :  thence,  when  a  little  eased. 
Down-looking,  vacant,  through  a  hazy  wood. 
I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood : 
Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind ; 
Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 
Over  his  sullen  eyes:  I  saw  him  throw 
Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 
Deatli  had  come  sudden  ;  for  no  jot  he  moved. 
Yet  mutter'd  wildly.    I  could  iiear  he  loved 
Some  fair  immortal,  and  that  his  embrace 
Had  zoned  her  through  the  night.    There  is  no  trace 
Of  this  in  heaven :  I  have  inark'd  each  cheek, 
And  find  it  is  the  vainest  thing  to  seek ; 
545 


14 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thnt  of  all  things  'tis  kept  sccretest. 

Kndymion!  one  day  ihou  wilt  be  blest: 

So  slill  obey  the  guiding  hand  that  fends 

Thee  safely  through  these  wonders  for  sweet  ends. 

Tis  a  concealment  needful  in  extreme; 

And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 

Thou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.    Kow  adieu! 

Here  must  we  leave  thee." — At  ihese  words  up  flew 

The  impatient  doves,  up  rose  the  floating  ear, 

Up  went  the  hum  celestial.    High  afar 

The  Latmian  saw  them  minish  into  naught ; 

And,  when  all  were  clear  vanisli'd,  still  he  caught 

A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow. 

When  all  was  darken'd,  with  yEtnean  throe 

The  earth  closed — gave  a  soliiary  moan — 

And  left  him  once  again  in  twiliglit  lone. 


He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast, 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and  past, 
And  he  in  loneliness :  he  folt  assured 
Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endured 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hies 
Through  caves,  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquoise  floor, 
Black  polish'd  porticoes  of  awful  shade. 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 
Leading  afar  past  wild  magniticence. 
Spiral  through  ruggedest  loop-holes,  and  (hence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 
Enormous  chasms,  where,  all  foam  and  roar. 
Streams  subterranean  tease  iheir  granite  beds; 
Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear;  but  at  the  splash. 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  inclose 
His  diamond  path  witli  fretwork  streaming  round 
Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound, 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  float  ol'  Thetis.    Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight;  for,  cveiy  minute's  space. 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace : 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines;  then  weeping  trees, 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind. 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refined, 
Ponr'd  into  shapes  of  curlain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries  ' 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair. 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams, 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  flintaslic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  tini(>s  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.    lie  bade  a  loth  liirewell 
To  these  founts  Protean,  j)assiiig  gulf,  and  dell. 
And  torrent,  and  ten  thousand  jutting  shapes, 
Half-seen  through  deepest  gloom,  and  grisly  gapes. 
Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead 
A  vaulted  dome  like  Heaven's,  far  bespread 
With  starlight  gems :  aye,  all  so  huge  and  strange, 
The  solitary  felt  a  hurried  change 
Working  within  him  into  something  drearj', — 
Vex'd  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost,  and  wearj', 


And  purblind  amid  foggy  midnight  wolds. 
But  he  revives  at  once:  for  who  beholds 
New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  menial  slough? 
Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below. 
Came  mother  C'ybele  I  alone — alone — 
In  sombre  chariot ;  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale. 
With  turrets  crown'd.    J'our  maned  lions  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels ;  solemn  their  toothed  maws, 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uphfted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  iheir  tawny  brushes.    Silent  sails 
This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch. 

'NV'herefore  delay, 
Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ? 
Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst  not  further  trace 
The  diamond  path  ?  And  does  it  indeed  end 
Abrupt  in  middle  air  ?  Yet  earthw  ard  bend 
Thy  forehead,  and  to  Jupiter  cloud-ljorne 
Call  ardently  !  He  was  indeed  wayworn  ; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air.  his  way  was  lost ; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bowed,  and  there  eroi.t 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  't  wixt  whose  wings 
Without  one  impious  word,  himself  he  flings, 
Committed  to  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  : 
Down,  down,  imcertain  to  what  pleasant  doom, 
Swift  as  a  fathoming  plummet  down  he  fell 
Through  unknown  things ;  till  exhaled  asphodel, 
And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  inlerbrealhed. 
Came  swelling  forth  where  little  caves  w ere  wreathed 
So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they  seem'd 
Large  honeycombs  of  green,  and  freshly  teem'd 
With  airs  delicious.    In  the  greenest  nook 
The  eagle  landed  him,  and  farewell  took. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bcstrown 
With  golden  moss.    His  every  sense  had  grown 
Ethereal  for  pleasure ;  'bove  his  head 
Flew  a  delight  half-graspable  ;  his  tread 
Was  Hesjierean ;  to  his  capable  ears 
Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres; 
A  dewy  luxury  was  in  his  eyes ; 
The  little  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 
And  stirr'd  them  faintly.    Verdant  cave  and  cell 
He  wander'd  through,  oft  wondering  at  such  sweK 
Of  sudden  exaltation  :  but,  *'  Alas  !" 
Said  he,  "  will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 
Away  in  solitude  ?    And  must  they  wane, 
Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain. 
Without  an  echo  >.  Then  shall  I  be  left 
So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereft ! 
Yet  slill  I  feel  immortal !   O  my  love, 
My  breath  of  life,  where  art  thou  ?  High  above. 
Dancing  before  the  morning  gates  of  heaven ' 
Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven. 
Old  Atlas'  children?   Art  a  maid  of  the  vvalers, 
One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright-hair'd  daughters 
Or  art,  impos-sible !  a  nymph  of  Dian's, 
Weaving  a  coronal  of  tender  scions 
For  very  idleness  ?  Where'er  thou  art, 
Methinks  it  now  is  at  my  will  to  start 
Into  thine  arms ;  to  scare  Aurora's  train. 
And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning ;  o'er  the  main 
546 


ENDYMION. 


15 


To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  tliee  off 

From  thy  sea-fbamy  cradle;  or  to  dott" 

Thy  shepherd  vest,  and  woo  thee  'mid  fresh  leaves. 

IS'o,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 

Its  powerless  self:  I  know  this  cannot  be. 

O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming  (lee 

To  her  entrancemenis :  hither  sleep  awhile! 

Hither  most  gentle  sleep !  and  soothing  foil 

For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude." 


Thus  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt  endued 
With  ]X)wer  to  dream  deliciously ;  so  wound 
Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he  found 
The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and  deepest,  where 
He  threw  himself,  and  just  into  ilie  air 
Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  look,  O  bliss! 
A  naked  waist:  "Fair  Cupid,  whence  is  this?" 
A  well-known  voice  sigh'd,  "  Sweetest,  here  am  I!" 
At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  doting  cry 
They  trembled  to  each  other. — Helicon! 
O  fountain'd  hill !  Old  Homer's  Helicon  I 
That  thou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet  o'er 
These  sorry  pages ;  then  the  verse  would  soar 
And  sing  above  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark 
Over  his  nested  j-oung :  but  all  is  dark 
Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 
Exhales  in  mists  to  Heaven.     Ay,  the  count 
Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up ;  ttie  scroll 
Is  folded  by  the  Muses ;  the  bright  roll 
Is  in  Apollo's  hand  :  our  dazed  eyes 
Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies : 
The  world  has  done  it.s  duty.    Yet,  oh  yet, 
Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set, 
These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must  weep 
That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 
A  quill  immorial  in  their  joyous  tears. 
Long  time  in  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 
Question  that  thus  it  was;  long  time  they  lay 
Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away  ; 
Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 
To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 
Two  bubbling  springs  of  talk  from  their  sweet  lips. 
"  O  known  Unknown !  from  whom  my  being  sips 
Such  darling  essence,  wherefore  may  I  not 
Be  ever  in  these  arms  i  in  this  sweet  spot 
Pillow  my  chin  for  ever?  ever  press 
These  toying  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth  excess  ? 
Why  not  for  ever  and  for  ever  feel 
That  breath  about  my  eyes  ?  Ah,  thou  wilt  steal 
Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed — 
Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  wilt  not  heed 
My  lonely  madness.    Speak,  my  kindest  fair! 
Is — is  it  to  be  so  ?    jN'o  !  Who  will  dare 
To  pluck  thee  from  me  ?   And,  of  thine  own  will. 
Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me.    Still 
Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer — now 
How  can  we  part  ?  Elysium  !  who  art  thou  ? 
Who,  that  thou  canst  not  be  for  ever  here. 
Or  lift  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  sphere  ? 
Enchantress  I  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace, 
By  the  most  soft  complexion  of  thy  face, 
Those  lips,  O  slippery  blisses  !  twinkling  eyes, 
And  by  these  tenderest,  milky  sovereignties — 
These  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar-wine. 

The  passion" "  O  loved  Ida  the  divine  I 

40 


F.ndymionI  dearest  I  Ah,  unhappy  me  I 

His  soul  will  'scape  us — O  ((?licity ! 

How  he  does  love  me!   His  poor  temples  beat 

To  the  very  tune  of  love — how  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and  die; 

Revive,  or  these  soft  hours  will  hurry  by 

In  tranced  dullness;  speak,  and  let  that  spell 

Affright  tliis  lethargy!   1  cannot  quell 

Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least 

My  lips  to  thine,  that  they  may  richly  feast 

Until  we  tasle  the  life  of  love  again. 

What!   dost  thou  move?  dost  kiss?  O  bliss!    O  pain' 

I  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  1  can  conceive ; 

And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  bereave 

My  soul  of  any  rest :  yet  must  I  hence  : 

Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 

Uplift  thee;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own 

Myself  to  thee.    Ah,  dearest !  do  not  groan, 

Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secrecy, 

And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.    O  that  I 

Had  done  it  already!  that  the  dreadful  smiles 

At  my  lost  brightness,  my  impassion'd  wiles, 

Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height. 

And  from  all  serious  Gods;  that  our  delight 

Was  quite  forgotten,  save  of  us  alone ! 

And  wherefore  so  ashamed?  'Tis  but  to  alone 

For  endless  pleasure,  by  some  coward  blushes : 

Yet  must  I  be  a  coward !   Horror  rushes 

Too  palpable  before  me — the  sad  look 

Of  Jove — Minerva's  start — no  bosom  shook 

With  awe  of  purity — no  Cupid  pinion 

In  reverence  veil'd — my  crj'stalline  dominion 

Half  lost,  and  all  old  hymns  made  nullity! 

But  what  is  this  to  love  ?  Oh!  I  could  fly 

With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  p<jwers. 

So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent  liours, 

Press  me  so  sweeilv.    Now  I  swear  at  once 

That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce — 

Perhaps  her  love  like  mine  is  but  unknown — 

Oh !  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 

In  chasiity !  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing, 

While  every  eve  saw  me  my  hair  uptying 

With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  leaves.    Sweet  love ! 

I  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove. 

Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.    Now  a  soft  kiss — 

Ay,  by  that  kiss,  I  vow'  an  endless  bliss, 

An  immortality  of  passion 's  thine  : 

Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 

Of  heaven  ambrosial ;  and  we  will  shade 

Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade ; 

And  I  will  tell  thee  stories  of  the  sky. 

And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy, 

My  happy  love  will  overwing  all  bounds! 

O  let  me  melt  into  thee !  let  the  sounds 

Of  our  close  x'oices  marry  at  their  birth  ; 

Let  us  entwine  hoveringly  I — O  dearth 

Of  human  words!  roughness  of  mortal  speech! 

Lispings  empyrean  will  I  sometimes  teach 

Thine  honey'd  tongue — lute-breathings,  which  I  gasp 

To  have  thee  understand,  now  while  I  clasp 

Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness — I  am  pain'd, 

Endymion  :  woe !  woe  !  is  grief  contain'd 

In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole  life  ?" — 

Hereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 

Melted  into  a  languor.    He  return "d 

Entranced  vows  and  tears. 

547 


IG 


IvEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yo  who  have  yeam'd 
With  too  miicli  jiassioii,  will  lii-re  stay  and  jHty, 
VoT  liie  mtM'e  sake  oC  trutli ;  as  'tis  a  ditty 
Not  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  'twas  told 
By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old  ; 
And  then  the  Ibrest  told  it  in  a  dream 
To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level  gleam 
A  poet  caught  as  he  was  journeying 
To  Phcebus'  shrine ;  and  in  it  he  did  fling 
liis  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space, 
And  after,  siraiglit  in  that  inspired  place 
He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air, 
Giving  it  universal  freedom.    There 
Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears 
Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.    The  legend  cheers 
Yon  sentinel  stars ;  and  he  who  listens  to  it 
Must  surely  be  self-doom'd  or  he  will  rue  it : 
For  quenchless  burnings  coine  upon  the  heart, 
Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 
Should  be  ingulfed  in  the  eddying  wind. 
As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always  find 
A  resting-place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and  plain ; 
Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane — 
And  'tis  but  echoed  from  departing  sound, 
That  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound 
Her  gentle  limbs,  and  left  the  youth  asleep. — 
Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn  we  to  our  former  chroniclers. — 
Endymion  awoke,  that  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  plaining  on  his  ear :  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly  press'd 
His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  head. 
And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 
Sat  silently.    Love's  madness  he  had  known  : 
Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 
Meanings  had  burst  from  him  ;  but  now  that  rage 
Had  pass'd  away  :  no  longer  did  he  wage 
A  rough-voiced  war  against  the  dooming  stars. 
No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh  jars  : 
The  lyre  of  his  soul  Eolian-tuned 
Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  communed 
With  melancholy  thought :  O  he  had  swoon 'd 
Drunken  from  pleasure's  nipjile !  and  his  love 
Henceforth  was  dove-like. — Loth  was  he  to  move 
From  the  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he  did, 
'Twas  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face  hid 
In  muffling  hands.    So  temper'd,  out  he  stray'd 
Half  seeing  visions  that  might  have  dismay 'd 
Alecto's  serpents;  ravislimcnts  more  keen 
Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 
Over  eclipsing  eyes:  and  at  tlie  last 
It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast, 
O'er-studded  with  a  thoii.sand,  thousand  pearls. 
And  crimson-moutlied  shells  with  stubborn  curls, 
Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  the  bulk 
In  which  whales  arlxir  close,  to  brood  and  sulk 
.Against  an  endless  storm.    Moreover  too, 
Fish-semblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue, 
Ready  to  snort  their  streams.    In  this  cool  wonder 
Endymion  sat  down,  and  'gan  lo  ponder 
On  all  his  life :  his  youth,  up  to  the  day 
When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feasts,  and  garlands  gay, 
He  stept  ujion  his  shepherd  throne :  the  look 
Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook, 


And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there : 

Each  tender  maiden  wliom  he  once  thought  fair. 

With  every  friend  and  Icllow-uoodluiidcr — 

Pass'd  like  a  dream  before  him.    Then  the  spur 

Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds :  his  plans 

To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd  clans 

That  wondrous  night :  the  great  Pan-festival : 

His  sister's  sorrow  ;  and  his  wanderings  all, 

Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he  rush'd : 

Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  llush'd 

High  with  excessive  love.    "  And  now,"  thought  he 

"  How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 

Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more  ? 

Now  I  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the  core, 

All  other  depths  are  shallow  :  essences, 

Once  spiritual,  are  like  nmddy  lees. 

Meant  but  to  fertilize  my  earthly  roof. 

And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 

Into  the  bloom  of  heaven  :  other  light, 

Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp  enough  to  blight 

The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark, 

Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.    Hark ! 

My  silent  thoughts  are  echoing  from  these  shells; 

Or  are  they  but  the  ghosts,  the  dying  swells 

Of  noises  far  away  ? — list ! — Hereupon 

He  kept  an  anxious  ear.    The  humming  tone 

Came  louder,  and  behold,  there  as  he  lay. 

On  either  .side  out-gush'd,  with  misty  spray, 

A  copious  spring ;  and  both  together  dash'd 

Swift,  mad,  fantastic  round  the  rocks,  and  lash'd 

Among  the  conchs  and  shells  of  the  lofty  grot. 

Leaving  a  trickling  dew.    At  last  they  shot 

Down  from  the  ceiling's  height,  pouring  a  noise 

As  of  some  breathless  racers  whose  hopes  poise 

LTpon  the  last  few  steps,  and  with  spent  force 

Along  the  ground  they  took  a  winding  course. 

Endymion  fbllovv'd — for  it  seem'd  that  one 

Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun — 

Follow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  well-nigh 

He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mysterj', — 

And  was  now  rapt  in  tender  hoverings 

Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.    Ah  I  what  is  it  sings 

His  dream  away  ?  What  melodies  are  these  ? 

They  sound  as  through  the  whispering  of  trees, 

Not  native  in  such  barren  vaults.    Give  esir! 

"  O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph  !  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine  ?  Great  Dian,  why, 
Why  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer  ?   O  tiial  I 
Were  rippling  round  her  dainty  fairness  now. 
Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how 
To  entice  her  to  a  dive  I  then  stealing  in 
Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 
O  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun. 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run 
In  amorous  rillets  down  her  shrinking  form ! 
To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 
Between  her  kissing  breasts,  and  every  charm 
Touch  raptured  I — See  how  painfully  I  flow  : 
Fair  maid,  be  pitiful  to  my  great  woe. 
Stay,  stay  thy  weary  course,  and  let  me  lead, 
A  hapi)y  wooer,  to  the  flowery  mead 
Where  all  that  beauty  snared  me." — "  Cruel  God 
Desist !  or  my  offended  mistress'  nod 
Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains : — tease  me  not 
548 


ENDYMION. 


17 


With  syren  words — Ah,  have  I  really  got 

Such  power  to  madden  Iliee  >.  And  is  it  true — 

Away,  away,  or  1  sliall  dearly  rue 

My  very  tlioughls :  in  mercy  then  away, 

Kindest  Alpheiis,  lor  should  I  obey 

My  own  dear  will,  't  would  be  a  deadly  bane." — 

"  6,  Oread-Queen  I  would  that  thou  iiadst  a  pain 

Like  this  of  mine,  then  would  I  fearless  turn 

And  be  a  criminal." — "  Alas,  I  burn, 

I  shudder — ireiitle  river,  <;et  thee  hence. 

Alpheus!  thou  enchanter !  every  sense 

Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these  woods. 

Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and  innocent  floods, 

Ripe  fruits,  and  lonely  couch,  contentment  gave ; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 

In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  panting  glow 

Grew  strong  within  me  :  whereliire  serve  me  so, 

And  call  it  love  !  Alas!  'twas  cruelty. 

Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eyes 

Amid  the  thrush's  song.     Away!  Avaunt! 

0  'twas  a  cruel  thing." — "  N'ovv  thou  dost  taunt 
So  softly,  Arellnisa,  that  I  think 

If  thou  wast  [ilayiiig  on  my  sliady  brink. 

Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again,     limocent  maid  ! 

Stifle  thine  heart  no  more ; — nor  be  afraid 

Of  angry  powers  :  there  are  deities 

AVill  shade  us  with  their  wings.     Those  fitful  sighs 

'Tis  almost  death  to  liear:  O  let  me  pour 

A  dewy  balm  upon  them  I — fear  no  more, 

Sweet  Arethusa  I  Dian's  self  must  feel. 

Sometimes,  these  very  pangs.     Dear  maiden,  steal 

Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  ns  fly 

These  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

1  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course, 
From  the  green  .sea  up  to  my  hidden  source 
About  Arcadian  forests  ;  and  will  show 
The  channels  where  my  coolest  waters  flow 
Tlirough  mossy  rocks ;  where,  'mid  exuberant  green, 
I  loam  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 

Tiian  Saturn  in  his  exile ;  where  I  brim 

Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a  skim 

Of  mealy  sweets,  which  myriads  of  bees 

Buzz  from  their  honey'd  wings :  and  thou  shouldst 

please 
Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we  might 
Be  incense-pillow'd  every  summer  night. 
Doff"  all  sad  fears,  tlwu  while  deliciousness. 
And  let  us  be  thus  comforted  ;  unless 
Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless  stream 
Hurry  distracted  from  Sol's  temperate  beam. 
And  pour  to  death  along  some  hungry  sands."— « 
"  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?  Dian  stands 
Severe  before  me  •  persecuting  fate  ! 
Unhappy  Arethusa  !  thou  wast  late 
A  huntress  free  in" — At  this,  .sudden  fell 
Those  two  sad  streams  adown  a  fearful  dell. 
The  Latmian  listen'd,  but  he  heard  no  more, 
Save  echo,  faint  repealing  o'er  and  o'er 
The  name  of  Arethusa.     On  the  verge 
Of  that  dark  gulf  he  wept,  and  said .  "  I  urge 
Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage. 
By  our  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  a-ssuage 
If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers'  pains; 
And  make  them  happy  in  some  happy  plains." 


He  turn'd — there  was  a  whelming  sound — he  stept, 
There  Wis  a  cooler  light ;  and  so  he  kept 


Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo ! 
More  suddenly  than  dolh  a  moment  go, 
The  visions  of  the  earlli  were  gone  and  fled- 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head. 


BOOK  III. 


There  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-mea 
With  most  prevailing  tinsel :  who  unpen 
Their  baaing  vanities,  to  browse  away 
The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 
From  human  pastures  ;  or,  O  torturing  fact! 
Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 
Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 
Our  gold  and  ripe-ear'd  hopes.     With  not  one  tinge 
Of  sanctuary  splendor,  nor  a  sight 
Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight 
By  the  blear-eyed  na-ions  in  empurpled  vests. 
And  crown.s,  and  turbans.     With  unla<len  breasts. 
Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 
To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account. 
Their  tip-top  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones— 
Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 
Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabor'd  drums. 
And  sudden  cannon.     Ah  !  how  all  this  hums, 
In  wakeful  ears,  like  uproar  past  and  gone — 
Like  thunder-clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon, 
And  set  those  ol^  Chaldeans  to  their  tusks. — 
Are  then  regalities  all  gilded  masks  ? 
No,  there  are  throned  seals  unscalable 
But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell. 
Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfined. 
Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind. 
And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents 
To  watch  the  abysm-birlh  of  elements. 
Aye,  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lij)p'd  Fate 
A  thousand  powers  keep  religious  state. 
In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourn ; 
And,  silent  as  a  consecrated  urn. 
Hold  sphery  sessions  for  a  season  due. 
Yet  few  of  these  far  majesties,  ah,  few! 
Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  globe — 
Few,  who  with  gorgeous  pageantry  enrobe 
Our  piece  of  heaven — whose  benevolence 
Shakes  hand  with  our  own  Ceres ;  every  sense 
Filling  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude. 
As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And  by  the  feud 
'Tvvixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 
Eteme  Apollo!  that  thy  Sister  fair 
Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 
When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west. 
She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne. 
And  there  she  sit.s  most  meek  and  most  alone: 
As  if  she  had  not  pomp  suljservient  ; 
As  if  thine  eye.  high  Poet !  was  not  bent 
Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart ; 
As  if  the  ministering  stars  kept  not  apart, 
Waiting  for  silver-fooled  messages. 
O  Moon  !  the  oldest  sha<lcs  'mong  oldest  trees 
Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in: 
O  Moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 
The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 
Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 
549 


18 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 
Couch'd  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine : 
Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes ; 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 
One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 
\\Tiere  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 
Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  trarKjuil  ken, 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house : — The  mighty  deeps. 
The  monstrous  sea  is  thine — tlie  myriad  sea  I 
O  Moon !  fjr-spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee, 
And  Tellus  feels  her  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 


Cynthia.'  where  art  thou  now?  What  far  abode 
Of  green  or  silvery  bower  doth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty  ?  Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful :  thy  cheek  is  pa'.e 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale :  thou  dost  bewail 
His  tears,  who  weeps  for  thee.  Where  dost  thou  sigh 
Ah  I  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's  eye, 
Or  what  a  tiling  is  love!  'Tis  She,  but  lo! 
How  changed,  how  full  of  ache,  hov\'  gone  in  woe  I 
She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud  ;  her  loveliness 
Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue:  yet  there's  a  stress 
Of  love-spangles,  just  off  you  cape  of  trees, 
Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 
The  curly  foam  wilh  amorous  influence. 
O,  not  so  idle  !  for  down-glancing  thence, 
She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild^bout 
O'erwhelming  water-courses  ;  scaring  out 
The  thorny  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and  fright'ninj 
Their  savage  eyes  wilh  unaccuslom'd  lightning. 
\V'here  will  the  splendor  be  content  to  reach  ? 
O  love  I  how  potent  hast  thou  been  to  teach 
Strange  joumeyings!  Wherever  beauty  dwells, 
In  gulf  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells. 
In  light,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun. 
Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight  'tis  won. 
Amid  his  toil  thou  gavest  Leander  breath; 
Thou  leddest  Orpheus  through  the  gleams  of  death 
Thou  madest  Pluto  bear  thin  element : 
And  now,  O  winged  Chieftain!  thou  hast  sent 
A  moonbeam  to  the  deep,  deep  water-world, 
To  find  Endymion. 


On  gold  sand  impearl'd 
With  lily  shells,  and  pebbles  milky  white. 
Poor  Cynthia  greeted  him,  and  soothed  her  light 
Against  his  pallid  face :  he  felt  the  charm 
To  breathlessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 
Of  hi.s  heart's  blood  :  'twas  very  sweet;  he  stay'd 
His  wandering  steps,  and  half-entranced  laid 
His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  straggling  weeds, 
To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  freshening  beads, 
Lasli'd  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes'  tails. 
And  so  lie  kei)t,  until  tiie  rasy  veils 
Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering  hand 
Were  lifted  from  the  water's  breast,  and  fann'd 
Into  sweet  air  ;  and  sober'd  morning  came 
Meekly  through  billows  : — when  like  taper-flame 
Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air, 
He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 


Along  his  fated  way. 

Far  had  he  roam'd. 
With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings : 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  brea.stplates  large 
Of  gone  sea-warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  large  ; 
Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  human  hand  ;  gold  vase  emboss'd 
With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
]\o  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mouldering  scrolls, 
Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls 
Who  first  were  on  the  earth ;  and  sculptures  rude 
In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  IS'ox ; — then  skeletons  of  man, 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan, 
And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  jaw^ 
Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  him ;  and  unless 
Dian  had  chased  away  that  heaviness, 
lie  might  have  died  :  but  now,  with  cheered  feel, 
He  onward  kept;  wooing  these  thoughts  to  steal 
About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 


"  What  is  there  in  thee,  Moon !  that  thou  shouldst 
move 
My  heart  so  potently  ?  When  yet  a  child, 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 
Tliou  seem'dst  my  sister :  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 
Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously  : 
No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance. 
But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance: 
No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine, 
I'ntil  thou  liftcd'st  up  thine  eyelids  fine: 
In  sowing-time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take. 
Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake  ; 
And,  in  the  summer-tide  of  blossoming, 
No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing 
And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 
No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 
If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 
Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 
By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-.same  end  ; 
And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou  blend 
With  all  my  ardors  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glen  ; 
Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 
The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends — the  sun  ; 
Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  glory  won ; 
Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed — 
My  goblet  full  of  wine — my  topmost  deed  : — 
Thou  Wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Moon  I 
O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune 
My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 
On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 
Myself  to  immortality :  I  prest 
Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 
But,  gentle  Orb !  there  came  a  nearer  bliss — 
My  strange  love  came — Felicity's  abyss ! 
She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade,  and  fkde  away — 
Yet  not  entirely  ;  no,  thy  starry  sway 
Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour. 
Now  I  begin  to  feel  thine  orby  power 
550 


ENDYMION. 


19 


Is  coming  fresh  iiixju  nie  :  O  be  kind  ! 

Keep  back  thine  inlhience,  and  do  not  blind 

My  sovereign  vision. — Dearest  love,  forgive 

That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live! — 

Pardon  me,  airy  planet,  that  I  prize 

One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries ! 

How  far  beyond  I"  At  this  a  surprised  start 

Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart ; 

For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 

How  his  own  goddess  ^vas  past  all  things  fair, 

He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 

An  old  man  silting  calm  and  peacefully. 

UjKjn  a  weeded  rock  this  old  man  sat, 

And  his  while  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 

Of  weeds  was  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin  feet ; 

And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 

A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 

O'erwrought  with  symlwls  by  the  deepest  groans 

Of  ambitious  magic  :  every  ocean-form 

Was  woven  in  with  black  distinctness:  storm, 

And  calm,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar 

Were  einblem'd  in  the  woof;  with  every  shape 

That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape  and  cape, 

The  gulfing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the  spell, 

Yet  look  upon  it,  and  'twould  size  and  swell 

To  its  huge  self;  and  llie  minutest  fish 

\\'ould  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish. 

And  show  his  lilile  eye"s  anatomy. 

Then  there  was  pictured  the  regality 

Of  Neptune  ;  and  the  sea-nymphs  round  his  state, 

In  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 

Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearly  wand. 

And  in  his  lap  a  tmok,  the  which  he  conn'd 

So  stedfastly,  that  the  new  denizen 

Had  time  to  keep  liim  in  amazed  ken. 

To  mark  these  shadowings,  and  stand  in  awe. 

The  old  man  raised  his  hoary  head  and  saw 
The  wilder'd  stranger — seeming  not  to  see. 
His  features  were  so  lifeless.     Suddenly 
He  woke  as  from  a  trance  ;  his  snow-white  brows 
Went  arching  up,  and  like  two  magic  plows 
Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  large, 
Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge. 
Till  round  his  wither'd  lips  had  gone  a  smile. 
Then  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 
Had  watch'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage. 
Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 
F.ased  in  one  accent  his  o'er-burden'd  soul. 
Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose:  he  grasp'd  his  stole, 
With  convulsed  clenches  waving  it  abroad, 
And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  awed 
Kcho  into  oblivion,  he  said  : — 

"  Thou  art  the  man  !  Now  shall  I  lay  my  head 
In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  lo  my  weary  brow. 
O  Jove  !  I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young  I 

0  shell-born  Neptune,  I  am  pierced  and  stung 
With  new-born  life  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Where  go, 
When  I  have  cast  this  serpent-skin  of  woe  ? — 

1  '11  swim  to  the  syrens,  and  one  moment  listen 
Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair  glisten; 
Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I  '11  be. 

That  writhes  about  the  roots  of  Sicily : 
40*  3K 


To  northern  sea.s  I'll  in  a  twinkling  sail, 

\nd  mount  ujton  the  snortings  of  a  whale 

To  some  black  cloud  ;  thence  down  I  '11  madly  sweep 

On  forked  lightning,  lo  the  deepest  ileep. 

Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will  be  hurl'il 

With  rapture  to  the  other  side  of  the  world  ! 

O,  I  am  full  of  gladness!    Sisters  three, 

I  \x>\\  fuU-hearled  to  your  old  decree ! 

Yes,  every  God  be  thank'd,  and  power  benign. 

For  I  no  more  shall  wither,  droop,  and  pine. 

Thou  art  the  man  I "  Kndymion  started  back 

Dismay 'd  ;  and,  like  a  wretch  from  whom  the  rack 

Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 

Mutter'd  :  "  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 

In  this  cold  region  ?    Will  he  lot  me  freeze. 

And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas  > 

Or  will  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand, 

.\nd  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  I 

Or  tear  me  piecemeal  with  a  bony  saw, 

.\nd  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw 

His  magian  fish  through  hated  fire  and  flame  ? 

0  misery  of  hell !  resistless,  tame, 

Am  I  to  be  burnt  up?  No.  I  will  shout, 

Until  the  Gods  through  heaven's  blue  look  out! — 

0  Tartarus !  but  some  few  days  agone 
Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on 

Her  voice  1  hung  like  fruit  among  green  leaves : 
Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and — ah,  ripe  sheaves 
Of  happiness!  ye  on  the  stubble  drooj). 
But  never  may  be  garner'd.     I  must  stoop 
My  head,  and  kiss  death's  foot.  D)ve  !  love,  fiirewell ! 
Is  there  no  hope  from  thee  I    This  horrid  spell 
Would  melt  at  thy  sweet  breaib. — By  Dian's  hind 
Feeding  from  her  white  fingers,  on  the  wind 

1  see  thy  streaming  hair !  and  now,  by  Pan, 
I  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man!" 

He  spake,  and  walking  to  that  aged  form, 
Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo!  his  heart  'gan  warm 
With  pity,  for  the  gray-hair'd  creature  wept. 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  heart  where  sorrow  kept  ? 
Had  he,  though  blindly  coniumeiious,  brought. 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  a  sting  to  human  thought. 
Convulsion  to  a  mouth  of  many  years  ? 
He  had  in  truth ;  and  he  was  rit)e  for  tears. 
The  penitent  shower  fell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling  felt 
About  his  large  dark  locks,  and  faltering  spake . 

"  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Phoebus'  sake  ! 
I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 
A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 
Into  mine  own :  for  w'hy  ?  thou  openest 
The  prison-gates  that  have  so  long  opprest 
My  weary  watching.    Though  thou  know'st  it  not. 
Thou  art  commission'd  to  this  fated  siwt 
For  great  enfranchisement.     O  weep  no  more  ; 
I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore : 
Ay,  hadst  thou  never  loved  an  unknown  power, 
I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour. 
But  even  now  most  miserable  old, 
I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 
Gave  mighty  pulses :  in  this  tottering  case 
Grew  a  new  lieart,  which  at  this  moment  plays 
As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid. 
For  thou  shall  hear  this  secret  all  display 'd, 
551 


20 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task." 

So  snying,  this  young  soul  in  age's  mask 
Went  forward  with  llie  Carian  side  by  side : 
Resuming  quickly  thus  ;  while  ocean's  tide 
Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewell'd  sands 
Took  silently  iheir  foot-prints. 

"  My  soul  stands 
Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality, 
And  so  I  can  prepare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
I  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main. 
And  my  boat  danced  in  every  creek  and  bay ; 
Ivough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and  day, — 
The  sea-gulls  not  more  coastant ;  for  I  had 
No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests  mad, 
But  hollow  rocks, — and  they  were  palaces 
Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease: 
Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 
Ay,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 
One  thousand  years  I — Is  it  then  possible 
To  look  so  plainly  through  them  ?  to  dispel 
A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance  sublime  ? 
To  breathe  away  as  'twere  all  scummy  slime 
From  off  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep. 
And  one's  own  image  from  the  bottom  peep? 
Yes :  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall. 
My  long  captivity  and  moanings  all 
Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum. 
The  which  I  breathe  away,  and  thronging  come 
Like  tlungs  of  yesterday  my  youthful  pleasures. 

"  I  touch'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no  measures : 
I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
My  sports  were  lonely,  'mid  continuous  roars. 
And  craggy  isles,  and  sea-mews'  plaintive  cry 
Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 
Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates ;  shapes  unseen 
Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and  green. 
Nor  be  my  desolation  ;  and,  full  oft. 
When  a  dread  water-spout  had  rear'd  aloft 
Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 
To  burst  with  hoarsest  thunderings,  and  wipe 
My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate. 
Some  friendly  monster,  pitying  my  sad  state, 
Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulf'd  it  down. 
And  left  me  tossing  safely.     But  the  crown 
Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude : 
More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude. 
Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's  voice, 
And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice ! 
There  blush'd  no  sununor  eve  but  I  would  steer 
My  skiff  along  green  shelving  coasts,  to  hear 
The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aery  steep, 
Mingled  with  ceaseless  blealings  of  his  sheep: 
And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine, 
But  I  beheld  its  birth  upon  the  brine  ; 
I'or  I  would  watch  all  night  to  see  unfold 
Hi'aven's  gates,  and  ^thon  snort  his  morning  gold 
Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams  :  and  constantly 
At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea. 
My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 
The  poor  folk  of  the  sea-country  I  blest 
With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate : 
Thev  knew  not  whence  this  bounty,  and  elate 


Would  strew  sweet  flowers  on  a  sterile  beach. 

"  Why  was  I  not  contented  ?    Wherefore  reach 
At  things  which,  but  for  thee,  O  Latmian  ! 
Had  been  my  dreary  death !  Fool !  I  began 
To  feel  distemper'd  longings  :  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  ere  in  one  extreraest  fit 
I  plunged  for  life  or  death.     To  interknit 
One's  senses  with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain ;  so  not  enough 
Can  I  admire  how  crystal-smooth  it  felt. 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I  dwelt 
Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self-intent ; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new-iledged  bird  that  first  doth  show 
His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  of  my  will. 
'T  was  freedom  !  and  at  once  I  visited 
The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 
No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  for  I  see 
That  thou  hast  been  a  witness — it  must  be 
For  these  I  know  thou  canst  not  foel  a  drouth. 
By  the  melancholy  corners  of  that  mouth. 
So  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pass 
To  more  immediate  matter.     Woe,  alas! 
That  love  should  be  my  bane  I  Ah,  Scylla  fair! 
Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever — ever  dare 
To  sue  thee  to  his  heart  ?    Kind  stranger-youth ! 
I  loved  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth. 
And  she  would  not  conceive  it.     Timid  thing! 
She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing. 
Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promontory, 
From  where  large  Hercules  wound  up  his  story 
Far  as  Egj-ptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 
The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 
Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear: 
Until  'twas  too  fierce  agony  to  bear; 
And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 
It  flash'd,  that  Circe  might  find  some  relief — 
Cruel  enchantress  I    So  above  the  water 
I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  for  Phoebus'  daughter. 
yEaja's  isle  was  wondering  at  the  moon  : — 
It  seem'd  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swoon 
Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

"  When  I  awoke,  'twas  in  a  twilight  bower; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of  bees, 
Stole  through  its  verdurous  matting  of  fresh  trees. 
How  sweet,  and  sweeter!  for  I  heard  a  lyre, 
And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire. 
It  ceased — I  caught  light  footsteps  ;  and  anon 
The  fairest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses.     Starry  Jove  ! 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words  she  wov«t 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than  all 
The  range  of  flower'd  Elysium.     Thus  did  fall 
The  dew  of  her  rich  speech  :  "  Ah  !  art  awake  ? 

0  let  me  hear  thee  speak,  for  Cupid's  sake ! 

1  am  so  oppress'd  with  joy !    Why,  I  have  shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  though  thou  wert  cold  dead; 
And  now  I  find  thee  living,  I  will  pour 

From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store, 
552 


ENDYMION. 


21 


Lntil  exhausted  of  the  latest  drop, 
So  it  will  iileas\ire  thee,  and  force  thee  stop 
Here,  that  I  too  may  live :  but  if  beyond 
Such  cool  and  sorrowful  offerings,  thou  art  fond 
Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme ; 
If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love-tiream ; 
If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ardor  mute. 
Hang  ill  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 

0  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee."     Thus  she  link'd 
Her  charming  syllables,  till  indistinct 
Their  music  came  to  my  o'er-sweeten'd  soul ; 
And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 
Fo  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 
This  furrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

"  Young  man  of  Latmos !  thus  particular 
Am  I,  that  thou  mayst  plainly  see  how  far 
This  fierce  temptation  went :  and  thou  mayst  not 
Exclaim,  How  then,  was  Scylla  quite  forgot  ? 

"  Who  could  resist  ?  Who  in  this  universe  ? 
She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia ;  so  immerse 
INIy  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time. 
And  cradled  me  in  roses.     Thus  condemn'd, 
The  current  of  my  former  life  was  slemm'd, 
And  to  this  arbitrary'  queen  of  sense 

1  bow'd  a  tranced  vassal  :  nor  would  thence 

Have  moved,  even  though  Amphion's  heart  had  vvoo'd 

Me  back  to  Scylla  o'er  tlie  billows  rude. 

For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 

A  new  apparelling  for  western  skies ; 

So  every  eve,  nay,  every  spendthrift  hour 

Shed  balmy  consciousness  within  that  bower. 

And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrageous  ; 

Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 

Of  squirrels,  foxes  sly,  and  antler'd  deer. 

And  birds  from  coverts  innermost  and  drear 

Warbling  for  very  joy  mellifluous  sorrow — 

To  me  new-born  delights ! 

"  Now  let  me  borrow, 
For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stern 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  burn 
These  uttering  lips,  wlule  I  in  calm  speech  tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real  hell. 

"One  morn  she  left  me  sleeping  :  half  awake 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  lips,  to  slake 
My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel-draughts ; 
But  she  was  gone.     Whereat  the  barbed  shafts 
Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore, 
That  out  I  ran  and  search'd  the  forest  o'er. 
Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom, 
Damp  awe  assail'd  me ;  for  there  'gan  to  booin 
A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound. 
Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 
Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  arnl  rumbled 
That  fierce  complain  to  silence  :  while  I  stumbled 
Downi  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impell'd, 
I  came  to  a  dark  valley. — Groanings  swell'd 
Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew. 
The  nearer  I  anproach'd  a  (lame's  gaunt  blue. 
That  glared  before  me  through  a  thorny  brake. 
Tliis  fire,  hke  the  eye  of  gordian  snake. 


Bewitch'd  me  towards ;  and  I  soon  was  near 

A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  iccl  of  fear ; 

In  thicket  hid  I  cursed  the  haggard  scene — 

The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbor  queen. 

Seated  upon  an  uptorn  Ibrcst  root ; 

And  all  around  her  sljapes,  wizard  and  brute, 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  grovelling,  serpenting, 

Showing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting ! 

O  such  deformities !  Old  Charon's  self. 

Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf, 

And  take  a  dream  'moiig  rushes  Stygian, 

It  could  not  be  so  fanlasied.     Fierce,  wan, 

And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look, 

As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 

Oft-times  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out, 

And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 

Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 

And  roar'd  for  more ;  with  many  a  hungry  lick 

About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow. 

Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  mistletoe. 

And  emptied  on 't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 

Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 

Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 

She  lifted  up  the  charm :  appealing  groans 

From  their  poor  breasts  went  suing  to  her  eai 

In  vain ;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier, 

She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 

Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil, 

Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage. 

Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimage , 

Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 

And  puff  from  the  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat . 

Then  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 

More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  affright , 

For  the  whole  herd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen 

Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python 

Antagonizing  Boreas, — and  so  vanish'd. 

Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  :  she  baiiish'd 

These  phantoms  with  a  nod.     Lo  I  from  the  dark 

Came  w^aggish  fauns,  and  nymphs,  and  satyrs  stark. 

With  dancing  and  loud  revelry,  and  went 

Swifter  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent. — 

Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bow'd 

Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 

In  human  accent :  '  Potent  goddess!  chief 

Of  pains  resistless !  make  my  being  brief. 

Or  let  me  from  this  heavy  prison  fly  : 

Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or  let  me  die ! 

I  sue  not  fur  my  happy  crown  again ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  ])halanx  on  the  plain; 

I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  my  widow'd  wife : 

I  sue  not  for  my  ruddy  drops  of  life. 

My  children  fair,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys ! 

I  will  forget  them  ;  I  will  pass  these  joys  ; 

Ask  naught  so  heavenward,  so  too — too  high: 

Only  I  pray,  as  fairest  boon,  to  die. 

Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh. 

From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh. 

And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 

Have  mercy.  Goddess !  Circe,  feel  my  prayer ! ' 


"That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon  my  wild  conjecturing :  truth  had  come 
Naked  and  sabre-like  against  my  heart 
I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart ; 
553 


22 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  my  slain  spirit,  overwrought  with  fright, 

Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night. 

Think,  my  deliverer,  how  desolate 

My  waking  must  have  heen !  disgust,  and  hate, 

And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 

A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepared  to  flee 

Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood  : 

I  fled  three  days — when  lo !  before  me  stood 

Glaring  the  angry  witch,  O  Dis,  even  now, 

A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow, 

At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and  curse. 

'  Ha  !  ha !  Sir  Dainty !  there  must  be  a  nurse 

Made  of  rose-leaves  and  thistle-down,  express. 

To  cradle  thee,  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee :  yes, 

I  am  too  flinty-hard  for  thy  nice  touch  : 

My  tenderesl  squeeze  is  but  a  giant's  clutch. 

So,  fairy-thing,  it  shall  have  lullabies 

Unheard  of  yet ;  and  it  shall  still  its  cries 

Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 

Oh,  no, — it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and  pine 

More  than  one  pretty,  trifling  thousand  years  ; 

And  then  'twere  pity,  but  fate's  gentle  shears 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt! 

Young  dove  of  the  waters  !  truly  I  '11  not  hurt 

One  hair  of  thine :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh, 

That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 

And  must  we  part  ?  Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 

Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  woe, 

Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus, 

And  speak  a  blessing  :  Mark  me  I  Thou  hast  thews 

Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race : 

But  such  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase 

Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom 

Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 

Hence  shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery  vast  ; 

And  there,  ere  many  days  be  overpast, 

Disabled  age  shall  seize  thee  ;  and  even  then 

Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men ; 

But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 

Ten  hundred  years:  which  gone,  I  tlien  bequeath 

Thy  fragile  bones  to  unknown  burial. 

Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu!' — As  shot  stars  fall, 

She  fled  ere  I  could  groan  for  mercy.     Stung 

And  poison 'd  was  my  spirit:  despair  sung 

A  war-song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  hell. 

A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 

My  sullen  stejis  ;  another  'fore  my  eyes 

Moved  on  with  pointed  finger.     In  this  guise 

Enforced,  at  the  last  by  ocean's  foam 

I  fonii<I  me ;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home. 

Its  tempering  coolness,  to  my  life  akin. 

Came  salutary  as  I  waded  in  ; 

And,  with  a  blind  voluptuous  rage,  I  gave 

Battle  to  the  swollen  billow-ridge,  and  drave 

Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet  remain'd 

Hale  strength,  nor  I'rom  my  bones  all  marrow  drain'd. 


"  Young  lover,  f  must  weep — such  hellish  spite 
With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ?  While  thus  my  might 
Proving  upon  this  element,  dismay'd, 
Upon  a  dead  thing's  face  my  h;ind  I  laid  ; 
I  look'd — 'twas  Scylla  !  Cursed,  cursed  Circe! 
O  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy  ! 
Could  not  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  content. 
But  thou  must  nip  this  tender  innocent 


Because  I  loved  her  ? — Cold,  O  cold  indeed 
Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  hke  a  common  weed 
The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.     Dead  as  she  was 
I  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceased  to  pass 
Fleet  as  an  arrow  through  unfathom'd  brine. 
Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crystalline, 
Ribb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and  pearl. 
Headlong  I  darted  ;  at  one  eager  swirl 
Gain'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  behold ! 
'Twas  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold  ; 
And  all  around — But  wherefore  this  to  thee 
Who  in  few  minutes  more  thyself  shalt  see  ?^ 
I  lell  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 
My  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing  dread 
Met  palsy  half-way  :  soon  these  limbs  became 
Gaunt,  wither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd,  and  laiue 

Now  let  me  pass  a  cruel,  cruel  space. 
Without  one  hope,  without  one  faintest  trace 
Of  mitigation,  or  redeeming  bubble 
Ofcolor'd  fantasy;  for  I  fear  'twould  trouble 
Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason ;  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 

"  On  a  day. 
Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  up  from  the  horizon's  brink 
A  gallant  vessel :  soon  she  seem'd  to  sink 
Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course 
Had  been  resumed  in  spite  of  hindering  force — 
So  vanish'd  :  and  not  long,  before  arose 
Dark  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  morose. 
Old  Eolus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen. 
But  could  not :  therefore  all  the  billows  green 
Toss'd  up  the  silver  spume  against  the  clouds. 
The  tempest  came:  I  saw  that  vessel's  shrouds 
In  perilous  bustle;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the  wreck, 
The  final  gulling;  the  poor  struggling  souls: 
I  heard  their  cries  amid  loud  thunder-rolls. 

0  they  had  all  been  saved  but  crazed  eld 
Annull'd  my  vigorous  cravings :  and  thus  quell'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on 't,  O  Latraian  !  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 

Against  that  hell-born  Circe.     The  crew  had  gone, 

By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion ; 

And  I  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone. 

With  many  a  scalding  tear  and  many  a  groan. 

When  at  my  feet  emerged  an  old  man's  hand. 

Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender  wand. 

1  knelt  with  pain — reach'd  out  my  hand — had  grasp'a 
These    treasures — louch'd    the    knuckles — they  un- 

clasp'd — 
I  caught  a  finger :  but  the  downward  weight 
O'erpower'd  me — it  sank.     Then  'gan  abate 
The  storm,  and  through  chill  anguish,  gloom  outburat 
The  comfortable  sun.     I  was  aihirst 
To  search  the  book,  and  in  the  warming  air 
Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 
Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of  an<l  drew  on 
My  soul  page  after  page,  till  wel'.-nigh  won 
Into  forgetfulness  ;  when,  stupefied, 
I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and  tried 
My  eyes  against  the  heavens,  and  read  again 
O  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 

554 


ENDYMIO^ 


23 


Each  Atlas-line  bore  off! — a  shine  of  hope 
Came  gold  around  me,  cheering  me  to  cope 
Strenuous  witii  hellish  tyranny.     Attend  I 
For  thou  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an  end. 

" '  In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doom'd  with  enfeebled  carcass  to  outstretch 
His  loihed  existence  through  ten  centuries, 
And  then  to  die  alone,     who  can  devise 
A  total  opposition  >.    No  one.    So 
One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  and  flow. 
And  he  oppress'd.     Yet  lie  sliall  not  die, 
These  ihiugs  accomplish'd  : — If  he  utterly 
Scans  all  the  depths  of  magic,  and  expounds 
The  meanings  of  all  motions,  shapes,  and  sounds ; 
If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 
Straight  liomeward  to  their  symbol-essences ; 
He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chief. 
He  must  [nirsuc  tliis  task  of  joy  and  grief, 
Most  piously  ; — all  lovers  tempest-tost, 
And  in  the  savage  overwhelming  lost. 
He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 
Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil : 
Wliich  done,  and  all  these  labors  ripened, 
A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  beloved  and  led. 
Shall  stand  before  him  ;  whom  he  shall  direct 
How  to  consummate  all.     The  youth  elect 
Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  be  destroy'd.' " — 


"  Then,"  cried  the  young  Endymion,  overjoy 'd, 
"  We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny  ! 
Say,  I  entreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 
Is.  in  this  restless  world,  for  me  reserved. 
What !  if  from  thee  my  wandering  feet  had  swerved, 
Had  we  both  perish'd  t" — "  Look  !"  the  sage  replied, 
"  Dost  thou  not  mark  a  gleaming  through  the  tide, 
Of  divers  brilhances?  'tis  the  edifice 
I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  lies; 
And  where  I  have  enshrined  piously 
All  lovers,  whom  fell  storms  have  doom'd  to  die 
Throughout  my  bondage."    Thus  discoursing,  on 
They  went  till  unobscured  the  porches  shone; 
Which  hurryingly  they  gain'd,  and  enter'd  straight. 
Sure  never  since  king  Aeplune  held  his  slate 
Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the  stars. 
Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty  Mars 
Has  legion'd  all  his  l)atile ;  and  behold 
How  every  soMier,  with  firm  foot,  doth  hold 
His  even  breast :  see,  many  steeled  squares, 
And  rigid  ranks  of  iron — whence  who  dares 
One  step?  Imagine  further,  line  by  line, 
These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  supine : — 
So  in  that  crystal  place,  in  silent  rows, 
Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and  woes. — 
The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  breathless,  traced 
Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order  placed  ; 
Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 
All  ruddy, — for  here  death  no  blossom  nips. 
He  mark'd  their  brows  and  foreheads  ;  saw  their  hair 
Put  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care ; 
And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  reverence. 
Put  crosswise  to  its  heart. 


"  Let  us  commence 
AVhisper'd  the  guide,  stuttering  with  joy)  even  now." 
He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen-bough. 


Began  to  tear  his  scroll  in  pieces  small. 

Uttering  the  while  some  mumblings  funeral. 

He  lore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow 

That  drifts  unfcather'd  when  bleak  northerns  blow; 

.\nd  having  done  it,  look  his  dark-blue  cloak 

And  bound  it  round  iMidymion  :  then  struck 

His  wand  against  the  empty  air  times  nine. — 

"  What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is  thine: 

Rut  first  a  little  patience ;  first  undo 

This  tangled  thread,  and  wind  it  to  a  clue. 

Ah,  genlie  !  't  is  as  weak  as  spider's  skein  ; 

And  shoidilst  thou  break  it— What,  is  it  done  so  clean  ? 

A  power  oversliadows  thee  !  Oh,  brave  I 

The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave. 

Here  is  a  shell ;  'tis  pearly  blank  to  me, 

Kor  mark'd  with  any  sign  or  charactery — 

Canst  thou  read  aught  ?  O  read  for  pity's  sake ! 

Olympus  !  we  are  sale  !  Now,  Carian,  break 

This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedestal." 

'Twas  done:  and  straight  with  sudden  swell  and 
fall 
Sweet  music  breathed  her  soul  away,  and  sigh'd 
A  lullaby  to  silence. — "  Youth!  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing  through 
Those  files  of  dead,  scatter  the  same  around. 
And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue." — 'Mid  the  sound, 
Of  flutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart, 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart. 
And  scatter'd  in  his  face  some  fragments  light. 
How  lightning-swift  the  change !  a  youthful  wight 
Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem, 
Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturn'd  gem, 
Appear'd,  and,  stepping  to  a  beaiUeous  corse, 
Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest  force 
Press'd  its  cold  hand,  and  wept, — and  Scylla  sigh'd ! 
Endymion,  with  quick  hand,  the  charm  applied — 
The  nymph  arose :  he  left  them  to  their  joy, 
.\nd  onward  went  upon  his  high  employ. 
Showering  those  powerful  fragments  on  the  dead 
And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  its  head, 
As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 
Death  felt  it  to  his  unvards ;  'twas  too  niuch : 
Death  fell  a-weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 
The  Lalmian  persevered  along,  and  thus 
All  were  reanimated.     There  arose 
A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 
Of  gladness  in  the  air — while  many,  who 
Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true 
Sprang  to  each  other  madly  ;  and  the  rest 
Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 
They  gazed  upon  Endymion.     Enchantment 
Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head  and  benu 
Delicious  sym])honies,  like  airy  flowers. 
Budded,  arid  swell'd,  and,  full-blown,  shed  full  show- 
ers 
Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divino 
The  two  deliverers  tasted  a  pure  wine 
Of  happiness,  from  fairy-press  oozed  out. 
Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  about 
The  fiiir  assembly  wandcr'd  to  and  fro, 
Distracted  wifli  the  richest  overflow 
Of  joy  that  ever  pour'd  from  heaven. 

"  Away  ' 

Shouted  the  new-bom  god  ;  "  Follow,  and  pay 
Our  piety  to  N'eptunus  supreme!" — 
Then  Scylla,  blushing  sweetly  from  her  dream, 
555 


24 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  surprise, 
Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size 
Into  the  vaulied,  boundless  emerald. 
Joyous  all  Ibllow'd,  as  the  leader  eall'd, 
Down  marble  steps ;  pouring  as  easily 
As  hour-glass  sand, — and  fast,  as  you  might  see 
Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call. 
Or  swans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 

Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  not  far. 
Ere  from  among  some  rocks  of  glittering  spar. 
Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.    Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they  met. 
And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  w  as  wet ; 
For  each  their  old  love  found.    A  murmuring  rose, 
Like  what  was  never  heard  in  all  the  throes 
Of  wind  and  waters:  'tis  past  human  wit 
To  tell  ,■  'tis  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This  mighty  consummation  made,  the  host 
Moved  on  for  many  a  league  ;  and  gain'd,  and  lost 
Huge  sea-marks;  vanward  swelling  in  array. 
And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away, — 
Till  a  faint  dawn  surprised  them.     Glaucus  cried, 
"  Behold  I  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride ! 
God  Neptune's  palace!"  With  noise  increased. 
They  slioulder'd  on  towards  that  brightening  east. 
At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect, — diamond  gleams  and  golden  glows 
Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring. 
Still  onward  ;  slill  the  splendor  gradual  swell'd. 
Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on  high  upheld 
By  jasper  pillars,  letting  through  their  shafts 
A  blush  of  coral.     Copious  wonder-draughts 
Each  gazer  drank  ;  and  deeper  drank  more  near: 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as  mere 
As  marble  was  there  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fair  palace,  that  fiir  far  surpass'd, 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Baljylon,  and  Kineveh. 

As  large,  as  bright,  as  color'd  as  the  bow 
Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  doth  show 
Beyond  a  silvery  siiowcr,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  tliis  Paphian  army  took  its  march, 
Into  the  oiUer  courts  of  Neptune's  state : 
Whence  could  Ije  seen,  direct,  a  golden  gate. 
To  which  the  leaders  sped  ;  but  not  half  raught 
Ere  it  burst  open  swifl  as  fairy  tiiought, 
And  madv  tlioso  dazzled  thousands  veil  their  eyes 
Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise. 
Soon  with  an  eagle  nativenoss  their  gaze 
Ripe  from  hue-golden  swoons  look  all  the  blaze, 
And  then,  behold  !  large  Neptune  on  his  throne 
Of  emerald  deep :  yet  not  exalt  alone  ; 
At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 
His  left  sal  smiling  Beauty's  paragon. 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  round  upon  the  calmed  vast. 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall ;  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
Their  doming  curtains,  high,  magnificent. 
Awed  from  the  throne  aloof; — and  when  storm-rent 


Disclosed  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's  air , 
But  soothed  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  everywhere 
Noiseless,  submarine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye :  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and  north. 
A  light  as  of  four  sinisels,  blazing  forth 
A  gold-green  zenith  'bove  the  Sea-God's  head. 
Of  lucid  dejjth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As  breezeless  lake,  on  which  the  slim  canoe 
Of  feather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 
The  delicatest  air :  air  verily. 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky : 
This  palace  floor  breath-air, — but  for  the  amaze 
Of  deep-seen  wonders  motionless, — and  blaze 
Of  the  dome  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes, 
Globing  a  golden  sphere. 

They  stood  in  dreams 
Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.     The  palace  rang ; 
The  Nereids  danced  ;  the  Syrens  faintly  sang ; 
And  the  great  Sea-King  bow'd  his  dripping  head. 
Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions  shed 
On  all  the  multitude  a  nectarous  dew. 
The  ooze-born  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 
Fair  Scylla  and  her  guides  to  conference ; 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  throned  eminence 
She  kist  the  sea-nymph's  cheek, — who  sat  her  dowi« 
A  toying  with  the  doves.     Then, — "  Mighty  crown 
And  sceptre  of  this  kingdom!"   Venus  said, 
"  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid  : 
Behold!" — Two  copious  tear-drops  instant  fell 
From  the  God's  large  eyes ;  he  smiled  delectable, 
And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands. — 
"  Endymion  !  Ah!  still  wandering  in  the  bands 
Of  love  ?    Now  this  is  cruel.     Since  the  hour 
I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 
Have  I  put  Ibrlh  to  serve  thee.     What,  not  yet 
Escaped  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net? 
A  little  patience,  3'outh!  'twill  not  be  long. 
Or  I  am  skillcss  quite  :  an  idle  tongue, 
A  humid  eye,  and  steps  luxurious. 
Where  these  are  new  and  strange,  are  ominous. 
Ay,  I  have  seen  these  signs  in  one  of  heaven. 
When  othei-s  were  all  blind ;  and  were  I  given 
To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 
Some  pleasant  words ;  but  Love  will  have  his  day. 
So  wait  awhile  expectant.    Pr'ythee  soon, 
E\en  in  the  passing  of  ihine  honey-moon, 
Visit  my  Cytherea :  thou  wilt  find 
Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind  ; 
And  pray  persuade  with  thee — Ah,  I  have  done, 
All  blisses  be  upon  thee,  my  sweet  son!" — 
Thus  the  fair  goddess:  while  Endymion 
Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water-Monarch.     Nectar  ran 
In  courteous  fountains  to  all  cups  out-reach'd  , 
And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhaustles.s,  bleach'd 
New  growth  about  each  shell  and  pendent  lyre ; 
The  which,  in  entangling  lijr  their  lire, 
Pull'd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture 
For  dainty  toy.     Cupid,  empire-sure, 
Flutter'd  and  laugh'd,  and  oft-times  through  the  throng 
Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  and  song. 
And  garlanding  grew  wild ;  and  pleasure  reign'd. 
In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain'd, 
55(i 


ENDYMION. 


25 


And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deepest  in 
Fresh  crush  of  loaves. 

O  't  is  a  very  sin 
For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  pwor  verse 
In  such  a  place  as  this.    O  do  not  curse. 
High  Muses !  let  him  hurry  to  the  ending. 

All  suddenly  were  silent.    A  soft  blending 
Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly  ; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

"  King  of  the  stormy  sea  ! 
Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 
Of  elements!  Eternally  before 
Thee  tlie  waves  awful  bow.    Fast,  stubborn  rock, 
At  thy  fear'd  trident  shrinking,  dolh  unlock 
Its  deep  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 
All  mountain-rivers  lost,  in  the  wide  home 
Of  thy  capacious  bosom  ever  How. 
Thou  frowiiest,  and  old  Eolus  thy  foe 
Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  grufl'  complaint 
Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.    Dark  clouds  faint 
When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 
Slants  over  blue  dominion.    Thy  bright  team 
Gulfs  in  the  morning  light,  and  scuds  along 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 
Apollo  singelh,  while  his  chariot 
Waits  at  the  doors  of  Heaven.    Thou  art  not 
For  scenes  like  this :  an  empire  stern  hast  thou  ; 
And  it  hath  furrow'd  that  large  front :  yet  now, 
As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 
To  blond  and  interknit 
Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 
0  shell-borne  King  sublime  I 
We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore — 
We  sing,  and  we  adore  I 

"  Breathe  sofily,  flutes  ; 
Be  tender  of  your  strings,  ye  soothing  lutes  ; 
Kor  be  the  trumpet  heard  !  O  vain,  O  vain ! 
Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain, 
IS'or  breath  of  sleeping  dove,  nor  river's  flow, — 
No,  nor  the  Eolian  twang  of  Love's  own  bow, 
Can  mingle  music  tit  for  the  soft  ear 
Of  goddess  Cylherea ! 

Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair  eyes 
On  our  soul's  sacrifice. 


"  Bright-wing'd  Child ! 
Who  has  another  care  when  thou  hast  smiled  ? 
Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last 
All  death  shadows,  and  glooms  that  overcast 
Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pinions. 
O  sweetest  essence!  sweetest  of  all  minions! 
God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair, 
And  panting  bosoms  bare  ! 
Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness  !  eclipser 
Of  light  in  light!  delicious  poisoner! 
Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  -ve  quaff  until 
We  fdl— we  fill! 
And  by  thy  Mother's  lips " 

Was  heard  no  more 
For  clamor,  when  the  golden  palace-door 


Open'd  again,  and  from  without,  in  shone 
A  new  magnificence.    On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old, 
To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheep-fold. 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  for  ever — Then  a  lucid  wave, 
Scoop'd  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid-sea. 
Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 
Of  Doris,  and  the  Egcan  seer,  her  spouse — 
Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 
Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute  : 
His  fingers  went  across  it — All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amphritite,  queen  of  pearls, 
And  Thetis  pearly  too. — 

The  palace  whirls 
Around  giddy  Endymion  ;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortality. 
He  could  not  bear  it — shut  his  eyes  in  vain ; 
Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 
"01  shall  die  !  sweet  Venus,  be  my  stay  ! 
Where  is  my  lovely  mistress  ?  Well-away  ! 
I  die — I  hear  her  voice — I  feel  my  wing — " 
At  Neptune's  feet  he  sank.    A  sudden  ring 
Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  kind  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life  : 
But  still  he  slept.    At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purposed  to  convey 
Towards  a  crystal  bower  far  away. 

Lo  !  while  slow  carried  through  llie  pitying  crowd, 
To  his  inward  senses  those  words  spake  aloud  ; 
Written  in  starlight  on  the  dark  above : 
"  Dearest  Endymion  !  my  entire  love  ! 
How  have  I  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate  :  'tis  done — 
Immortal  bliss  for  me  loo  hast  thou  won. 
Arise  then!  for  the  hen-dove  shall  not  hatch 
Her  ready  eggs,  before  I  '11  ki.ssing  snatch 
Thee  into  endless  heaven.    Awake!  awake!" 

The  youth  at  once  arose  :  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes ;  and  forest  green. 
Cooler  than  all  the  wonder  he  had  seen, 
LulI'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering  breast. 
How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest ! 


BOOK  IV. 


Mi'SE  of  my  native  land  I  loftiest  Muse ! 
O  first-lwrn  on  the  mountains!  by  the  hues 
Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot : 
Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot. 
While  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den ; 
Before  our  forests  heard  the  talk  of  men  ; 
Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child ; — 
Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild, 
Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  .solitude. 
There  came  an  eastern  voice  of  solemn  mood : — 
Yet  wast  thou  patient.    Then  sang  forth  the  Nine, 
Apollo's  garland  : — yet  didst  thou  divine 
Such  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cried  in  vain, 
"Come  hither.  Sister  of  the  Island!"  Plain 
Spake  fair  Ausonin ;  and  once  more  she  spake 
A  higher  summons : — still  didst  thou  lietake 
557 


26 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thee  to  thy  native  hopes.    0  thou  hast  won 

A  full  accomplishment !    The  thing  is  done, 

Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had  risen 

On  barren  souls.  Great  Muse,  thou  knovv'st  what  prison, 

Of  Hesh  and  bone,  curbs,  and  confines,  and  frets 

Our  spirit's  wings  :  despondency  besets 

Our  pillows ;  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  morn 

Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scora 

Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-paced  lives. 

Long  have  I  said.  How  happy  he  who  shrives 

To  thee  I  But  then  I  thought  on  poets  gone. 

And  could  not  pray : — nor  can  I  now — so  on 

I  move  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart. 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  that  I  should  fondly  part 
From  my  dear  native  land  !  Ah,  foolish  maid  ! 
Glad  was  the  hour,  when,  with  thee,  myriads  bade 
Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields! 
To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  freshet  yields 
A  bitter  coolness;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour: 
Yet  I  would  have,  great  gods !  but  one  short  hour 
Of  native  air — let  me  but  die  at  home." 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  offering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows. 
When  these  words  reach'd  him.  Whereupon  he  bows 
His  head  through  thorny-green  entanglement 
Of  underwood,  and  to  the  sound  is  bent. 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

"  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  ?  No  fair  dawn 
Of  life  from  charitable  voice  ?  ]\o  sweet  saying 
To  set  my  dull  and  sadden'd  spirit  playing? 
Ko  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?   I\o  lips  so  sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them  ?  Ao  eyelids  meet 
To  twinkle  on  my  bosom  ?  ]\o  one  dies 
Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes 
Redemption  sparkles  1 — I  am  sad  and  lost." 

Thou,  Carian  lord,  hadst  belter  have  been  tost 
Into  a  whirlpool.    Wanish  into  air. 
Warm  mountaineer!  for  canst  thou  only  bear 
A  woman's  sigh  alone  and  in  distress  ? 
See  not  her  charms !  Is  Phoebe  passionless  ? 
Phoebe  is  fairer  far — O  gaze  no  more  : — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store, 
Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass ! 
Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass 
For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  lain 
Amongst  them?  Feelest  not  a  kindred  pain. 
To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimming  search 
After  some  warm  delighl,  that  seems  to  perch 
Dove-like  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  ui)per  lids  ? — Hist ! 

"  O  for  Hermes'  wand, 
To  touch  this  flower  into  human  shape  I 
That  woodland  Ilyacinlhus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  here  kneeling  down 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair  crown ! 
Ah  me,  how  I  could  love  I — My  soid  doth  melt 
For  the  unhappy  youlh — howl  1  have  felt 
So  faint  a  kindness,  such  a  mock  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made  too  tender. 
That  but  for  tears  my  life  had  fled  away  ! — 
\e  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 


.\nd  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true. 
There  is  no  lightning,  no  authentic  dew 
But  in  the  eye  of  love  :  there's  not  a  sound. 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound 
The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a  death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love :  there 's  not  a  breath 
Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air. 
Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart!" — 

Upon  a  bough 
He  leant,  wretched.    He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  for  another  love  :  O  impious. 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus ! — 
Thought  he,  "Why  am  I  not  as  are  the  dead. 
Since  to  a  woe  like  this  I  have  been  led 
Through  thedark  earth,and  ihroughthc  wondrous  sea? 
Goddess!  I  love  thee  not  the  less:  from  thee 
By  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not — no,  no,  no — 
While  the  great  waters  are  at  ebb  and  flow. — 
I  have  a  triple  soul !    O  fond  pretence — 
For  both,  for  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  in  twain  for  them." 

And  so  he  groan'd,  as  one  by  beauty  slain. 
The  lady's  heart  beat  quick,  and  he  could  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  hea^e  tumultuously. 
He  sprang  from  his  green  covert :  there  she  lay. 
Sweet  as  a  musk-rose  upon  new-made  hay; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
Shut  sofily  up  alive.    To  speak  he  tries: 
"  Fair  damsel,  pity  me !  fo:'give  me  that  I 
Thus  violate  thy  Ijowcr's  sanctity  I 

0  pardon  me,  for  I  am  full  of  grief — 

Grief  born  of  thee,  young  angel !  fairest  thief  I 
Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  wherewith 

1  was  to  top  the  heavens.    Dear  maid,  siih 
Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel 
Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 

Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 
And  all  my  slory  that  much  passion  slew  me: 
Do  smile  upon  the  evening  of  my  days  : 
And,  for  my  tortured  brain  begins  to  craze. 
Be  thou  my  nurse;  and  let  nie  understand 
How  dying  I  shall  kiss  thy  lily  hand. — 
Dost  weep  for  me  ?    Then  should  I  be  content. 
Scowl  on,  ye  fates !  luilil  the  firmament 
Out-blackons  Erebus,  and  the  fuU-cavern'd  earlh 
Crumbles  into  it.self    By  ihc  cloud  girth 
Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  given  me  a  thirst 
To  meet  oblivion." — As  her  heart  would  burst 
The  maiden  sobb'd  awhile,  and  then  replied : 
"  Why  must  such  desolation  betide 
As  that  ihou  speakest  of?  Are  not  these  green  nooks 
EmpI}'  of  all  misfortune  ?  Do  the  brooks 
Ulter  a  gorgon  voice  ?  Docs  yonder  tln'ush, 
Schooling  its  hall-fledged  little  ones  to  brush 
About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  ? — 
Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold  snails 
Will  slime  the  rose  to-night.    Though  if  thou  wilt, 
Methinks  't  would  be  a  guilt — a  very  guilt — 
Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 
The  light — the  dusk — the  dark — till  break  of  day  I' 
"  Dear  lady,"  said  Endymion,  "  'tis  past  ■ 
I  love  thee !  and  my  days  can  never  last. 
That  I  may  pass  in  patience,  still  speak: 
Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  I  seek 
558 


ENDYMION. 


27 


No  more  delight — I  bid  adieu  to  all. 

Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call, 

And  murmur  about  Indian  streams?" — Then  she, 

Sitting  bencaili  the  midmost  forest  tree, 

For  pity  sang  tliis  roundelay 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health  from  vermeil  lips  ? — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  while  rose  bushes  ? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ? — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
To  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ? — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale. 
That  thou  mayst  Usten  the  told  dews  among  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ? — 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day— 

Nor  any  drooping  llower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower. 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

"  To  Sorrow 

I  bade  good  morrow. 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind  ; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly  ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind  : 

I  would  deceive  her. 

And  so  leave  her. 
But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 


"  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river-side, 
I  sat  a-weeping :  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept, — 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

"  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river-side, 
I  sat  a-weeping  :  what  cnamor'd  bride, 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds, 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river-side  ? 

"And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light-blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers :  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue — 

'T  was  Bacchus  and  his  crew  ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 
41  3L 


From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din — 

'T  was  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like  10  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  fiiees  all  on  flame ; 
All  madly  dancing  tiirough  the  pleasant  valley. 

To  scare  thee.  Melancholy ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name  I 
And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when  in  June, 
Tall  chestnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon : — 

I  rushVi  into  the  folly ! 

Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood. 

With  sidelong  laughing ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  amis,  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  ^"enus'  pearly  bite  ; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tii«ily  quafling. 

"  Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels !  whence  came  ye, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate. 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  I 
'  We  follow  Bacchus  I  Bacchus  on  tiie  wing, 

A  conquering! 
Bacchus,  young  Bacclius!  good  or  ill  betide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide : — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy  ! ' 

"  Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs  !  whence  came  ye, 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 

Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ? — 
•  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree : 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms. 

And  cold  mushrooms ; 
For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  eurth ; 
Great  god  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth ! — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  mad  minstrelsy  ! ' 

"Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  wt  went, 
And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent. 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants. 

With  Asian  elephants : 
Onward  these  myriads — with  song  and  dance, 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughters  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide 

Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 

"  Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes. 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains , 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done ; 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
Alx)ut  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 

"  1  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown. 
659 


28 


ECEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring ! 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 
The  kings  of  Ind  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail  ; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans, 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans. 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale. 
Into  these  regions  came  1,  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear. 

Alone,  without  a  peer  : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

"  Young  stranger ! 

I  've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clime  ; 

Alas!  'tis  not  for  me  : 

Bevvitch'd  1  sure  must  be. 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"  Come  then,  Sorrow, 

Sweetest  Sorrow ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee, 

And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

"  There  is  not  one, 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid  ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade." 

O  what  a  sight  she  gave  in  finishing, 
And  look,  quite  dead  to  every  worldly  thing! 
Endymion  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on  her : 
And  listen'd  to  the  wind  that  now  did  slir 
About  the  crisped  oaks  fidl  drearily, 
Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 
Remember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 
At  last  he  said  :  "  Poor  lady,  how  thus  long 
Have  I  been  able  to  endure  tliat  voice  ? 
F'air  Melody!  kind  Syren!  I've  no  choice; 
I  must  be  thy  sad  servant  evermore  : 
I  cannot  choose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 
Alas,  I  must  not  think — by  Phrebe,  no ! 
Lei  me  not  think,  soft  Angel  !  shall  it  be  so  ? 
Say,  beautifullcst,  shall  I  never  think? 

0  thou  couldst  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 
Of  recollection !  make  my  watchful  care 
Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  despair ! 
Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 
Shall  feel  the  other  half  so  utterly ! — 

1  'm  giddy  al  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smooth  ; 
O  let  it  blush  so  ever  :  let  it  soothe 

My  madness!  let  it  mantle  rosy-warm 

With  the  tinge  of  love,  panting  in  safe  alarm. 

This  cannot  be  lliy  hand,  and  yet  it  is; 

And  this  is  sure;  thine  other  sofiling — this 

Thine  own  fiiir  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near! 

Wilt  fall  asleep?  O  lot  me  sip  that  tear! 

And  whisper  one  sweet  word  that  I  may  know 

This  is  the  world— sweet  dewy  blossom!" — Woe! 


Woe!  woe  to  that  Endymion  !  Where  is  he  ? 
Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 
Through  the  wide  forest — a  most  fearful  tone, 
Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan ; 
And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by, 
As  of  a  thunder-cloud.     When  arrows  fly 
Through  the  thick  branches,  poor  ring-doves  sleek 

forth 
Their  timid  necks  and  tremble ;  so  these  both 
Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 
Waiting  for  some  destruction — when  lo ! 
Foot-fealher'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 
Beyond  the  tall  tree-tops ;  and  in  less  time 
Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-storm,  down  he  dropt 
Towards  the  ground ;  but  rested  not,  nor  slept 
One  moment  from  his  home  :  only  the  sward 
He  with  his  wand  light  touch'd,  and  heavenward 
Swifter  than  sight  was  gone — even  before 
The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  lx)re 
Of  his  sw^ift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 
Above  the  crystal  circlings  white  and  clear  ; 
And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise. 
How  they  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen  rise — 
So  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet-black. 
Each  with  large  dark-blue  wings  upon  his  back. 
The  youth  of  Caria  placed  the  lovely  dame 
On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 
The  other's  fierceness.     Through  the  air  they  flew 
High  as  the  eagles.     Like  two  drops  of  dew 
Exhaled  to  Phoebus'  lips,  away  they  are  gone. 
Far  from  the  earth  away — unseen,  alone. 
Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the  free, 
The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 
Above  their  heads,  and  follow  them  untired. 
Muse  of  my  native  land  !  am  I  inspired  ? 
This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  I  must  spread 
Wide  pinions  to  keep  here ;  nor  do  I  dread 
Or  height,  or  depth,  or  width,  or  any  chance 
Precipitous :  I  have  beneath  my  glance 
Those  towering  horses  and  their  mournful  freight. 
Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see,  and  thus  await 
Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without  thine  aid?— 
There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 
From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  behold 
Those  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils  bold 
Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to  tire, 
Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire ! 


There  curl'd  a  purple  mist  around  them ;  soon, 
It  seem'd  as  when  around  the  pale  new  moon 
Sad  Zephyr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping  willow: 
'Twas  Sleep  slow  journeying  with  head  on  pillow 
For  the  first  time,  since  he  came  nigh  dead-lx)rn 
From  the  old  womb  of  night,  his  cave  forlorn 
Had  he  left  more  forlorn  ;  lor  tlie  first  time. 
He  felt  aloof  the  day  and  morning's  prime — 
Because  into  his  depth  Cimmerian 
There  came  a  dream,  showing  how  a  young  man. 
Ere  a  lean  bat  could  plump  its  wintery  skin. 
Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  footstool  win 
An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 
Jove's  daughter,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his  house. 
Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's  gate, 
That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour  wait 
To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 
Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again. 
560 


ENDYMION. 


29 


His  litter  of  smooth  seiniliicont  mist, 

Diversely  tiiigi-d  with  n)se  and  amethyst. 

Puzzled  those  eyes  that  for  the  centre  sought ; 

And  scarcely  for  one  moment  could  be  caught 

His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 

Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the  stress 

Of  vision  searched  for  him,  as  one  would  look 

Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 

To  catch  a  glance  at  silver-throated  eels, — 

Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  conceals 

His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale. 

With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant  vale, 

Descry  a  favorite  hamlet  faint  and  far. 

These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster'd  are 
Of  earth's  splenetic  fire,  dully  drop 
Their  full-vein"d  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide,  and  stop ; 
Upon  the  spiritless  mist  have  they  outspread 
Their  ample  feathers,  are  in  slumber  <lead, — 
And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid-air, 
Endymion  sleepcth  and  the  la<ly  fair. 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting:  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.    Behold  !  he  walks 
On  heaven's  jiavenient ;  brotherly  he  talks 
To  divine  powers :  from  his  hand  full  fain 
Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  pearly  grain : 
He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoebus'  golden  bow, 
And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow : 
Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield,  • 

And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 
A  Jovian  thunderbolt :  arch  Hebe  brings 
A  full-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 
And  tantalizes  long;  at  last  he  drinks. 
And  lost  in  pleasure  at  her  feet  he  sinks, 
Touching  with  dazzled  lips  her  starlight  hand, 
He  blows  a  bugle, — an  ethereal  band 
Are  visible  above  :  the  Seasons  four, — 
Green-kirtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden  store 
In  Autumn's  si<kle.  Winter  frosty  hoar. 
Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours;  while  still  the  blast, 
In  swells  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 
To  sway  their  floating  morris.    "  Whose  is  this  ? 
Whose  bugle  ?"  he  inquires:  they  smile — "O  Dis ! 
Why  is  this  mortal  here  i    Dost  thou  not  know 
Its  mistress'  lips  ?  Not  thou  ? — 'Tis  Dian's  :  lo  ! 
She  rises  crescented  ! "  He  looks,  't  is  she, 
His  very  goddess :  good-bye  earth,  and  sea, 
And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suffering ; 
Good-bye  to  all  but  love !    Then  dolh  he  spring 
Towards  her,  and  awake.s — and,  strange,  o'erhead, 
Of  those  same  fragrant  exhalations  bred. 
Beheld  awake  his  very  dream  :  the  Gods 
Stood  smiling;  merry  Hebe  laughs  and  nods; 
And  Phoebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 
O  state  perplexing !  On  the  pinion  bed. 
Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side 
Of  his  delicious  lady.    He  who  died 
For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun, 
Where  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to  run. 
Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  Endymion. 
His  heart  lea[)t  up  as  to  its  rightful  throne. 
To  that  fair-shadow'd  passion  pulsed  its  way — 
Ah,  what  perplexity!  Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bed-fellow, 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her :  then  he  grew 


Awhile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save 

Young  Pha'be's,  goklen-liuir'd  ;  and  so  'gan  crave 

Forgiveness:  yet  he  turn'd  once  more  to  look 

.\t  tlie  sweet  sleeper, — all  his  soul  was  shook, — 

She  press'd  his  hand  in  slumber;  so  once  more 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 

At  this  the  shadow  wejtt,  nulling  away. 

The  Lalmian  started  up:   "  Hriglu  goddess,  sl*v  I 

Search  my  most  hidden  breast  1  Hy  truth's  own  tongue, 

I  have  no  dii>dal  heart:  why  is  ii  wrung 

To  desperation  ?  Is  there  naught  for  me. 

Upon  the  bourn  of  bliss,  but  misery?" 


These  words  awoke  the  stranger  oi  dark  tresses: 
Her  dawning  love-look  rapt  Endymion  blesses 
Willi  'havior  soft.    Sleep  yavvn'd  from  uiiderueath. 
"  Thou  swan  of  Ganges,  let  us  no  inore  breathe 
This  murky  phantasm!  thou  contented  seem'st 
Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  drcam'st 
What  horrors  may  discomiiirt  thee  and  mo. 
Ah,  shouldst  thou  die  from  my  hearl-ircachery ! — 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep — her  gcnlle  soul 
Halh  no  revenge  in  it ;  as  it  is  whole 
In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love ! 
Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above, 
Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence  t 
I  do,  I  do. — What  is  this  soul  then  ?   Whence 
Came  it?  It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 
Some  fearful  end  must  be  ;  where,  w  here  is  it  ? 
By  Nemesis !  I  see  my  spirit  flit 
Alone  about  the  dark — I'orgive  me,  sweet ! 
Shall  we  away  ?"    He  roused  the  sieeds;  they  beat 
Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air. 
Leaving  old  Sleep  within  his  vapory  Ihir. 

The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning  slow, 
And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  the  dusk  heavens  silvery,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 
Nor  did  speed  hinder  converse  soft  and  strange — 
Eternal  oaths  and  vows  lliey  inierchange, 
In  such  wise,  in  such  temiJer,  so  aloof 
Up  in  the  winds,  benealli  a  starry  roof, 
So  witless  of  their  doom,  that  verily 
'Tis  well-nigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts  to  see. 
Whether  they  wept,  or  laugh'd,  or  grieved,  or  toy'd — 
Most  like  wilh  joy  gone  mad,  with  .sorrow  cloy'd. 


Full  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  ebon  streak 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak, 
No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star. 
Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  scimitar ; 
Bright  signal  that  she  only  sioop'd  to  tie 
Her  silver  sandals,  ere  deliciously 
She  bow'd  into  the  heavens  her  timid  head. 
Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have  fled 
While  to  his  lady  meek  tiic  Carian  turn'd. 
To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  had  yet  discern'd 
This  beauty  in  its  birth — Despair!  despair! 
He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 
In  the  cold  moonshine.  Straight  he  seized  hervvnst; 
It  melted  from  his  grasp ;  her  hand  he  kiss'd, 
And,  horror !  kiss'd  his  own — he  was  alone. 
561 


30 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Iler  steed  a  little  higher  soar'd,  and  then 
Dropt  havvkwise  to  the  earth. 

There  lies  a  den, 
Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  trace 
Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms. 
Dark  regions  are  around  it,  wliere  the  tombs 
Of  buried  gl-iefs  the  spirit  sees,  but  scarce 
One  hour  doth  linger  weeping,  for  the  pierce 
Of  new-born  woe  it  feels  more  inly  smart : 
And  in  these  regions  many  a  venom'd  dart 
At  random  flies  ;  they  are  the  proper  home 
Of  every  ill :  the  man  is  yet  to  come 
Who  halh  not  journey 'd  in  this  native  hell. 
But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 
Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 
There  anguish  does  not  sting,  nor  pleasure  pall ; 
Woe-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate. 
Yet  all  is  still  v^iihin  and  desolate. 
Beset  with  plainful  gusts,  within  ye  hear 
Ko  sound  so  loud  as  when  on  curtain'd  bier 
Tlie  death-walch  lick  is  stilled.    Enter  none 
Who  strive  tlierefor:  on  tlie  sudden  it  is  won. 
Just  when  the  sufferer  begins  to  burn, 
Then  it  is  free  to  him;  and  from  an  urn, 
Still  fed  by  melting  ice,  he  takes  a  draught — 
Young  Semele  such  richness  never  quaft 
In  her  maternal  longing.    Happy  gloom  ! 
Dark  Parailise !  where  pale  becomes  the  bloom 
Of  health  l)y  due  ;  where  silence  dreariest 
Is  most  arliculate;  where  hopes  infest; 
\\'liere  those  eyes  are  the  brigiitest  far  that  keep 
Their  lids  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
0  happy  spirit-home  !  O  wondrous  soul ! 
Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 
In  tliine  own  deplh.    Hail,  genllo  Carian  I 
For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began, 
Hast  thou  felt  so  content :  a  grievous  feud 
Hath  led  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 
Aye,  his  lull'd  soul  was  there,  although  upborne 
With  dangerous  speed  :  and  so  he  did  not  mourn 
Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 
Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley  from  the  east 
Could  rouse  from  ihat  line  relish,  that  high  feast. 
They  stung  the  feather'd  horse ;  with  fierce  alarm 
He  tlapp'd  towards  the  sound.    Alas!  no  charm 
Could  lift  Endymion's  head,  or  he  had  vievv'd 
A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion "d  multitude, — 
And  silvery  was  ils  p.-i.ssing :  voices  sweet 
Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet 
The  wanderer  in  his  path.    Thus  warbled  they, 
Wliile  i^ist  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 

"  Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 
For  all  the  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left  ?  Who,  who  away  would  be 
From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity  ? 
Not  Hesperus:  lol  npon  his  silver  wings 
He  leans  away  fijr  highest  heaven  and  sings, 
Snapping  liis  lucid  fingers  merrily  I — 
Ah,  Zephyrus  !  art  here,  and  Flora  too  I 
Ye  tender  Ijibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew. 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  datlbdil, 
Re  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 


Your  baskets  high 
With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden  pines, 
Savory,  latter-mint,  and  columbines. 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sw  oet,  and  sunny  thyme ; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
All  gather'd  in  the  dewy  morning :  hie 

Away!  fly,  fly  !— 
Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius!  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 
Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'slead  of  feather'd  wings, 
Two  liin-like  fountains, — thine  illuminings 

For  Dian  play : 
Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air ; 
Let  thy  white  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Show  cold  through  watery  pinions ;  make  more  bright 
The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage  night : 

Haste,  haste  away ! 
Castor  has  tamed  the  planet  Lion,  see ! 
And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery : 
A  third  is  in  the  race !  who  is  the  third, 
Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird  ? 

The  ramping  Centaur! 
The  Lion's  mane 's  on  end  :  the  Bear  how  fierce ! 
The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy :  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.    He'll  be  shent, 

Pale  unrelenior. 
When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a-playing. — 
Andromeda!  sweet  v\oman!  why  delaying 
So  tiiajdly  among  the  stars?  come  hither! 
Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  follow  whitlier 

They  all  are  going. 
Dana;'s  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd. 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthral : 
Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  all 

Thy  tears  are  flowing. — 
By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo  ! — " 

More 
Endymion  heard  not:  down  his  steed  liirn  bore, 
Prone  to  the  green  head  of  a  misty  lull. 

His  first  touch  of  the  earth  went  nigh  to  kill. 
"  Alas ! "  said  he,  "  w  ere  I  but  always  borne 
Througli  dangerous  winds,  had  but  my  footsteps  worn 
A  path  in  hell,  for  ever  would  1  hless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness  / 

For  my  own  sullen  conquering ;  to  him 
Who  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief  is  dim, 
Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow' :  now  I  see 
The  grass;  I  feel  the  solid  ground — Ah,  me! 
It  is  thy  voice — divines;  1.  Where? — who?  who 
Left  thee  .so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew  ? 
Behold  uiiou  this  hai)py  earth  we  are; 
Let  us  aye  love  each  other ;  let  us  fare 
On  forest-fruits,  and  never,  never  go 
Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below, 
Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.    O  destiny! 
Into  a  labyrinth  now^  my  soul  would  fly. 
But  with  thy  beauty  will  I  deaden  it. 
Where  didst  thou  melt  too  '.    By  thee  will  I  sit 
For  ever :  let  our  fate  stop  here — a  kid 
I  on  this  spot  will  offer :  Pan  will  bid 
Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 
His  forest  wildernesses.    I  have  clung 
562 


ENDYMION. 


3J 


To  notliing,  loved  a  notliing,  nothing  seen 

Or  felt  but  a  great  dream  !  Oh,  I  have  been 

Presumptuous  against  love,  against  the  sky, 

Against  all  ekMrents,  against  the  tie 

Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 

Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  the  tombs 

Of  heroes  gone  I  Against  his  proper  glory 

Has  my  own  soul  conspired  :  so  my  story 

Will  I  to  children  utter,  and  repent. 

There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 

His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 

Bui  starved  and  died.     My  sweetest  Indian,  here, 

Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 

My  life  from  too  liiin  breathing :  gone  and  past 

Are  cloudy  phantasms.     Caverns  lone,  farewell ! 

And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 

Of  visionary  seas  I  No,  never  more 

Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 

Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 

Adieu,  my  daintiest  Dream  I  although  so  vast 

My  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour  may  come 

When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 

On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee ;  and  therefore 

Doves  will  I  offer  up,  and  sweetest  store 

All  through  the  teeming  year :  so  thou  wilt  shine. 

On  me,  and  on  this  damsel  iair  of  mine. 

And  bless  our  simple  lives.     My  Indian  bliss ! 

My  river-lily  hud  !  one  human  kiss  I 

One  sigh  of  real  breath — one  gentle  squeeze, 

Warm  as  a  dove's  nest  among  summer  trees, 

And  warm  with  dews  that  ooze  from  living  blood! 

Whither  didst  melt  !  Ah,  what  of  that  ? — all  good 

We'll  talk  about — no  more  of  dreaming. — Now, 

Where  shall  our  dwelling  be  ?  Under  the  brow 

Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 

Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring  leaves  were  none  ; 

And  where  dark  yew-trees,  as  we  rustle  through. 

Will  drop  their  scarlet-berry  cups  of  dew  ? 

0  thou  wouldst  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place ! 
Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to  grace 
Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclined  : 

For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou  find, 

And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below, 

See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go 

All  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 

Honey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I'll  bring. 

And  apples,  wan  with  sweetness,  gather  thee, — 

Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them  see. 

And  .sorrel  untorn  by  tiie  dew-claw'd  stag : 

Pipes  will  I  fashion  of  the  syrinx  flag. 

That  thou  mnj'st  always  know  whither  I  roam, 

When  it  shall  please  thee  in  our  quiet  home 

To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me  speak; 

Still  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek, — 

For  yet  the  past  doth  prison  me.     The  rill, 

Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fdl 

With  fairy  fishes  from  the  mountain  tarn, 

And  thou  shall  feed  them  from  the  squirrel's  bam. 

Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells. 

And  pebbles  blue  from  deep  enchanted  wells. 

Its  sides  I'll  plant  with  dew-sweet  eglantine, 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 

1  will  entice  this  crj-stal  rill  to  trace 
Love's  silver  name  upon  the  meadow's  face. 
I  '11  kneel  lo  V'esia,  for  a  flame  of  fire ; 
And  to  god  Phoebus,  for  a  golden  lyre ; 

To  F.mpress  Dian,  for  a  hunting-spear ; 
To  N'esper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear, 
41* 


That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through  the  night ; 
To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 
Tamo  on  lliy  finger;  to  the  Kiver-gods, 
And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper  fishing-rods 
Of  gold,  and  lines  of  IS'aiad's  long  bright  tress. 
Heaven  shield  thee  lor  thine  utier  loveliness ! 
Thy  mossy  fiwtstool  shall  the  altar  be 
Tore  which  I  '11  bend,  bending,  dear  love,  to  thee  : 
Those  lips  shall  be  my  Delphos,  and  shall  speak 
Laws  to  my  footsteps,  color  t"  my  cheek. 
Trembling  or  siedfastncss  to  rh/s  same  voice, 
And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  the  choice : 
And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond  things. 
Those   eyes,    those    pa.ssions,    those    supreme   pearl 

springs. 
Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  pleasure. 
Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seizute  ? 
O  that  I  could  not  doubt  ?" 


The  mountaineer 
Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to  clear 
His  brier'd  path  to  some  tranquillity. 
It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye. 
And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of  sorrow ; 
Answering  thus,  just  as  the  golden  morrow 
Beam'd  upward  from  the  valleys  of  the  east : 
"O  that  the  flutter  of  this  heart  had  ceased. 
Or  the  sweet  name  of  love  had  pass'd  awav .' 
Young  fealher'd  tyrant  I  by  a  swift  decay 
Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth : 
And  I  do  think  that  at  my  verj-  birth 
I  lisp'd  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly ; 
For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thought  of  tliee. 
With  uplift  hands  I  blest  the  stars  of  heaven. 
Art  thou  not  cruel  ?  F.ver  have  I  striven 
To  think  thee  kind,  but  ah,  it  will  not  do ! 
When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 
Favor  from  thee,  and  so  I  kisses  gave 
To  the  void  air,  bidding  them  find  out  love : 
But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  far  atx)ve 
All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood 
All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagined  good. 
Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss,    - 
Even  then,  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of  this. 
Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers. 
And  languish'd  there  three  days.   Ye  milder  powers 
Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd  ?  Believe,  believe 
Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 
With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet  lite. 
Thou  shouldst  bo  one  of  all.     Ah,  bitter  strife! 
I  may  not  be  thy  love :  I  am  forbidden — 
Indeed  I  am — thwarted,  affrighted,  chidden 
By  things  I  trembled  at,  and  gorgon  wralh. 
Twice  hast  thou  ask'd  whither  I  went :  henceforrh 
Ask  me  no  more  I  I  may  not  utter  it, 
IVor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  commit 
Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance ;  we  might  die , 
We  might  embrace  and  die :  voluptuous  thought 
Enlarge  not  to  my  hunger,  or  I  'm  caught 
In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness. 
No.  no,  that  shall  not  be:  thee  will  I  bless. 
And  bid  a  long  adieu." 


No  word  retum'd 


The  Carian 
both  lovelorn,  silent,  wan, 
5C3 


^2 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Into  the  valleys  green  together  went. 
Far  wandering  they  were  perforce  content 
To  sit  beneath  a  fair,  lone  beechen  tree ; 
Nor  at  each  other  gazed,  but  heavily 
Pored  on  it.s  hazel  cirque  of  shedded  leaves. 

Endymion  !  unhappy  !  it  nigh  grieves 
Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme : 
Enskied  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-born  song. 
Thy  lute-voiced  brother  will  I  sing  ere  long. 
And  thou  shalt  aid — hast  thou  not  aided  me  ? 
Yes,  moonlight  Emperor  I  felicity 
Has  been  thy  meed  for  many  thousand  years  ,- 
Yet  often  have  I,  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
Mourn'd  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester ; — 
Forgetting  the  old  tale. 

He  did  not  stir 
His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  pulse 
Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.     The  spirit  culls 
ITnfaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days. 
A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  his  first  soft  popjiy  dream ; 
And  on  the  very  bark  'gainst  which  he  leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carved,  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  little  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  svvoH'n  and  green'd  the  pious  charactery. 
But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  there  v\  as  not  a  slope 
I' p  which  he  had  not  fear'd  the  antelope ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  shade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd  ; 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin, 
FMy  in  the  air  where  his  had  never  been — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

0  treacliery ! 
Why  do'is  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 
With  all  his  sorrowing  ?  He  sees  her  not. 
Rut  who  so  stares  on  him  ?  His  sister,  sure  ! 
Peona  of  the  woods  I  Can  she  endure — 
impossible — how  dearly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles  ;  delight  is  in  her  face; 
It  is  no  treachery. 

"  Dear  brother  mine  ! 
Endymion,  weep  not  sol  Why  shouldst  thou  pine 
When  all  great  Laimos  .so  exalt  will  be  ? 
Thank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bitterly; 
And  speak  not  one  pale  word,  and  sigh  no  more. 
Sure  I  will  not  believe  thou  hast  such  store 
Of  grief,  to  last  thee  to  my  kiss  again. 
Vliou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  in  pain, 
Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beautiful, 
r.e  happy  both  of  you  !  for  1  will  pull 
The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 
Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  calls; 
And  when  he  is  restored,  thou,  fairest  dame, 
Shalt  be  onr  queen.     Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 
To  see  ye  thus, — not  very,  very  sad  ? 
Perhaps  ye  are  too  happy  to  be  glad  : 
O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day ; 
Free-voiced  as  one  who  never  was  away. 


No  tongue  shall  ask,  whence  come  ye  ?  but  ye  shall 
Re  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 
Not  even  I,  fi)r  one  whole  month,  will  pry 
Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by, 
Since  in  my  arlM)r  I  did  sing  to  thee. 
O  Hermes !  on  this  very  night  will  be 
A  hymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queen  of  light; 
For  the  soollisayers  old  saw  yesternight 
Good  visions  in  the  air, — whence  will  befall, 
As  say  these  sages,  health  perpetual 
To  shepherds  ami  their  flocks ;  and  furthermore, 
In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore : 
Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  are. 
Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and  far. 
IMany  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made  ; 
And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shade 
With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 
New  singing  for  our  maids  shalt  thou  devise, 
-And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  huntsmen's  brows. 
Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 
This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys  I 
His  eyes  are  on  thee  bent,  as  thou  didst  poise 
His  fate  most  goddess-like.     Help  me,  I  pray, 
To  lure — Endymion,  dear  brother,  say 
What  ails  thee  > "  He  could  bear  no  more,  and  so 
Rent  his  soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow. 
And  twang'd  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said  : 
"  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet  maid! 
My  only  visitor  !  not  ignorant  though. 
That  those  deceplious  which  for  pleasure  go 
'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may  be : 
But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see. 
If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 
Since  I  saw  thee,  1  have  been  wide  awake 
Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 
Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 
Let  it  content  thee,  Sister,  seeing  me 
More  happy  than  betides  mortality. 
A  hermit  young,  I  '11  live  in  mossy  cave, 
Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  me,  and  lave 
Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  1  shall  tell. 
Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well 
For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 
.\nd,  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 
With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 
Peona,  mayst  return  to  me.     I  own 
Tills  may  sound  strangely :  but  when,  dearest  girl, 
Thou  seest  it  ibr  my  happiness,  no  pearl 
Will  tresjjass  down  those  cheeks.     Companion  fair' 
Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 
This  sister's  love  wiih  me  ?"  Like  one  resign'd 
And  bent  by  circumstances,  and  thereby  blind 
In  self-commitment,  thus  that  meek  unknown: 
"  Ay,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown, 
Of  jubilee  to  Dian  ; — truth  I  heard  ! 
Well  then,  I  see  there  is  no  liitle  bird. 
Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 
Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and,  unaware, 
Rehold  I  find  it  I  so  exalted  too ! 
So  after  my  own  heart!  I  knew,  I  knew 
There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  it ; 
In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit, 
.\nd  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 
With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 
Of  Dian's  sisterhood  ;  and,  kind  lady. 
With  thy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall  see 
564 


ENDYMION. 


33 


My  future  days  to  licr  fane  consecrate." 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doth  most  create 
His  own  particular  fright,  so  these  three  felt: 
Or  like  one,  who,  in  after  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  Baal,  when  he  'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep:  or  when  in  mine 
Far  under-ground,  a  sleeper  meets  his  friends 
Who  know  him  not.     Each  diligently  bends 
Tow'rds  common  thoughts  and  things  for  very  fear ; 
Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer, 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no. 
That  housewives  talk  of     But  the  spirit-blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.     At  the  last 
Endymion  said  :  "  Are  not  our  fates  all  cast  ? 
Why  stand  we  here  ?  Adieu,  ye  tender  pair' 
Adieu  I"  Whereat  those  maidens,  with  wild  stare, 
Walk"d  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 
His  eyes  went  after  them,  until  they  got 
Near  to  a  cypress  grove,  whose  deadly  maw, 
In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he  saw 
Ingulf  for  ever.     "  Stay  !"  he  cried,  "  ah,  stay  ! 
Turn,  damsels !  hist !  one  word  I  have  to  say  : 
Sweet  Indian,  I  would  .«ce  thee  once  again. 
It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on  :  so  I  'd  fain, 
Peona,  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair, 
Into  those  holy  groves  that  silent  are 
Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I'll  be  yon, 
At  vesper's  earliest  twinkle — they  are  gone — 
But  once,  once,  once  again — "  At  this  he  press'd 
His  hands  against  his  face,  and  then  did  rest 
His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green. 
And  so  remain'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 
All  the  long  day;  save  when  he  scantly  lifted 
His  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 
With  the  slow  move  of  time, — sluggish  and  weary 
Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary. 
Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he  rose, 
And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 
Walk'd  tow'rds  the  temple-grove  with  this  lament: 
"  Why  such  a  golden  eve  ?    The  breeze  is  sent 
Careful  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  fall 
Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 
Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the  west. 
Now  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed  possest, 
But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 
To  her  lor  the  last  time.     Psight  will  strew 
On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingering  leaves, 
And  with  them  shall  I  die ;  nor  much  it  grieves 
To  die,  when  summer  dies  on  the  cold  sward. 
Why,  I  have  been  a  butterfly,  a  lord 
Of  flowers,  garlands,  love-knots,  silly  posies, 
Groves,  meadows,  melodies,  and  arbor-roses; 
My  kingdom's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is 
That  I  should  die  with  it:  so  in  all  this 
We  miscall  grief  bale,  sorrow,  heart-break,  woe. 
What  is  there  to  plain  of?    By  Titan's  foe 
I  am  but  rightly  served."     So  saying,  he 
Tripp'd  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathful  glee  ; 


Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting  sun. 
As  though  ihey  jests  had  been  :  nor  had  he  done 
His  laugh  at  Nature's  holy  countenance. 
Until  that  grove  appear'd,  as  if  perchance, 
And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seemlihed 
Gave  utterance  as  he  enter'd  :  "  Ha  !"   I  said, 
"  King  of  the  butterflies ;  but  by  this  gloom. 
And  by  old  Khadamanthus'  tongue  of  doom, 
This  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude. 
And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued, 
By  old  Saturnus'  forelock,  by  his  head 
Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  I  did  wed 
Myself  to  things  of  light  from  infancy; 
And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die, 
Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man 
Grow  impious."     So  he  inwardly  began 
On  things  for  which  no  wording  can  be  found ; 
Deeper  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown'd 
Beyond  the  reach  of  music :  for  the  choir 
Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough  brier 
Nor  muffling  thicket  interposed  to  dull 
The  vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  soft  and  full. 
Through  the  dark  pillars  of  those  sylvan  aisles.' 
He  saw  not  the  two  maidens,  nor  their  smiles. 
Wan  as  primroses  gather'd  at  midnight 
By  chilly-flnger'd  spring.    "  Unhappy  wight ! 
Endymion!"  said  Peona,  "we  are  here! 
What  wouldst  thou  ere  we  all  are  laid  on  bier  ? " 
Then  he  embraced  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 
Press'd,  saying  :  "  Sister,  I  would  have  command. 
If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate." 
At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood  elate, 
And  said,  in  a  new  voice,  but  sweet  as  love. 
To  Endymion's  amaze  :  "  By  Cupid's  dove, 
And  so  thou  shall !  and  by  the  lily  truth 
Of  my  own  breast  thou  shalt,  beloved  youth ! " 
And  as  she  spake,  into  her  face  there  cam 
Light,  as  reflecte<l  from  a  silver  flame  : 
Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  display 
Full  golden ;  in  her  eyes  a  brighter  day 
Dawn'd  blue  and  full  of  love.    Ay,  he  beheld 
Pha?be,  his  passion!  joyous  she  upheld 
Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus  :  "  Drear,  drear 
Has  our  delaying  been ;  but  foolish  fear 
Wiihheld  me  fii>t ;  and  then  decrees  of  fate  ; 
And  then  'twas  fit  that  from  this  mortal  state 
Thou  shouldst,  my  love,  by  some;  unlook'd-for  change 
Be  spiritualized.     Peona,  we  shall  range 
These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  .safe  shall  be 
As  was  thy  cradle ;  hither  shalt  thou  flee 
To  meet  us  many  a  time."     Next  Cynthia  bright 
Peona  kiss'd,  and  bless'd  with  iiiir  good-night: 
Her  brother  lvi.ss'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 
Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon. 
She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold. 
Before  three  swiftest  kisses  he  had  told. 
They  vanish'd  far  a\\  ay  ! — Peona  w  ent 
Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  wonderment 
565 


34 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hawia* 


PART  I. 


Upon  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 

Drove  Nymph  and  Satyr  from  the  prosperous  woods, 

Before  King  Oberon's  bright  diadem, 

Sceptre,  and  mantle,  clasp'd  vvitli  dewy  gem, 

Frighted  away  the  Dryads  and  the  Fauns 

From  rushes  green,  and  brakes,  and  cowsHp'd  lawTis, 

The  ever-smitten  Hermes  empty  left 

His  golden  throne,  bent  warm  on  amorous  theft : 

From  high  Olympus  had  he  stolen  light. 

Oil  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the  sight 

Of  his  great  summoner,  and  made  retreat 

Into  a  forest  on  the  shores  of  Crete. 

For  somewhere  in  that  sacred  island  dwelt 

A  nymph,  to  whom  all  hoofed  Satyrs  knelt ; 

At  whose  white  feet  the  languid  Tritons  pour'd 

Pearls,  while  on  land  they  wither'd  and  adored. 

Fast  by  the  springs  where  she  to  bathe  was  wont, 

And  in  those  meads  where  sometimes  she  might  haunt, 

Were  strewn  rich  gifis,  unknown  to  any  Muse, 

Though  Fancy's  casket  were  unlock'd  to  choose. 

Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet ! 

So  Hermes  thought,  and  a  celestial  heat 

Burnt  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear. 

That  from  a  whiteness,  as  the  lily  clear, 

Blush'd  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair. 

Fallen  in  jealous  curls  about  his  shoulders  bare. 

From  vale  to  vale,  from  wood  to  wood,  he  flew, 

Breathing  upon  the  flowers  his  passion  new, 

And  wound  with  many  a  river  to  its  head. 

To  find  where  this  sweet  nymph  prepared  her  secret 

bed : 
In  vain  ;  the  sweet  nymph  might  nowhere  be  found 
And  so  he  rested,  on  the  lonely  ground. 
Pensive,  and  full  of  painful  jealousies 
Of  the  Wood-Gods,  and  even  ihe  very  frees. 
There  as  he  stood,  he  heard  a  mournful  voice. 
Such  as  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart,  destroys 
All  pain  but  pity  :  thus  ihe  lone  voice  spake : 
"  When  from  this  wreathed  tomb  shall  I  awake  ? 
When  move  in  a  sweet  body  fit  for  life. 
And  love,  and  pleasure,  and  the  ruddy  strife 
Of  hearts  and  li|)s?  Ah,  miserable  me!" 
The  God,  dovc-tboled,  glided  silently 
Round  bush  and  tree,  -soft-brushing,  in  his  speed. 
The  taller  grasses  and  full-flowering  weed, 
ITntil  he  found  a  palpitating  snake. 
Bright,  and  cirque-couchant  in  a  dusky  brake. 


She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue. 
Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue  ; 
Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard. 
Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson-barr'd  ; 
And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed. 
Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  interwreathed 
Their  lustres  with  tlie  gloomier  tapestries — 
So  rainliow-sided,  louch'd  with  miseries, 
She  seem'd,  at  once,  some  penanced  lady  elf. 
Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 


Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 
Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar : 
Her  head  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter-.=iweet ! 
She  had  a  woman's  mouth  with  all  its  pearls  complete 
And  for  her  eyes — what  could  such  eyes  do  there 
But  weep,  and  weep,  that  they  were  born  so  fair  ? 
As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian  air. 
Her  throat  was  serpent,  but  the  words  she  spake 
Came,  as  through  bubbling  honey,  for  Love's  sake, 
And  thus ;  while  Hermes  on  his  pinions  lay. 
Like  a  stoop'd  falcon  ere  he  takes  his  prey : 

"  Fair  Hermes !  crown'd  with  feathers,  fluttering 

light, 
I  had  a  splendid  dream  of  thee  last  night: 
I  saw  thee  sitting,  on  a  throne  of  gold, 
Among  the  Gods,  upon  Olympus  old. 
The  only  sad  one  ;  for  thou  didst  not  hear 
The  soft,  lute-fmger'd  Muses  chanting  clear. 
Nor  even  Apollo  when  he  sang  alone, 
Deaf  to  his  throbbing  throat's  long,  long  melodious 

moan. 
I  dreamt  I  saw  thee,  robed  in  purple  flakes, 
Break  amorous  through  the  clouds,  as  morning  breaks. 
And,  swiftly  as  a  bright  Pha?bean  dart. 
Strike  for  the  Cretan  isle ;  and  here  thou  art  I 
Too  gentle  Hermes,  hast  thou  found  the  maid?" 
Whereat  the  star  of  Lethe  not  delay'd 
His  rosy  eloquence,  and  thus  inquired  : 
"  Thou  smooth-lipp'd  serpent,  surely  high  inspired  ! 
Thou  beauteous  wreath  with  melancholy  eyes, 
Possess  whatever  bliss  thou  canst  devise. 
Telling  me  only  where  my  nymph  is  fled, — 
Where  she  doth  breathe ! "  "  Bright  planet,  thou  hast 

said," 
Return 'd  the  snake,  "  but  seal  with  oaths,  fair  God  I" 
"  I  swear,"  said  Hermes,  "  by  my  serpent  rod. 
And  by  thine  eyes,  and  by  thy  starry  crown!" 
Light  flew  his  earnest  words,  among  the  blossoms 

blown. 
Then  thus  again  the  brilliance  feminine  : 
"  Too  frail  of  heart !  for  this  lost  nymph  of  thine. 
Free  as  the  air,  invisibly,  she  strays 
About  these  thornless  wilds ;  her  pleasant  days 
She  tastes  unseen  ;  unseen  her  nimble  feet 
Leave  traces  in  the  grass  and  flowers  sweet  : 
From  weary  tendrils,  and  bow'd  branches  green. 
She  plucks  the  fruit  unseen,  she  bathes  unseen: 
And  by  my  power  is  her  beauty  veil'd 
To  keep  it  unafl^ronted,  unassail'd 
By  the  love-glances  of  unlovely  eyes, 
Of  Satyrs,  Fauns,  and  blear'd  Silenus'  sighs. 
Pale  grew  her  immortality,  for  woe 
Of  all  these  lovers,  and  she  grieved  so 
I  took  compassion  on  her,  bade  her  steep 
Her  hair  in  weird  syro]:)S,  that  would  keep 
Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 
To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 
Thou  shall  behold  her,  Hermes,  thou  alone. 
If  thou  wilt,  as  thou  swearest,  grant  my  boon!" 
Then,  once  again,  the  charmed  God  began 
An  oath,  and  through  the  serpent's  ears  it  ran 
Warm,  tremulou.s,  devout,  psalterian. 
56G 


LAMIA. 


35 


Ravish'd  she  lifiod  her  Circean  lieaii, 

Biush'tl  a  live  damask,  and  swil'l-Iisping  said, 

"  I  was  a  woman,  let  me  have  once  more 

A  woman's  sliapo,  and  charming  as  before. 

I  love  a  youth  of  Corinih — O  the  bliss  I 

Give  me  my  w  Oman's  form,  and  place  mo  where  he  is. 

Stoop.  Hermes,  let  me  breailt  U[xm  thy  brow, 

And  thou  shalt  see  thy  sweet  nymph  even  now." 

Tlie  Ciod  on  hall-shut  feathers  sank  serene, 

She  breathed  upon  his  eyes,  and  swifl  was  seen 

Of  both  the  guarded  nymph  near-smiling  on  the  green. 

It  was  no  dream ;  or  say  a  dream  it  was. 

Real  are  the  dreams  of  Gods,  jjnd  smoothly  pass 

Their  pleasures  in  a  long  immortal  dream. 

One  warm,  llush'd  moment,  liovering,  it  might  seem 

Da^ih'd  by  the  wood-nymph's  beauty,  so  he  burn'd ; 

Then,  lighting  on  the  printlcss  verdure,  turn'd 

To  the  swoou'd  serpent,  and  wiiWanguid  arm. 

Delicate,  put  to  proof  the  lithe  Caduccan  charm. 

So  done,  upon  the  nymph  his  eyes  he  bent 

Full  of  adoring  tears  and  blandishment. 

And  towards  her  slept :  she,  like  a  moon  in  wane, 

Faded  beii)re  him,  cower'd,  nor  could  restrain 

Her  fearful  sobs,  self-folding  like  a  flower 

That  faints  into  itself  at  evening  hour: 

But  the  God  fostering  her  chilled  hand. 

She  felt  tlie  warmth,  her  eyelids  open'd  bland 

And,  like  new  flowers  at  morning  song  of  bees, 

Bloom'd,  and  gave  up  her  honey  to  the  lees. 

Into  the  green-recessed  woods  they  flew ; 

Aor  grew  they  pale,  as  mortal  lovers  do. 


Left  to  herself,  the  serpent  now  began 
To  change  ;  her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran. 
Her  mouth  foam'd,  and  the  grass,  therewith  besprent, 
Wither'd  at  dew  so  sweet  and  virulent ; 
Her  eyes  in  torture  fix'd,  and  anguish  drear, 
Hot,  glazed,  and  wide,  with  lid-lashes  all  sear, 
Flash'd  phosplior  and  sharp  sparks,  without  one  cool- 
ing tear. 
The  colors  all  inflamed  throughout  her  train. 
She  writhed  about,  convulsed  with  scarlet  pain: 
A  deep  volcanian  yellow  took  the  place 
Of  all  her  milder-mooned  body's  grace  ; 
And,  as  the  lava  ravishes  the  mead. 
Spoilt  all  her  silver  mail,  and  golden  brede : 
RIade  gloom  of  all  her  frecklings,  streaks  and  bars. 
Eclipsed  her  crescents,  and  lick'd  up  her  stars: 
So  that,  in  moments  few,  she  was  undrest 
Of  all  her  sapphires,  greens,  and  amethyst. 
And  rubious-argent ;  of  all  tliese  bereft, 
Nothing  but  pain  and  ugliness  were  left. 
Still  shone  her  crown  ;  that  vanish'd,  also  she 
Melted  and  disappear'd  as  suddenly ; 
And  .in  the  air,  her  new  voice  luting  soft. 
Cried,  "Lycius!  gentle  LyciusI" — Borne  aloft 
With  the  bright  mists  abtiut  the  mountains  hoar, 
These  words  dissolved  :  Crete's  foresta  heard  no  more. 


Whither  fled  Lamia,  now  a  lady  bright, 
A  full-born  beauty  new  and  exquisite  ? 
She  fled  into  that  valley  they  pass  o'er 
\Vho  go  to  Corinth  from  Chenchreas'  shore ; 
And  rested  at  the  foot  of  those  wild  hills, 
The  rugsed  founts  of  the  Peraean  rills, 
3iM 


And  of  that  other  ridge  whosi;  barren  back 
Stretches,  with  all  its  mist  and  cloudy  rack, 
South-westward  to  Cleone.     'J'herc  she  stood 
About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood. 
Fair,  on  a  sloping  green  of  mossy  tread, 
By  a  clear  pool,  wlierein  she  passioned 
To  see  herself  escaped  from  so  sore  ills. 
While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffodils. 

Ah,  hai)i)y  Lycius ! — for  she  was  a  maid 
More  beautiful  th;in  ever  twisted  braid. 
Or  sigh'd,  or  blusii'd,  or  on  spring-flower'd  lea 
Spread  a  green  kirll^glo  the  miiislrelsy  : 
A  virgin  purest  lipp'd,  yet  in  the  lore 
Of  lovo  deep  learn'd  to  the  red  heart's  core: 
Not  one  hour  old,  yet  of  sciential  brain 
To  nnperplex  bh.ss  from  its  neighbor  pain  ; 
Define  their  pettish  limits,  and  estrange 
Their  points  of  contact,  and  swift  counlerchange; 
Intrigue  with  the  specious  chaos,  and  dispart 
Its  most  ambiguous  atoms  with  sure  art; 
As  though  in  Cupid's  college  she  liad  spent 
Sweet  days  a  lovely  graduate,  still  unslient, 
And  kept  his  rosy  terms  in  idle  languishment. 

Why  this  fair  creature  cho^  so  fairily 
By  the  wayside  to  linger,  we  shall  see ; 
But  first  'tis  fit  to  tell  how  she  could  muse 
And  dream,  when  in  the  serpent  prison-house, 
Of  all  she  list,  strange  or  magnificent , 
How',  ever,  where  she  will'd,  her  spirit  went ; 
Whether  to  faint  Elysium,  or  where 
Do\Mi  through  tress-lifting  waves  the  Nereids  fair 
Wind  into  Thetis'  bovver  by  many  a  pearly  stair ; 
Or  where  God  Bacchus  drains  his  cups  divine, 
Stretch'd  out,  at  ease,  beneath  a  glutinous  pine  ; 
Or  where  in  Pluto's  gardens  palatine 
Mukiber's  columns  gleam  in  far  ])iazzian  line. 
And  sometimes  into  cities  she  would  send 
Her  dream,  with  feast  and  rioting  to  blend; 
And  once,  while  among  mortals  dreaming  thus, 
She  saw  the  young  Corinthian  Lycius 
Charioting  foremost  in  the  envious  race. 
Like  a  young  Jove  with  calm  uneager  face. 
And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him. 
Now  on  the  moth-time  of  that  evening  dim 
He  would  return  that  way,  as  well  she  knew. 
To  Corinth  from  the  shore  ;  for  freshly  blew 
The  eastern  soft  wind,  and  his  galley  now 
Grated  the  quay-stones  with  her  brazen  prow 
In  port  Cenchreas,  from  Egina  isle 
Fresh  anchor'd  ;  whither  he  had  been  awhile 
To  sacrifice  to  Jove,  whose  temple  there 
Wails  with  high  marble  doors  for  blood  and  incenso 

rare. 
Jove  heard  his  vows,  and  better'd  his  desire ; 
For  by  some  freakful  chance  he  made  retire 
F^rom  his  companions,  and  set  forth  to  walk, 
Perhajis  grown  wearied  of  their  Corinth  talk: 
Over  the  solitary  liills  he  fared. 
Thoughtless  at  first,  but  ere  eve's  star  appcar'd 
His  phantasy  was  lost,  where  reason  fades. 
In  the  calin'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 
Lamia  beheld  him  coming,  near,  more  near — 
Close  to  her  jiassing,  in  indiflerence  drear, 
His  silent  sandals  swept  the  mossy  green; 
So  neighljor'd  to  liim,  and  yet  so  unseen 
567 


36 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  stood :  he  pa-ss'd,  shut  up  in  mysteries, 
His  mind  wrapp'd  like  his  mantle,  while  her  eyes 
Follow'd  his  steps,  and  her  neck  regal  white 
Tiirn"d — syllabling  thus,  "  Ah,  Lycius  bright  I 
And  will  you  leave  me  on  the  hills  alone  ? 
Lyciiis,  look  back !  and  be  some  pity  shown." 
He  did  ;  not  with  cold  wonder  fearingly, 
But  Orpheus-like  at  an  Eurydice  ; 
For  so  delicious  were  the  words  slie  sung 
It  seem'd  he  had  loved  them  a  whole  summer  long: 
And  soon  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty  up, 
Leaving  no  drop  in  the  bewildering  cup. 
And  still  the  cup  was  full, — \i/ltii\e  he,  afraid 
Lest  she  should  vanish  ere  his  lip  had  paid 
Due  adoration,  thus  began  to  adore  ; 
Her  soft  look  growing  coy,  she  saw  his  chain  so  sure  : 
"  Leave  thee  alone  !  Look  back  !  Ah,  Goddess,  see 
Whether  my  eyes  can  ever  turn  from  thee ! 
For  pity  do  not  this  sad  heart  belie — 
Even  as  thou  vaiiishest  so  I  shall  die. 
Stay  !  though  a  Naiad  of  the  rivers,  stay ! 
To  thy  far  wishes  will  thy  streams  obey: 
Stay  I  though  the  greenest  woods  be  thy  domain. 
Alone  they  can  drink  up  the  morning  rain: 
Though  a  descended  Pleiad,  will  not  one 
Of  thine  harmonious  .sisters  keep  in  tune 
Thy  spheres,  and  as  thy  silver  proxy  shine  ? 
So  sweetly  to  these  ravish'd  ears  of  mine 
Came  thy  sweet  greeting,  that  if  thou  shouldst  fade 
Thy  memory  will  waste  me  to  a  shade  : — 
For  pity  do  not  melt  I" — "  If  I  should  stay," 
Said  Lamia,  "  here,  upon  this  floor  of  clay. 
And  pain  my  steps  upon  these  flowers  too  rough, 
What  canst  thou  say  or  do  of  charm  enough 
To  dull  the  nice  remembrance  of  my  home  ? 
Thou  canst  not  ask  me  with  thee  here  to  roam 
Over  tliese  hills  and  vales,  where  no  joy  is, — 
Empty  of  immortality  and  bliss  I 
Thou  art  a  scliolar,  Lycius,  and  must  know 
That  finer  spirits  cannot  breathe  below 
In  human  climes,  and  live:  Alas!  poor  youth, 
What  taste  of  purer  air  hast  thou  to  soothe 
My  essence  ?    What  serener  palaces, 
AVhere  I  may  all  my  many  senses  please, 
And  by  mysierious  sleights  a  hundred  thirsts  appease  ? 
It  cannot  be — Adieu  I"  So  said,  she  rose 
Tiptoe  with  white  arms  spread.     He,  sick  to  lose 
The  amorous  promise  of  her  lone  complain, 
Swoon'd  murmuring  of  love,  and  pale  with  pain. 
The  cruel  lady,  without  any  show 
Of  sorrow  for  her  tender  favorite's  woe, 
But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be, 
With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenity. 
Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 
The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh : 
Arfd  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakening 
Into  anoiher,  she  began  to  sing, 
Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  every  thing, 
A  song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  earthly  lyres. 
While,  like  hold  breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their  pant- 
ing fires. 
And  then  .she  whisper'd  in  such  trembling  tone, 
As  those  who,  safe  together  met  alone 
For  tiio  first  time  through  many  anguish'd  days, 
T'se  other  speech  than  looks ;  bidding  him  raise 
His  drooping  head,  and  clear  his  soul  of  doubt. 
For  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  without 


Any  more  subtle  fluid  in  her  veins 

Than  throbbing  blood,  and  that  the  self-same  pains 

Inhabited  her  frail-strung  heart  as  his. 

And  next  she  wonder'd  how  his  eyes  could  miss 

Her  face  so  long  in  Corinth,  where,  she  said. 

She  dwelt  but  half  retired,  and  there  had  led 

Days  happy  as  the  gold  coin  could  invent 

Without  the  aid  of  love ;  yet  in  content 

Till  she  saw  him,  as  once  she  pass'd  him  by. 

Where  'gainst  a  column  he  leant  thoughtfully 

At  Venus'  temple  porch,  'mid  baskets  heap'd 

Of  amorous  herbs  and  flowers,  newly  reap'd 

Late  on  that  eve,  as  'twas  the  night  before 

The  Adonian  feast ;  w  hereof  she  saw  no  more. 

But  wept  alone  those  days,  for  why  should  she  adore  ' 

Lycius  from  death  awoke  into  amaze. 

To  see  her  still,  and  singing  so  sweet  lays; 

Then  from  amaz%  into  delight  he  fell 

To  hear  her  whisper  woman's  lore  so  well ; 

And  every  word  she  spake  enticed  him  on 

To  unperplex'd  delight  and  pleasure  known. 

Let  the  mad  poets  say  whate'er  they  please 

Of  the  sweels  of  Fairies,  Peris,  Goddesses, 

There  is  not  such  a  treat  among  them  all. 

Haunters  of  cavern,  lake,  and  waterfall. 

As  a  real  woman,  lineal  indeed 

From  Pyrrha's  pebbles  or  old  Adam's  seed. 

Thus  gentle  Lamia  judged,  and  judged  aright. 

That  Lycius  could  not  love  in  half  a  fright. 

So  threw  the  goddess  off,  and  won  his  heart 

More  pleasantly  by  playing  woman's  part. 

With  no  more  awe  than  what  her  beauty  gave. 

That,  while  it  smote,  still  guarantied  to  save. 

Lycius  to  all  made  eloquent  reply. 

Marrying  to  every  word  a  twin-born  sigh ; 

And  last,  pointing  to  Corinth,  ask'd  her  sweet. 

If  'twas  too  far  that  night  for  her  soft  feet. 

The  way  was  sliort,  for  Lamia's  eagerness 

Made,  by  a  spell,  tiie  triple  league  decrease 

To  a  few  paces ;  not  at  all  surmised 

By  blinded  Lycius,  so  in  her  comprised 

They  pass'd  the  city  gates,  he  knew  not  how. 

So  noiseless,  and  he  never  thought  to  know. 


As  men  talk  in  a  dream,  so  Corinth  all. 
Throughout  her  palaces  imperial. 
And  all  her  populous  streets  and  temples  levs'd, 
Multer'd,  like  tempest  in  the  distance  brew'd. 
To  the  wide-sprcaded  night  above  her  towers. 
I\Icn,  women,  rich  and  poor,  in  the  cool  hours. 
Shuffled  their  sandals  o'er  the  pavement  white, 
Compauion'd  or  alone  ;  while  many  a  light 
Flared,  here  and  there,  from  wealthy  festivals. 
And  threw  their  moving  shadows  on  the  walls. 
Or  found  them  cluster'd  in  the  corniced  shade 
Of  some  arch'd  tcmjile  door,  or  dusky  colonnade 


MufTling  his  face,  of  greeting  friends  in  fear. 
Her  fingers  he  press'd  hard,  as  one  came  near 
With  curl'd  gray  beard,  sharp  eyes,  and  smooth  t)ald 

crown, 
Slow-sfopp'd,  and  robed  in  philosophic  gown: 
Lycius  shrank  closer,  as  they  met  and  past, 
Into  his  mantle,  adding  wings  to  haste, 
568 


LAMIA. 


37 


While  hurried  Lamia  trembled :  "  AW'  said  he, 

"  Why  do  you  shudder,  love,  so  riieruTiy  ? 

Why  does  your  tender  piihn  dissolve  in  dew?" — 

"  I  'in  wearied,"  said  fair  Luniia  :  "  tell  nie  who 

Is  that  old  man  ?  I  cannot  bring  to  mind 

His  features:  Lyeius!  wherefore  did  you  blind 

Yourself  from  his  quick  eyes?"  Lyeius  replied. 

"  'Tis  Apollonius  sage,  my  trusty  guide 

And  good  instructor;  but  to-night  he  seems 

The  ghost  of  folly  haunting  my  sweet  dreams." 

While  yet  he  spake  they  had  arrived  before 
A  pillar'd  porch,  with  lofiy  porlal  door, 
Where  hung  a  silver  lamp,  whose  phosphor  glow 
Reflected  in  the  slabbed  steps  below, 
Mild  as  a  siar  in  water;  for  so  new. 
And  so  unsullied  was  the  marble  hue, 
So  tlirougii  the  crystal  polish,  liquid  fine. 
Ran  the  dark  veins,  that  none  but  feet  divine 
Could  e'er  have  louch'd  there.     Sounds  yEolian 
Breathed  from  the  hinges,  as  the  ample  span 
Of  the  wide  doors  disclosed  a  place  unknown 
Some  time  to  any,  but  those  two  alone. 
And  a  few  Persian  mutes,  who  that  same  year 
Were  seen  about  the  markets :  none  knew  where 
They  could  inhabit ;  the  most  curious 
Were  foil'd,  who  watch'd  to  trace  them  to  their  house  ; 
And  but  the  ilitter-winged  verse  must  tell. 
For  truth's  sake,  what  woe  afterwards  befell, 
T  would  humor  many  a  heart  to  leave  them  thus, 
Shut  from  the  busy  world  of  more  incredulous. 


PART  II. 

Love  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust, 

Is — Love,  forgive  us  I — cinders,  ashes,  dust; 

Love  in  a  palace  is  perhaps  at  last 

Wore  grievous  torment  than  a  hermit's  fast : — 

That  is  a  doubtful  tale  from  fairy-land, 

Hard  for  the  non-elect  to  nnderstand. 

Had  Lyeius  lived  to  hand  his  story  down. 

He  might  have  given  the  moral  a  fresh  frown, 

Or  clench'd  it  quite:  but  too  short  was  their  bliss 

To  breed  distrust  and  hate,  that  make  the  soft  voice 

hiss. 
Besides,  there,  nightly,  with  terrific  glare. 
Love,  jealous  grown  of  so  complete  a  pair, 
Hover'd  and  buzz'd  his  wings,  with  fearful  roar. 
Above  the  lintel  of  their  chamber-door, 
And  down  the  passage  cast  a  glow  upon  the  floor. 

For  all  this  came  a  ruin :  side  by  side 
They  were  enthroned,  in  the  eventide, 
I'poM  a  couch,  near  to  a  curtaining 
Whose  airy  texture,  from  a  golden  string. 
Floated  into  the  room,  and  let  appear 
Unveil'd  the  summer  heaven,  blue  and  clear, 
Betwi.vt  two  marble  shafts : — there  ihey  reposed. 
Where  use  had  made  it  sweet,  with  eyelids  closed, 
Saving  a  lythe  which  love  still  open  kept. 
That  they  might  see  each  other  while  they  almost 

slept ; 
Wlien  from  the  slope  side  of  a  suburb  hill. 
Deafening  the  swallow's  twitter,  came  a  thrill 
Of  trumpets — Lyeius  started — the  sounds  fled. 
But  left  a  thought,  a  buzzing  in  his  head. 


F"or  the  first  time,  since  first  he  harbor'd  in 

That  purple-lined  palace  of  sweet  sin. 

His  spirit  pass'd  beyond  its  gulden  bourn 

Into  tiie  noisy  world  almost  Ibrsworn. 

The  lady,  ever  watchful,  penetrant. 

Saw  this  with  pain,  so  arguing  a  want 

Of  something  more,  more  lliaii  her  empery 

Of  joys;  and  she  began  to  moan  and  sigh 

Because  he  mused  beyond  her,  knowing  well 

That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  |)assion'8  passing-bell. 

•'  Why  do  you  sigh,  fair  creature  ?"   whisper'd  he  : 

"  Why  do  you  think  ?"  return'd  she  tenderly. 

"  You  have  deserted  me  ;  where  am  I  now  ? 

Not  in  your  heart  while  care  weighs  on  your  brow: 

No,  no,  you  have  dismiss'd  me ;  and  1  go 

From  your  breast  houseless :  ay,  it  must  be  so  " 

He  answer'd,  bending  to  her  open  eyes. 

Where  he  was  mirror'd  small  in  paradise, 

"  My  silver  planet,  both  of  eve  and  morn ! 

Why  will  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 

While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart 

With  deeper  crimson,  and  a  double  smart  ? 

How  to  entangle,  trammel  up  and  snare 

Your  soul  in  mine,  and  labyrinth  you  there, 

Like  the  hid  scent  in  an  unbudded  rose  ? 

Ay,  a  sweet  kiss — you  see  your  mighty  woes. 

My  thoughts !  shall  I  unveil  them  ?  Listen  then ! 

What  mortal  hath  a  prize,  that  oiher  men 

May  be  confounded  and  abash'd  withal, 

But  lets  it  sometimes  pace  abroad  majestical, 

And  triumph,  as  in  thee  I  should  rejoice 

Amid  the  hoarse  alarm  of  Corinlh's  voice. 

Let  my  foes  choke,  and  my  friends  shout  afar, 

While  through  the  thronged  streets  your  bridal  cai 

Wheels  round  its  dazzling  spokes." — The  lady's  cheeh 

Trembled  ;  she  nothing  said,  but,  i)ale  and  meek. 

Arose  and  knelt  before  him,  wejit  a  rain 

Of  sorrows  at  his  words ;  at  last  with  pain 

Beseeching  him,  the  while  his  hand  she  wrung, 

To  change  his  pur|X)se.     He  thereat  was  stung. 

Perverse,  with  stronger  fancy  to  reclaim 

Her  wild  and  timid  nature  to  his  aim ; 

Besides,  for  all  his  love,  in  self-despile. 

Against  his  better  sell;  he  took  delight 

Luxurious  in  her  sorrows,  soft  and  new 

His  passion,  cruel  grown,  t(jok  on  a  hue 

Fierce  and  sanguineous  as  'twas  possible 

In  one  whose  brow  had  no  dark  veins  to  swell 

Fine  was  the  mitigated  fury,  like 

Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 

The  serpent — Ha,  the  serpent  I  certes,  she 

Was  none.     She  burnt,  she  loved  the  tyranny. 

And,  all-subdued,  consented  to  the  hour 

When  to  the  bridal  he  should  lead  his  paramour. 

Whispering  in  midnight  silence,  said  the  youth, 

"  Sure  some  sweet  name  thou  hast,  though,  by  my 

truth, 
I  have  not  ask'd  it,  ever  thinking  thee 
Not  mortal,  but  of  heavenly  progeny. 
As  still  I  do.     Hast  any  mortal  name, 
F'it  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame  ? 
Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  the  citied  earth. 
To  share  our  marriage-lisast  and  nuptial  mirth?" 
"  I  have  no  friepds,"  said  Lamia,  "  no,  not  one ; 
My  presence  in  wide  Corinth  hardly  known  • 
My  parents'  bones  are  in  their  dusty  urns 
Sepulchred,  where  no  kindled  incense  bums, 
569 


38 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Seeing  all  their  luckless  race  are  dead,  save  me, 
And  I  neglect  the  holy  rite  for  thee. 
Even  as  you  list  invite  your  many  guests: 
But  if,  as  now  it  seems,  your  vision  rests 
With  any  pleasure  on  me,  do  not  bid 
Old  Apolloni'as — from  him  keep  me  hid." 
Lycius,  perplex'd  at  words  so  blind  and  blank. 
Made  close  inquiry;  from  whose  touch  she  shrank. 
Feigning  a  sleep;  and  he  to  the  dull  shade 
Of  deep  sleep  in  a  moment  was  betray'd. 

It  was  the  custom  then  to  bring  away 
The  bride  from  home  at  blushing  shut  of  day, 
Veil'd,  in  a  chariot,  heralded  along 
By  strewn  flowers,  torches,  and  a  mftrriage  song. 
With  other  pageants  ;  but  this  fair  unknown 
Had  not  a  friend.     So  being  left  alone 
(Lycius  was  gone  to  summon  all  his  kin), 
And  knowing  surely  she  could  never  win 
His  foolish  heart  from  its  mad  pompousness, 
She  set  herself,  high-thoughted,  how  to  dress 
The  misery  in  fit  magnificence. 
She  did  so,  but  'tis  doubtful  how  and  whence 
Came,  and  who  were  her  subtle  servitors. 
About  the  halls,  and  to  and  from  the  doors, 
There  was  a  noi.se  of  wings,  till  in  short  space 
The  glowing  bancjuet-room  shone  with  wide-arched 

grace. 
A  haunting  music,  sole  perhaps  and  lone 
Supportress  of  the  fairj'-roof,  made  moan 
Throughout,  as  fearful  the  whole  charm  might  fade. 
Frash  carved  cedar,  mimicking  a  glade 
Of  palm  and  plantain,  met  from  cither  side. 
High  in  the  midst,  in  honor  of  the  bride : 
Two  palms  and  then  two  plantains,  and  so  on. 
From  either  side  liicir  stems  branch'd  one  to  one 
All  down  the  aisled  palace ;  and  beneath  all 
There  ran  a  stream  of  lamps  straight  on  from  wall 

to  wall. 
So  canopied,  lay  an  untasted  feast 
Teeming  with  odors.     Lamia,  regal  drest, 
Silently  paced  about,  and  as  she  went, 
In  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent, 
Rlission'd  her  viewless  servants  to  enrich 
The  fretted  splendor  of  each  nook  and  niche. 
Between  the  tree-stems,  marbled  plain  at  first. 
Came  jasper  panels;  then,  anon,  there  burst 
Forth  creeping  imagery  of  slighter  trees. 
And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intricacies. 
Approving  all,  she  faded  at  .self-will. 
And  shut  the  chamber  up,  close,  hush'd  and  still, 
Complete  and  ready  for  the  revels  rude. 
When  dreaded  guests  would  come  to  spoil  her  solitude. 

The  day  appear'd,  and  all  the  gossip  rout. 
O  senseless  Lycius  !  Madman!  wherefore  llout 
The  silent-blessing  fiitc,  warm  cloistcr'd  hours, 
And  show  to  common  eyes  these  secret  bovvers  ? 
The  herd  approach'd  ;  each  guest,  with  busy  brain, 
Arriving  at  the  portal,  gazed  amain. 
And  enter'd  marvelling :  for  they  knew  the  street, 
Remember'd  it  from  childhood  all  complete 
Without  a  gap,  yet  ne'er  before  had  seen 
That  ro)-al  (wrch,  that  high-liuilt  Hiir  demesne ; 
So  in  they  hurried  all,  mazed,  curious  and  keen: 
Save  one,  who  look'd  thereon  with  eye  severe. 
And  with  calm-planted  steps  walk'd  in  austere ; 


'T  was  Apollonjus  :  something  too  he  laugh'd. 
As  though  some  knotty  problem,  that  had  dafl 
His  patient  thought,  had  now  begun  to  thaw, 
And  solve  and  melt :  'twas  just  as  he  foresaw.  ■ 

He  met  within  the  murmurous  vestibule 
His  young  disciple.     •'  'Tis  no  common  rule, 
Lycius,"  said  he,  "  for  uninvited  guest 
To  force  himself  upon  you,  and  infest 
With  an  unbidden  presence  the  bright  throng 
Of  younger  friends ;  yet  must  I  do  this  wrong, 
And  you  forgive  me."     Lycius  blush'd,  and  led 
The  old  man  through  the  inner  doors  broad  spreaiJ , 
With  reconciling  words  and  courteous  mien 
Turning  into  sweet  milk  the  sophist's  spleen. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet-room, 
Fill'd  with  pervading  brilliance  and  perfume : 
Before  each  lucid  panel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood. 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft. 
Whose  slender  feet  wide-swerved  upon  the  soft 
Wool-woofed  carpets  :  fifty  wreaths  of  smoke 
From  fifty  censers  their  light  voyage  took 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimick'd  as  they  rose 
Along  the  mirror'd  walls  by  twin-clouds  odorous. 
Twelve  sphered  tables,  by  silk  seats  insphered, 
High  as  the  level  of  a  man's  breast  rear'd 
On  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  heavy  gold 
Of  cups  and  goblets,  and  the  store  thrice  told 
Of  Ceres'  horn,  and,  in  huge  vessels,  wine 
Came  from  the  gloomy  tun  with  merry  shine. 
Thus  loaded  with  a  liiust,  the  tables  stood, 
Each  shrining  in  the  midst  the  image  of  a  God. 

When  in  an  antechamber  every  guest 
Had  felt  the  cold  full  sponge  to  pleasure  press'd, 
By  minist'ring  slaves,  upon  his  hands  and  feet, 
And  fragrant  oils  with  ceremony  meet 
Pour'd  on  his  hair,  ihey  all  moved  to  the  feast 
In  white  robes,  and  themselves  in  order  placed 
Around  the  silken  couches,  wondering 
Whence  all  this  mighty  cost  and  blaze  of  wealth 
could  spring. 

Soft  went  the  music  that  soft  air  along, 
While  fluent  Greek  a  vowell'd  under-soiig 
Kept  up  among  the  guests  discoursing  low 
At  first,  for  scarcely  was  the  wine  at  flow ; 
But  when  the  happy  vintage  touch'd  their  brains, 
Louder  they  talk,  and  louder  come  the  strains 
Of  powerful  instruments  : — the  gorgeous  dyes, 
The  space,  the  splendor  of  the  draperies. 
The  roof  of  awful  richness,  nectarous  cheer, 
Beautiful  slaves,  and  Lamia's  self,  :ii>pear, 
Kow,  when  the  wine  has  done  its  rosy  deed. 
And  every  soul  from  human  trammels  freed. 
No  more  so  strange  :  for  merry  wine,  sweet  wine 
Will  make  Elysiaii  shades  not  too  fair,  too  divine. 
Soon  was  God  Bacchus  at  meridian  height; 
Flush'd  were  their  cheeks,  and  bright  eyes  double 

bright : 
Garlands  of  every  green,  and  every  scent 
From  vales  deflower'd,  or  forest  trees,  branch-rent, 
In  baskets  of  bright  osier'd  gold  were  brought 
High  as  the  handles  heap'd,  to  suit  the  thought 
570 


LAMIA. 


39 


Of  even'  guest ;  that  each,  as  he  did  please, 
Might  lancy-lit  his  brows,  silk-pillow'd  at  liis  ease. 


What  wreath  for  Lamia  ?  What  for  Lycius  ? 
What  for  the  sage,  old  Apollonius  ? 
Ujxjn  her  aching  forehead  be  there  hung 
The  leaves  of  willow  and  of  adder's  tongue; 
And  for  the  youth,  quick,  let  us  strip  for  iiim 
The  thyrsus,  that  his  watching  eyes  may  swim 
Into  forgetfulness ;  and,  for  the  sage. 
Let  spear-grass  and  the  spiteful  thistle  wage 
War  on  his  temples.    Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy  ? 
There  was  an  awful  niintww  once  in  heaven  : 
We  know  her  woof,  her  texture  ;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  Angel's  wings. 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  and  gnomed  mine — 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  erewhile  made 
The  tender-person'd  Lamia  melt  into  a  shade. 


By  her  glad  Lycius  sitting,  in  chief  place, 
Soiree  saw  in  all  the  room  another  face, 
Till  cheeking  his  love  trance,  a  cup  he  took 
FuU-brimm'd,  and  opposite  sent  forth  a  look 
'Cross  the  broad  table,  to  beseech  a  glance 
P'rom  his  old  teacher's  wrinkled  countenance, 
And  pledge  him.    The  bald-head  philosopher 
Had  fix'd  his  eye,  without  a  twinkle  or  stir 
Full  on  the  alarmed  beauty  of  the  bride, 
Browbeating  her  fair  form,  and  troubling  her  sweet 

pride. 
Lycius  then  press'd  her  hand,  with  devout  touch, 
As  pale  it  lay  upon  the  rosy  couch  : 
'Twa-s  icy,  and  the  cold  ran  through  his  veins ; 
Then  sudden  it  grew  hot,  and  all  the  pains 
Of  an  unnatural  heat  shot  to  his  heart. 
"  Lamia,  what  means  this?  Wherefore  dost  thou  start  ? 
Know'st  thou  that  man  I"  Poor  Lamia  answer'd  not. 
He  gazed  into  her  eyes,  and  not  a  jot 
Own'd  they  the  lovelorn  piteous  appeal : 
More,  more  he  gazed  :  his  human  senses  reel : 
Some  angry  spell  that  loveliness  absorbs; 
There  was  no  recognition  in  those  orbs. 
"Lamia!"  he  cried — and  no  soft-toned  reply. 
The  many  heard,  and  the  loud  revelry 
Grew  hush  ;  the  stately  music  no  more  breathes ; 
The  myrtle  sicken'd  in  a  ihou.sand  wreaths. 
By  faint  degrees,  voice,  lute,  and  pleasure  ceased ; 
A  deadly  silence  step  by  step  increased. 
Until  it  seem'd  a  horrid  presence  there. 
And  not  a  man  but  felt  the  terror  in  his  hair. 
"  Lamia  !"  he  shriek'd  :  and  nolliing  but  the  shriek 
With  its  sad  echo  did  the  silence  break. 
"  Begone,  foul  dream  .'"  he  cried,  gazint;  again 
In  the  bride's  face,  where  now  no  azure  vein 
42 


Wander'd  on  fair-spaced  temples;  no  soft  bloom 

Misted  the  cheek;  no  passicjii  to  illume 

The  deep-recessed  vision : — all  was  blight  ; 

Lamia,  no  longer  iiiir,  there  sat  a  deadly  white. 

"  Shut,  shut  those  juggling  eyes,  thou  ruthless  man  ! 

Turn  ihem  aside,  wretch !  or  the  righteous  ban 

Of  all  the  Gods,  whose  dreadfid  images 

Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences. 

May  i)ierce  them  on  the  sudden  with  the  thorn 

Of  painful  blindness;  leaving  thee  (briorn, 

In  trembling  doiage  to  the  feeblest  fright 

Of  conscience,  for  their  long-offended  might, 

For  all  thine  impious  proud-heart  sophistries, 

Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 

Corinthians  I  look  upon  that  gray-beard  w  retch  ! 

Mark  how,  possess'd,  his  lashless  eyelids  stretch 

Around  his  demon  eyes  !  Corinthians,  see  I 

My  sweet  bride  withers  at  their  potency." 

"Fool!"  said  the  sophist,  in  an  under-lone 

Gruff  with  contempt ;  which  a  dealh-nighing  moan 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  heart-struck  and  lost, 

lie  sank  suj)ine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 

"  Fool !  Fool  I "  repeated  he,  while  his  eyes  still 

Relented  not,  nor  moved  ;  "  from  ever)'  ill 

Of  life  have  I  preserved  thee  to  this  day, 

And  shall  I  see  thee  made  a  serpent's  prey  ?" 

Then  Lamia  breathed  death-breath  ;  the  sophist's  eye, 

Like  a  sharp  spear,  went  through  her  utterly. 

Keen,  cruel,  perceant,  stinging :  she,  as  well 

As  her  weak  hand  could  any  meaning  tell, 

Motion'd  him  to  be  silent ;  vainly  so. 

He  look'd  and  look'd  again  a  level — No ! 

"  A  Serpent !  "  echoed  he  ;  no  sooner  said. 

Than  with  a  frightful  scream  she  vanished  : 

And  Lycius'  arms  were  empty  of  delight. 

As  were  his  limbs  of  life,  from  that  same  niglit. 

On  the  high  couch  he  lay.' — his  friends  came  round — 

Supported  him — no  pulse,  or  breath  they  found. 

And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body  wound.* 


*  "  Pfiilostratus,  in  his  fourth  book  de  Vila  ^pollovii, 
hath  a  memorable  instance  in  this  kind,  which  I  may  not 
omit,  of  one  Meiiippus  Lycius,  a  younsf  man  twenty-live 
years  of  age.  that  poing  belwixt  Cenchreas  anil  Corinth, 
met  such  a  phantasm  in  the  habit  of  a  fair  eentlewoman, 
which  taking  him  by  the  liand,  carried  him  l)ome  to  her 
house,  in  the  suburbs  of  Corinth,  and  told  him  slie  was  a 
Plioenician  by  birth,  and  if  he  would  tarry  witli  her,  he 
should  hear  fier  sing  and  play,  and  drink  sncli  wine  as 
never  any  drank,  and  no  man  should  molest  him  ;  hut  she' 
being  fair  and  lovely,  would  die  with  him,  that  was  fair 
and  lovely  to  behold.  The  young  man.  a  philosopher, 
otherwise  staid  and  discreet,  able  to  moderate  his  passions, 
thouffh  not  this  of  love,  tarried  with  her  a  while  to  liis 
great  content,  and  at  last  married  her,  to  whose  wedding, 
amongst  other  guests,  came  Ai)oIli)nius ;  who,  by  some 
probable  conjectures,  found  her  out  to  be  a  serpent,  a 
lamia;  and  that  all  her  furniture  was,  like  Tantalns' eold, 
described  by  Homer,  no  substance  but  mere  illusions. 
When  she  saw  herself  descried,  she  wept,  and  desired 
Apollonius  to  be  silent,  but  he  would  not  be  moved,  and 
thereupon  she,  plate,  house,  and  all  that  was  in  it,  van- 
ished in  an  instant :  many  thousands  look  notice  of  this 
fact,  for  it  was  done  in  the  midst  of  Greece." — Bcrton's 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy.  Part  3,  Sect.  2,  Menib.  I,  Subs.  1. 

571 


40 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


KoaticUa,  or  tfte  JJot  of  l^aml ; 

A  STORY  FROM  BOCCACCIO. 


I. 

Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye ! 
Tiiey  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady  ; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 

H. 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer, 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still; 

life  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir, 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name. 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 

IIL 
He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 

Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes; 
And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 

Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies ; 
And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch. 

Because  her  face  was  turn"d  to  the  same  skies ; 
And  with  siclv  longing  all  the  night  outwear. 
To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 

IV. 
A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 

Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June : 
'  To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight. 

To-morrow  will  I  ask  ray  lady's  boon." — 
"  0  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune.'" — 
So  spake  they  to  their  pillows;  but,  alas, 
Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass  ; 


Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain. 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain : 

"  How  ill  she  is,"  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak. 
And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain: 

If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears, 

And  at  the  least  will  slarllc  olf  her  cares." 

VI. 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side; 

And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 

For  power  to  speak ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away — 
Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride. 

Yet  brought  liim  to  the  meekness  of  a  child  : 

Alas  I  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild ! 


vn. 

So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished 

A  dreary  night  of  love  and'  misery. 
If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 

To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high ; 
She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead. 

And  straight  all  flush'd ;  so,  lisped  tenderly, 
"  Lorenzo  I " — here  she  ceased  her  timid  quest, 
But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  tlie  rest. 

VIII. 
"O  Isabella  !  I  can  half  perceive 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear ; 
If  thou  didst  ever  any  thnig  believe. 

Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 
My  soul  is  to  its  doom :  I  W'ould  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would  not  fear 
Thine  eyes  by  gazing ;  but  I  cannot  live 
Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 

IX. 

"  Love !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
Lady!  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime. 

And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time.' 

So  said,  his  ercwhile  timid  lips  grew  bold. 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme : 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 

Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart. 

She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditly  fair 

Sang,  of  delicious  love  and  honey'd  dart ; 

He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill, 

And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  liis  fill. 

XL 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  ils  plea.sant  veil, 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  l)e(()re  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  ils  pleasant  veil, 

Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 
Unknown  of  any,  free  from  wliispering  tale 

Ah!  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so. 

Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  woe 

XII. 
Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It  caimot  be — 

Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed, 
Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee. 

Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead. 
Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see. 

Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  be  read ; 
Except  in  such  a  page  where  Tlieseus'  spouse 
Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bov\s. 
572 


ISABELLA. 


41 


XIII. 
But,  for  ilie  gener;il  award  of  love. 

The  litido  swet'i  doih  kill  much  bitterness ; 
Though  Uiilo  silent  is  in  undcr-grovc, 

And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress, 
Tliough  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 

Was  not  cinbalm'd,  tliis  truth  is  not  the  less — 
Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bovvers, 
Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-flowers. 

XIV. 

With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt. 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandise, 

And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 

And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  .slinging  whip; — with  hollow  eyes 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood. 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  Hood. 

XV. 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath. 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark ; 

For  them  his  cars  gush'd  Idood  ;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  jntcous  bark 

Lay  full  of  darts ;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark  • 

Half-ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel, 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  puich  and  peel. 

X\I. 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  their  marble  founts 
Gush'd  with  more  pride  than  do  a  wretch's  tears? — 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  fair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar-stairs  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  red-lined  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  wo  ask  aloud. 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud  ? 

xvn. 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 

As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies; 

The  hawks  of  .ship-mast  forests — the  unlired 
And  pannier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies — 

Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away, — 

Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 

XVIII. 
How  was  it  these  same  leger-mcn  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  lyjrenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  ?  Hot  Egypt's  pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west?— 
Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

XIX. 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon. 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune, 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 


XX. 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 

Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 
There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet : 
But  it  is  done — succeed  the  verse  or  liiil — 

To  honor  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet; 
To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 
An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

XXI. 

These  brethren  having  Ibund  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 

And  how  she  loved  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well-nigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs. 

Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad, 

When  't  was  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 

To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

XXIL 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they. 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 

Belbre  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 

To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bone; 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

XXIII. 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 

Into  the  sunrise  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews ;  and  to  him  said, 
"  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 

Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 
Calm  speculation;  but  if  you  are  wise, 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 

XXIV. 

"  To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine; 

Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 

Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents'  whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness. 

With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntsman's  dress. 

XXV. 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along. 

Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listen'd  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song. 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  sofi ; 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung. 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft; 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice,  all  delight. 

XXVI. 
"Love,  Isabel!"  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 

Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good-morrow : 
Ah !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 

I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 
Of  a  ixjor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gain 

Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow 
Good-bye !  I  'II  soon  be  back." — •'  Good-bye  I"  said  sh« 
And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 
573 


42 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXVII. 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  miirder'd  man 

Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream 

Gurgles  through  straiten'd  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 

Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.    Sick  and  wan 
The  brothers'  laces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 

Lorenzo's  flush  with  love. — They  pass'd  the  water 

Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in. 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease ; 

Ah  I  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom  win, 
It  aches  in  loneliness — is  ill  at  peace 

As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin  : 
They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 

'J'hcir  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur, 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 

XXIX. 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 
Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands, 

Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 

Poor  girl.'  put  on  thy  stilling  widow's  weed. 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands ; 

ToHiay  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

XXX. 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  miser)' ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see. 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air. 
And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring,  "Where  ?  0  where  ?" 

XXXI. 

But  Selfishnes.?,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 

It.s  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast  ; 
She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 

Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 
Not  long — for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 

Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest, 
Came  tragic ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 
And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 

XXXII. 

In  the  mid-days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away, 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves. 
To  make  all  bare  before  ho  daros  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.    So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 

xxxni. 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.    Oftentimes 

She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  off  so  long  >.  They  spake  a  tale 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.    Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Ilitmom's  vale  ; 

And  everv'  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd  aloud, 

'•''')  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 


xxxiv. 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 
But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all  ; 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance. 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feather'd  pall 

For  some  few  gasping  moments ;  like  a  lance. 
Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 

With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 

xxxv. 

It  was  a  vision. — In  the  drowsy  gloom. 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept :  the  forest  tomb 

Had  marr'd  his  glossy  hair  which  once  could  shoot 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 

From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed  ears 

Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake, 
For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue. 

To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake. 
And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung : 

Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake, 
As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung ; 

And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under-song. 

Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briers  among. 

xxx^^I. 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light. 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darken'd  time, — the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice, — the  dark  pine  roof 

In  the  forest, — and  the  sodden  turfed  dell. 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 

xxxvin. 

Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Red  whortle-berries  droop  above  my  head. 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feel ; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed : 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom. 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 

XX  XIX. 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  I  alas ! 

Upon  the  skirls  of  human-nature  dwelling 
Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass. 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling 
And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  field  ward  pass, 

And  many  a  chapel-bell  the  hour  is  telling. 
Paining  me  through :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to  me 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

XL. 

"  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  fidl  well  what  is. 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad ; 

Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss, 

That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 

A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse  :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad  : 

Thy  beauty  grov\s  upon  me,  and  I  feel 

A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal." 
574 


ISABELLA. 


43 


XLI. 
The  Spirit  mournM  "  Adieu!" — dissolved,  and  left 

The  atom  liarkness  in  a  slow  turmoil ; 
As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft. 

Thinking  on  rui^ged  hours  ami  fruitless  toil, 
We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft, 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 
t  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache. 
And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake ; 

XLII. 

•  Ha !  ha ! "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  life, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery ; 

I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 
Portion'd  us — happy  days,  or  else  to  die  ; 

But  there  is  crime — a  brother's  bloody  luiife  ! 
Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  infancy : 

I  '11  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes, 

And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 

XLIII. 
When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 

How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie  ; 
How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized, 

And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby  ; 
How  her  short  absence  miglit  be  unsurmised. 

While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 
Resolved,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse. 
And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 

XLIV. 
See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river-side 

How  she  doth  whisper  to  that  aged  Dame, 
And,  after  looking  round  the  champaign  wide. 

Shows  her  a  knife. — "  What  feverous  hectic  flame 
Burns  in  thee,  child  ? — What  good  can  thee  betide. 

That  thou  shouldst  smile  again  ? " — The  evening 
came. 
And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed  ; 
The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 

XLV. 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church-yard, 
.And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon-mole. 

Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard, 
To  see  skull,  coftin'd  bones,  and  funeral  stole; 

Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath  marr'd, 
And  filling  it  onre  more  with  human  soul? 

Ah!  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 

NVhen  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

XLVI. 
She  gazed  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though. 

One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 
Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 

Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well  ; 
Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd  to  grow, 

Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 
Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 
To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

XLvn. 

Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies  ; 
She  ki.ss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 

.And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 
And  freezes  utterly  imto  the  bone 
•  Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's  cries : 
Then  'gan  she  work  again ,  nor  stay'd  her  core. 
But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 
42*  ."JN 


XLVIII. 
That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering. 

Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 
At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  laboring, 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar, 
And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing  : 

Three  hours  they  lalwr'd  at  this  travail  sore  : 
At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave, 
And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 

XLIX. 

Ah  !  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance  ? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
0  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song  I 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance. 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong 
To  speak : — 0  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale. 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


With  duller  steel  than  the  Persean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 

With  death,  as  life.    The  ancient  harps  havt  said 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord  : 
If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead. 

Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 

'Twas  love;  cold, — dead  indeed,  but  not  dethroned. 

LI. 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home. 
And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel : 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb, 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash  ;  the  smeared  loam 
With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well, 

She  drench'd  away  : — and  still  she  comb'd,  and  kept 

Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd,  and  wept. 

LII. 
Then  in  a  silken  scarf, — sweet  with  the  dews 

Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 
And  divine  liquids  rome  with  odorous  ooze 

Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully, — 
She  wrapp'd  it  up;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 

A  garden-s|x)t,  wherein  she  laid  it  by. 
And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 
Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wei. 

LIII. 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun, 

And  she  fiirgot  the  blue  above  the  trees. 
And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run. 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  l)rceze ; 
She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 
-And  the  new  mom  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace- 
Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore, 
And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core 

LIV. 
And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears, 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew. 
So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  piers 
Of  Basil-tufts  in  I'lorcnce ;  for  it  drew 
Nature  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears. 

From  the  fast-moiddering   head  there  shut  from 
view : 
So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed. 
Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leafits  spread. 
575 


44 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LV. 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile  ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh  ! 
Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile; 

Lift  t,p  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily, 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms, 
fmting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 

LVL 
Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene  ! 
Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go, 

And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery ; 
Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low  ; 

For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 
Among  the  dead  :  she  withers,  like  a  palm 
Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 

LVII. 

0  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour  I — 
It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes ;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  wonder'd  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 

LVIII. 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd  much 
Why  she  .sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green. 

And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch  ; 

Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing  might  mean  : 

They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 

LIX. 

Therefore  they  watch 'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim  ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain ; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift. 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain  ; 


And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  svvifl 

As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again ; 
And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 
Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 

LX. 

Yet  they  contrived  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place : 
The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot. 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face : 
The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got. 

And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space, 
Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they  went. 
With  blood  ujx)n  their  heads,  to  banishment. 

LXI. 

O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh ! 
Spirits  of  grief  sing  not  your  "  Well-a-way  !" 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die  ; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 

LXII. 

Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless  things. 

Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously ; 
And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 

Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 
After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings. 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was ;  and  why 
'T  was  hid  from  her:  "  For  cruel  'tis,"  said  she, 
"  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 

LXIII. 

And  so  .^he  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imyjloring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  born 

From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all  tliecountn,'  pass'd 
Still  is  the  burthen  sung — "  O  cruelty, 
To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me  !" 


m\t  ^^r  of  St-  ^ri;nc!55» 


T. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  wiihout  a  death, 
Past  tlie  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

II. 
His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lam|),  and  riselh  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meager,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 


The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Imprison'd  in  black,  puri/atorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

m. 

Northward  he  tnrneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  ; 
But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung  ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve 
5TG 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


45 


That  ancient  Beadsman  lieard  the  prehide  soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wiso  on 
their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stufTd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Who.se  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  vving'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

VI. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  X'irgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiploc,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  hack  retired  ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

VIII. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short: 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  llirong'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  dctiatice,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  fairy  fancy ;  all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes,  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  mom. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  (wrial  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  sainis  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
'i'liat  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 


X. 

He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muflled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  slorm  his  heart.  Love's  fev'rous  citadel . 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes. 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-jHllar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her :  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying, "Mercy,  Porphyro!  hie  thee  from  this  place; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty 


XIL 

"  Get  hence !  get  hence !  there 's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  l)oth  house  and  land: 
Then  there 's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me  !  flit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "  Ah,  gossip  dear. 
We're  safe  enough;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit. 
And  tell  me  how" — "  Good  Saints  I  not  here,  not 

here ; 
Follow  me,  cliild,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier.' 

XIII. 

He  follovv'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume. 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a — well-a-dayl" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlit  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sislcrhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  arc  weaving  piously." 

XI\'. 

"  St,  Agnes  !  Ah !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  F.lvcs  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  mc  wilh  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  I — St.  Agnes'  Eve  I 
God's  help!  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  I 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

XV. 
Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  kcepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book. 
As  spectacled  she  sils  in  chimney-nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchaniments  cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 
577 


46 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVI. 
Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blo^^^l  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  play,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  I — I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII. 
"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace. 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  liorrid  shout,  my  Ibemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than 
wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII. 

•"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may,  ere  the  midnight,  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were   never  miss'd." — Thus   plaining,  doth  she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
F.ven  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perliaps  tiiat  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt 

XX. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishfest,"  said  the  Dame : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night:  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  ihou  wilt  see :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  wliile  :  Ah  I  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

XXI. 
So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  dame  retum'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  ihcy  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hnsh'd.and  chaste; 
Where  Porphvro  took  covert,  pleased  anuun. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 


XXII. 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she   comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd 
and  fled. 

XXIII. 
Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  utter'd  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  delL 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was. 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  cmblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon : 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amcihyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven : — Porpiiyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

XXVI. 
Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  Iwddice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  Js  fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  hiiven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray , 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 
578 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


47 


XX\  III. 
Stol'n  to  tliis  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porjihyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  shimherous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  lie  bless, 
And  breathed  himself:  then  from  liie  closet  crept 
Noisekss  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept. 

And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo ! — how  fast 
she  slept. 

XXIX. 
Then  b)'  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  lialf  anguisli'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
O  for  some  drow.sy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 

The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucid  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On' golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  : 
Open  thine  eyes,  ior  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains: — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  j 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy ;" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
'.'pon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 


XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sh>ep  : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  wiih  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eve, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"  Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow' ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill, and  drear! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 

0  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  w  here  to  go." 

XXXVL 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis  dark:  quick  pattereth  the  fiaw-blown  sleet: 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline!" 
'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat: 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fode  and  pine. — 
Cruel !   what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  > 

1  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  tiling: — 

A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"My  Madeline  I  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ( 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  tliinl<':-t  well 
To  triust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 

XXXIX. 

"Hark!  'tis  an  elfin-stonn  from  fairy-land. 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise — arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed : — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  hap|)y  speed  ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 
5TJ 


48 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


L. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-dropp'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall  ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 


The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot-worn  stones  , 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

XLir. 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  tied  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  Idrge  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform , 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


•fijjetion*' 


BOOK  I. 


Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star. 

Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

]N'ot  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade  :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went, 
IVo  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  slray'd. 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ;  and  his  rcalmless  eyes  were  closed ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  list'iiing  to  the  Earth, 
Ilis  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred  hand 
Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 
She  was  a  (Joddess  of  the  inltint  world ; 
By  her  in  slaiuro  the  tall  Amazon 
Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would  have  ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck  ; 


*  If  any  apold^y  be  thought  necessary  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  iintiiiislirfl  poem  of  Hyperion,  the  piiblisliers 
bee  to  state  that  tliey  alone  are  responsible,  as  it  was  prmt- 
eil  at  thi'ir  particular  request,  and  contrary  to  the  wish  of 
the  author.  'J'lic  poem  was  inteudeil  to  have  been  of 
e(|iial  length  with  Kndvmion,  but  the  reception  given  to 
that  work  discouraged  the  author  from  proceeding. 


Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 
Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx, 
Pedestall'd  haply  in  a  palace-court. 
When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh!  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face: 
How  beautiful,  if  Sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  began  ; 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 
One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  : 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ-lone  : 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongu 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents  ;  O  how  frail 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods ! 
"  Saturn,  look  up  I — though  wherefore,  poor  old  King 
I  have  no  coinfi  irt  for  thee,  no  not  one : 
I  cannot  say,  '  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou  ? 
For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
Knows  thee  not,  thus  afflicted,  for  a  God  ; 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  m.TJesty. 
Thy  thinider,  conscious  of  the  new  command. 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 
O  aching  time !  O  moments  big  as  years  ! 
AH  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,  sleep  on  : — O  thoughtless,  why  did  1 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
Saturn,  sleep  on !  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 
580 


HYPERION. 


49 


As  when,  ujxm  a  triuiccil  sunimor-iiiglit, 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  soliturj'  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  oiT, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave : 
So  came  these  words  and  went;  the  while  in  tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large  iorchcad  to  the  ground, 
Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alternation  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  ii|K)n  the  night. 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless. 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern  ; 
The  frozen  CJod  still  coiicliant  on  the  earth. 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone. 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place. 
And  that  fair  kneeling  Godde>s ;  and  then  spake 
As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  wliile  his  beard 
Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady  : 
"O  tender  s|X)use  of  gold  Hyperion, 
Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face ; 
Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
Is  Saturn's;  tell  me,  if  liiou  hear'st  tiie  voice 
Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 
Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem. 
Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  povver 
To  make  me  desolate?  whence  came  the  strength? 
How^  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting  forth. 
While  Fate  seein'd  strangled  in  my  nervous  grasp  ? 
But  it  is  so  ;  and  I  am  suiolhor'd  up. 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 
Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas. 
Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting. 
And  all  those  acts  which  Dciiy  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in. — 1  atn  gone 
Away  from  my  own  bosom  :  I  have  lel't 
My  strong  identity,  my  real  self. 
Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where  I  sit 
Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea,  search ! 
Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them  round 
Upon  all  space:  space  starr'd,  and  lorn  of  light : 
Space  region'd  with  life-air :  and  barren  void ; 
Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yaun  of  hell — 
Search,  Thea,  search  !  and  tell  me,  if  thou  seest 
A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 
With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 
A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile :  it  must — it  must 
Be  of  ripe  progress — Satu.-a  must  be  King. 
Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  viclorv  ; 
There  must   be  Gods    thrown  down,  and  trumpets 

blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metro)X)litan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 
Of  strings  in  hollow  shells ;  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of  the  sky-children  ;  I  will  give  command  : 
Thea  I  Thea  I  where  is  Saturn  ?" 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air, 


His  Druid  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with  sweat. 

His  eyes  to  lever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 

lie  stood,  and  heard  not  Thea's  sobbing  deep; 

.\  little  time,  and  then  again  ho  snatch'd 

Utterance  thus: — "  But  cannot  I  create  ? 

Cannot  I  form  ?  Cannot  I  fashion  forth 

Another  world,  another  universe, 

To  ovcrl)(>ar  and  crumble  this  to  naught  ? 

Where  is  another  chaos?  Whcrt;  !" — That  word 

Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  made  quake 

The  rebel  three.     Thea  was  startled  up, 

And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope. 

As  thus  she  quick-voiced  spake,  yet  full  of  awe. 

"  This  cheers  our  fallen  house:  come  to  our  friends 

0  Saturn  !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart ; 

1  know  the  covert,  for  thence  came  I  hither." 
Thus  brief;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she  went 
With  backward  footing  through  the  shade  a  sptace  . 
He  fbllow'd,  and  she  turn'd  to  lead  the  way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the  mist 
Which  eagles  cleave,  upmounting  from  their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  reahns  big  tears  were  shed, 
More  sorrow^  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe. 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe : 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
Groan'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more. 
And  lisien'd  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood  still  kept 
His  sov'reigniy,  and  rule,  and  majesty ; — 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sat,  still  snufi'd  the  incense,  teeming  up 
From  man  to  the  sun's  God  ;  yet  unsecure  : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shuddcr'd  he — 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech, 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell, 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp ; 
But  horrors,  portion'd  to  a  giant  nerve, 
Oii  made  Hyperion  ache.     His  palace  bright, 
Bastiou'J  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold,  , 

And  touch'd  witli  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks. 
Glared  a  hiood-red  through  all  its  thousand  courts. 
Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries; 
And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorinn  clouds 
Flush'd  angerly :  while  sometimes  eagles'  wings, 
Unseen  belbre  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 
Darken'd  the  (ilace  ;  aii<l  neighing  steeds  were  heard, 
Xot  heard  before  [)y  Gods  or  wotKlering  men. 
Also,  when  he  would  taste  the  spicy  wreaths 
Of  incense,  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 
Savor  of  |X)isonous  bra.ss  and  metal  sick : 
And  so,  when  harbor'd  in  the  sleepy  west, 
After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day, — 
For  rest  divine  ujkju  exalted  couch. 
And  slumber  in  the  arras  of  meloiiy, 
He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 
With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall; 
While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess, 
His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood, 
Amazed  and  full  of  fear ;  like  anxious  men 
Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops. 
When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towers. 
Even  now,  wlule  Saturn,  roused  from  icy  trance, 
581 


50 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the  woods, 
Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear, 
Came  slope  upon  the  threshold  of  the  west ; 
Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew  ope 
In  smoothed  silence,  save  what  solemn  tubes, 
Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of  sweet 
And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melodies ; 
And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 
In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye, 
That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence 
Stood  full-blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  enter'd,  but  he  enler'd  full  of  wrath  ; 
His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his  heels, 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire, 
That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared. 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault. 
Through  bovvers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  hght. 
And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades. 
Until  he  reach'd  the  great  main  cupola ; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stamp'd  his  foot. 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high  towers 
Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region ;  and  before 
The  quavering  thunder  thereupon  had  ceased. 
His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb. 
To  this  result :  "  O  dreams  of  day  and  night ! 
O  monstrous  forms !  O  effigies  of  pain  ! 
O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom! 

0  lank-ear'd  Phantoms  of  black-weeded  pools ! 
Why  do  I  luiow  ye  ?  why  have  I  seen  ye  ?  why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distratight 

To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new  ? 
Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall  ? 
Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest. 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime, 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light. 
These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes. 
Of  all  my  lucent  empire  (  It  is  left 
Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine. 
The  blaze,  the  splendor,  and  the  synnnetry, 

1  cannot  see — but  darkness,  death  and  darkness. 
Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose. 

The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 

Insult,  and  blind,  and  stille  up  my  pomp — 

Fall! — No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes  I 

Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 

I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 

Shall  scare  that  infant  thnnderer,  rebel  Jove, 

And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again." — 

He  spake,  and  ceased,  the  while  a  heavier  threat 

Held  struggle  with  his  throat,  b\it  came  not  forth; 

For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  nun 

Hubbub  increases  more  they  call  out  "  Hush ! " 

So  at  Hyperion's  words  the  Pliaiiioms  pale 

Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and  cold  ; 

And  from  the  niirror'd  level  where  he  stood 

A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 

At  this,  through  all  his  liulk  an  agony 

Crept  gradual,  from  the  fl^'et  unto  the  crown. 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 

Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  convulsed 

From  overstrained  might.     Released,  he  fled 

To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy  hours 

Before  the  dawn  in  season  due  should  blush. 

He  breathed  fierce  breath  against  the  sleepy  portals. 


Clcar'd  them  of  heavy  vapors,  burst  them  wide 
Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 
Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens  through. 
Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds  ; 
Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and  hid. 
But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres. 
Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belling  colure, 
Glovv'd  through,  and  wrought  upon  the  muffling  dark 
Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 
Up  to  the  zenith, — hieroglyphics  old. 
Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 
Then  living  on  the  earth,  with  laboring  thought 
Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries : 
Now  lost,  save  vvhat  we  find  on  remnants  huge 
Of  stone,  or  marble  swart ;  their  import  gone. 
Their  wisdom  long  since  fled. — Two  wings  this  orb 
Possess'd  for  glory,  two  foir  argent  wings. 
Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach : 
And  now,  from  forth  the  gloom  their  plumes  immense 
Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were ; 
While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintain'd  eclipse, 
Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 
Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took  throne 
And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 
He  might  not : — No,  though  a  primeval  God : 
The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturb'd. 
Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 
Stay'd  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  'tis  toiJ 
Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly. 
Eager  to  sail  their  orb;  the  porches  wide 
Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night 
And  the  bright  Titan,  frenzied  with  new  woes, 
Unused  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 
His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time ; 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 
He  streich'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint 
There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 
Look'd  down  on  him  with  pity,  and  the  voice 
Of  CodIus,  from  the  universal  space. 
Tints  whisper'd  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear. 
"  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth-born 
And  sky-engender'd,  Son  of  Mysteries  I 
All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 
Which  met  at  thy  creating  I  at  whose  joys 
And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 
I,  Ca-lus,  wonder,  how  they  came  and  whence  ; 
And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they  be, 
Distinct,  and  visible;  symbols  divine. 
Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 
Diffused  unseen  throughout  eternal  space  ; 
Of  these  nevv-lbrm'd  art  thou,  oh  brightest  child! 
Of  these,  thy  brethren  and  the  Goddesses  I 
There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 
Of  son  against  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 
1  saw  my  first-horn  tumbled  from  his  throne ! 
To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his  voice 
Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round  his  head 
Pale  wox  I,  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 
Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom?  vague  fear  there  is. 
For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 
Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 
In  sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturb'd. 
Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  lived  and  ruled : 
Now  I  behold  in  you,  fear,  hope,  and  wrath ; 
582 


HYPERION. 


51 


Actions  of  rage  and  passion  ;  even  as 
1  see  tliein,  on  ihe  mortal  world  beneath, 
In  men  wlio  die. — Tliis  is  the  grief",  O  Son! 
Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall ! 
Yel  do  thou  strive  ;  as  thou  art  ca|)ablc. 
As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident  God  ; 
And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal  presence  : — 1  am  but  a  voice  ; 
My  life  is  but  the  life  ol"  winds  and  tides. 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail : — 
But  thou  canst. — Be  thou  therefore  in  the  van 
Of  circumstance ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 
Before  the  tense  string  murmur. — To  the  e^rth! 
For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his  woes. 
Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright  sun, 
And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse."— 
Ere  half  this  region-whisper  had  come  down, 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars 
Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceased  ;  and  still  he  kept  them  wide: 
And  still  they  were  Ihe  same  bright,  patient  stars. 
Then  with  a  slow  incline  of  his  broad  breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas. 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plunged  all  noiseless  into  the  deep  night. 


BOOK  11. 


Just  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Times  wide  wings 
Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustled  air. 
And  Saturn  gain'd  with  Thea  that  sad  place 
Where  Cybele  and  the  bruised  Titans  mourii'd. 
It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 
Could  glimmer  on  their  tears;  where  their  own  groans 
They  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 
Of  thunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hoarse, 
Pouring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 
Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that  seem'd 
Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep. 
Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous  horns  ; 
And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 
Made  a  fit  roofing  to  this  nest  of  woe. 
Instead  of  thrones  hard  flint  they  sat  upon. 
Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 
Stubborn'd  with  iron.    All  were  not  assembled  : 
Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  some  wandering. 
Coeus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareiis, 
Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion, 
With  many  more,  the  brawniest  in  assault. 
Were  pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath  ; 
Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element,  to  keep 
Their  clenched  teeth  still  dench'd,  and  all  their  limbs 
Lock'd  up  like  veins  of  metal,  crampt  and  screw'd  ; 
Without  a  motion,  save  of  their  big  hearts 
Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convulsed 
With  sanguine,  feverous,  boiling  gurge  of  pulse. 
Mnemosyne  was  straying  in  the  world ; 
Far  from  her  moon  had  Phoebe  wander'd ; 
And  many  else  were  free  to  roam  abroad, 
But  for  the  main,  here  found  they  covert  drear. 
Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 
43  30 


Lay  vast  and  edgeways;  like  a  dismal  cirque 
Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor. 
When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 
In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel  vault, 
The  Heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night. 
Each  one  kept  shroud,  nor  to  his  neighbor  gave 
Or  word,  or  look,  or  action  of  despair. 
Creus  was  one ;  his  jionderous  iron  mace 
Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 
Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined, 
lapetus  another;  in  his  grasp, 
A  serpent's  plashy  neck ;  its  barbed  tongue 
Squeezed  from  the  gorge,  and  all  its  uncurl'd  length 
Dead  ;  and  Ijccause  the  creature  could  not  spit 
Its  poison  in  tlic  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 
Next  Coitus:  prone  h(^lay,  chin  uppermost. 
As  though  in  pain  ;  for  still  upon  the  flint 
lie  ground  severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 
And  eyes  at  horrid  working.    Nearest  him 
Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 
Who  cost  her  mother  Tellus  keener  pangs, 
Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons : 
More  thought  than  woe  was  in  her  dusky  face, 
For  she  was  prophesying  of  her  glory  ; 
And  in  her  wide  imagination  stood 
Palm-shaded  temjiles,  and  high  rival  fanes, 
By  0\us  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles. 
Even  as  Hope  uiwn  her  anchor  leans, 
So  leant  she,  not  so  fliir,  upon  a  tusk 
Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 
Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve. 
Upon  his  elbow  raised,  all  prostrate  else, 
Shadovv'd  Enceladus ;  once  tame  and  mild 
As  grazing  ox  unworried  in  the  meads; 
Now  tiger-passion'd,  lion-thoughted,  wroth. 
He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even  now 
Was  hurling  mountains  in  that  second  war, 
Xot  long  delay'd,  that  scared  the  younger  Gods 
To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and  bird. 
Not  far  hence  .4tlas ;  and  beside  him  prone 
Phoreus,  the  sire  of  Gorgons.    Neighbor'd  close 
Oceanus,  and  Teihys,  in  whose  lap 
.Sobb'd  Clymene  among  her  tangled  hair. 
In  midst  of  all  lay  Themis,  at  the  feet 
Of  Ops  the  queen  all  clouded  round  from  sight; 
\o  shape  distinguishable,  more  than  when 
Thick  night  conl()urn!s  the  pine-tops  with  the  clouds; 
.And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be  told. 
For  when  the  Muse's  wings  are  air-ward  spread. 
Who  sluill  dehiy  her  flight  ?   And  she  must  chant 
Of  Saturn,  and  his  guide,  who  now  h.ad  climlj'd 
With  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a  depth 
More  horrid  still.    Above  a  sombre  clifF 
Their  heads  appear'd,  and  up  their  stature  grew 
Till  on  the  level  height  their  steps  found  ease: 
'I'hen  Thea  spread  abroad  her  trembling  arms 
r|x)n  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain, 
And  sidelong  fix'd  her  eye  on  Saturn's  face : 
There  saw  she  direst  strife;  the  supreme  God 
At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  anxiety,  revenge. 
Remorse,  spleen,  hope,  but  most  of  all  despair. 
Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain ;  for  Fate 
Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  uikju  his  head, 
A  disanointing  poison  :  .so  that  Thea, 
AfTrighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pa.ss 
First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe. 
583 


52 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  with  us  mortal  men,  the  laden  heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more, 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same  bruise  ; 
So  Saturn,  as  he  walk'd  into  the  midst. 
Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among  the  rest, 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye. 
Whose  mightiness,  and  awe  of  liim,  at  once 
Came  like  an  inspiration  ;  and  he  shouted, 
"Titans,  behold  your  God!"  at  vvliich  some  groan'd; 
Some  started  on  their  feet ;  some  also  shouted  ; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd — all  bow'd  with  reverence  ; 
And  Ops,  uplifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Show'd  her  pale  cheeks,  and  all  her  forehead  wan, 
Her  eye-brows  thin  and  jet,  and  hollow  eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring  in  the  bleak-grown  pines 
When  Winter  lifts  his  voice  ;  there  is  a  noise 
Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign. 
With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to  load 
His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utlcrless  thought. 
With  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  w  ith  pomp : 
Such  noise  is  hke  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines ; 
Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mountain'd  world, 
No  other  sound  succeeds ;  but  ceasing  here, 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopt  short, 
Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 
Thus  grew  it  up — "  JVot  in  my  own  sad  breast, 
Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher  out. 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus: 
Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days, 
Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 
Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 
Saved  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when  the  waves 
Low-ebb'd  still  hid  it  up  in  shallow  gloom ; — 
And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 
For  my  firm-based  footstool : — Ah,  infirm ! 
Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 
Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire, — 
At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling 
One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all 
Each  several  one  against  the  oilier  lluee, 
As  fire  with  air  loud  warring  when  rain-fioods 
Drown  both,  and  press  them  boih  against  earth's  face. 
Where,  finding  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 
Unhinges  the  poor  world  ; — not  in  liiat  strife, 
Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read  it  deep, 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 
No,  nowhere  can  unriddle,  thoiigh  I  search. 
And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll 
Even  to  swooning,  why  ye.  Divinities, 
The  first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable  Gods, 
Should  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison. 
Is  untremendous  might.    Yet  ye  are  liere, 
O'erwhelm'd,  and  spurn'd,  and  l)attcr'd,  ye  are  here! 
O  Titans,  .shall  I  say  'Arise !' — Ye  groan  : 
Shall  I  say  'Crouch  !' — Ye  groan.    What  can  I  then? 
O  Heaven  wide  I  O  unseen  parent  dear ! 
What  can  I  ?  Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren  Gods, 
How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great  wrath ! 

0  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 
Is  all  a-hunger'd.    Thou,  Oceanus, 
Ponderest  high  and  deep ;  and  in  thy  face 

1  see,  astonied,  that  severe  content 

Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing :  give  us  help ! " 


So  ended  Saturn ;  and  the  God  of  the  Sea, 
Sophist  and  sage,  from  no  Athenian  grove. 
But  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades. 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began, 
In  murmurs,  which  his  first-endeavoring  tongue 
Caught  infant-like  from  the  far-foamed  sands. 
"  O  ye,  wlwm  wrath  consumes !  who,  passion-stung 
Writhe  at  defeat,  and  nurse  your  agonies! 
Shut  up  your  senses,  stifle  up  your  ears, 
My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 
Yet  listen,  ye  who  will,  whilst  I  bring  proof 
How  ye,  perforce,  must  be  content  to  stoop  : 
And  in  the  proof  much  comfort  will  1  give. 
If  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth. 
We  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not  force 
Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.    Great  Saturn,  thou 
Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe  ; 
But  for  this  reason,  that  thou  art  the  King 
And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy. 
One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes, 
Through  which  I  wander'd  to  eternal  truth. 
And  first,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of  powers. 
So  art  thou  not  the  last ;  it  cannot  be. 
Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  end. 
From  chaos  and  parental  darkness  came 
Light,  the  first-fruits  of  that  intestine  broil, 
That  sullen  ferment,  whicli  for  wondrous  ends 
Was  ripening  in  itself    The  ripe  hour  came. 
And  with  it  light,  and  light,  engendering 
Upon  its  own  producer,  forthwith  touch'd 
The  whole  enormous  matter  into  bfe. 
Upon  that  very  hour,  our  parentage. 
The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  manifest: 
Then  thou  first-born,  and  we  the  giant-race. 
Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beauteous  realms. 
Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  't  is  pain , 
O  folly !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 
And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm, 
That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty.    Mark  well ! 
As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer  far 
Than  Chaos  and  blank  Darkness,  though  once  chiefs , 
And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and  Earth 
In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful. 
In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship. 
And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  lile  ; 
So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 
A  power  more  strong  in  beauty,  born  of  us 
And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 
In  glory  that  old  Darkne.ss  :  nor  are  we 
Thereby  more  concjuer'd  than  by  us  the  rule 
Of  shapeless  Chaos.    S.iy,  dolh  the  dull  soil 
Quarrel  with  the  proud  forests  it  hath  fed, 
And  feedeth  still,  more  comely  than  itself? 
Can  it  deny  the  chiefdom  of  green  groves? 
Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  dove 
Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  wings 
To  wander  wherewithal  and  find  its  joys? 
We  are  such  forest-trees,  and  our  fair  boughs 
Have  bred  forth,  not  pale  solitary  doves. 
But  eagles  golden-feather'd,  who  do  tower 
Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reign 
In  right  thereof;  for  'tis  the  eternal  law 
That  first  in  beauty  should  be  first  in  might: 
Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the  Seas, 
584 


HYPERION. 


My  dispossessor ?  Have  ye  seen  his  face? 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foain'd  along 
By  noble-winged  creatures  he  hath  made  ? 
1  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  send, 
With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  liis  eyes, 
That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
To  all  my  empire  :  farewell  sad  1  look, 
And  hither  came,  to  see  how  dolorous  fate 
Had  wrought  upon  ye ;  and  how  I  might  best 
Give  consolation  in  this  woe  extreme. 
Receive  the  truth,  and  let  it  be  your  balm." 

Whether  through  pozed  conviction,  or  disdain. 
They  guarded  silence,  when  Occanus 
Left  murmuring,  what  deepest  thought  can  tell  ? 
But  so  it  was,  none  answer'd  for  a  space. 
Save  one  whom  none  regarded,  Ciymenc  : 
And  yet  she  answer'd  not,  only  complain'd. 
With  hectic  lijw,  and  ejcs  up-looking  mild. 
Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  lierce; 
"  O  Father  I  I  am  here  the  simplest  voice. 
And  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone. 
And  this  thing  woe  crept  in  among  our  hearts, 
There  to  remain  for  ever,  as  1  fear : 
I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  tlio\ight 
So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  oil'  the  help 
Which  by  just  right  shouhl  coine  of  migiity  Gods  ; 
Yet  let  me  tell  my  sorrow,  let  me  tell 
Of  what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made  me  weep. 
And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all  hope. 
I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore, 
Where  a  sweet  clime  was  breathed  from  a  land 
Of  fragrance,  quietness,  and  trees,  and  flowers. 
Full  of  calm  joy  it  was,  as  I  of  grief; 
Too  full  of  joy  and  soft  delicious  warmth ; 
So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 
To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 
With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes ; 
And  sal  me  down,  and  took  a  mouthed  shell 
And  raurmur'd  into  it,  and  made  melody — 

0  melody  no  more  I  for  while  I  sang. 

And  with  poor  skill  let  pass  into  the  breeze 
The  dull  shell's  echo,  from  a  bowery  strand 
Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea. 
There  came  enchantment  with  the  shifting  wind. 
That  did  lx)th  drown  and  keep  alive  my  ears. 

1  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand. 
And  a  wave  fdl'd  it,  as  my  sense  was  fdl'd 
With  that  new  blissful  golden  melody. 

A  living  death  was  in  each  gush  of  sounds, 

Each  family  of  rapturous  hurried  notes. 

That  fell,  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once. 

Like  pearl  beads  dropping  sudden  from  their  string 

And  then  another,  then  another  strain. 

Each  like  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch. 

With  music  wing'd  instead  of  silent  plumes. 

To  hover  round  my  head,  and  make  me  sick 

Of  joy  and  grief  at  once.    Grief  overcame, 

And  I  was  slopping  up  my  frantic  ears. 

When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trembling  hands, 

A  voice  came  sweeter,  sweeter  than  all  tune. 

And  still  it  cried,  'Apollo  I  young  Apollo  ! 

The  morning-bright  Apollo!  young  Apollo!' 

I  fled,  it  follow'd  me,  and  cried,  'Aiwllo!' 

O  Father,  and  O  Brethren  !  had  ye  felt 

Those  pains  of  mine !  O  Saturn,  hadst  thou  felt. 


Ye  would  not  call  this  too  indulged  tongue 
Presumptuous,  in  thus  venturing  to  be  heard  !' 


So  far  her  voice  flow'd  on,  like  tin  orous  brook 
Tiiat,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast. 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea  :   but  sea  it  met. 
And  shuddcr'd  ;  for  the  overwhelming  voice 
Of  huge  Enceladus  swallow'd  it  in  wrath  : 
The  ptmderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glulted  hollows  of  reefrocks, 
Came  booming  thus,  while  still  upon  his  arm 
He  lean'd  ;  nut  rising,  Irom  supreme  contempt. 
"  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over-wise. 
Or  to  the  over-liwlish  giant,  Gods  ? 
Not  thunderbt)lt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
That  rebel  Jove's  whole  armory  were  spent, 
i\ot  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders  piled. 
Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby-words 
In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 
Speak!  roar!  shout!  yell!  ye  sleepy  Titans  all. 
Do  ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile  ? 
Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the  Waves, 
Thy  scalding  in  the  seas?  What!  have  I  roused 
Your  spleens  with  so  few  simple  words  as  these  ? 
O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  ye  are  not  lost  : 
O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 
Wide  glaring  for  revenge!" — As  this  he  said. 
He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast,  and  stood. 
Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus : 
"  Now  ye  are  flames,  1  '11  tell  you  how  to  burn, 
And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies ; 
How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of  fire. 
And  singe  away  the  swollen  clouds  of  Jove, 
Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  its  lent. 
O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done ; 
For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore. 
Much  pain  have  1  for  more  than  loss  of  realms 
The  days  of  peace  and  slmnberous  calm  are  fled  \ 
Those  days,  all  innocent  of  scathing  war, 
W'hen  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven 
Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would  speak  :- 
That  was  belbre  our  brows  were  taught  to  frown. 
Before  our  li|)s  knew  else  but  solemn  sounds; 
That  was  lielbre  we  knew  the  winged  thing. 
Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won. 
And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 
Our  brightest  brother,  still  is  undisgraced  — 
Hyperion,  lo  !  his  radiance  is  here  !  " 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face, 
And  they  beheld,  while  still  Hyperion's  name 
Flew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 
A  pallid  gleam  across  his  features  stern  : 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth  as  himself    He  look'd  upon  them  all, 
And  in  each  face  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light, 
But  splendider  in  Saturn's,  whose  hoar  locks 
Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a  keel 
When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight  cove. 
In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd. 
Till  suddenly  a  splendor,  like  the  morn, 
Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 
All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion. 
And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old, 
585 


5i 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  every  height,  and  every  sullen  depth, 

A  oiceless,  or  hoarse  w'ith  loud  tormented  streams  : 

And  all  the  everlastmg  cataracts, 

And  all  tiie  headlong  torrents  far  and  near, 

Mantled  before  in  darkness  and  huge  shade, 

JVow  saw  the  light  and  made  it  terrible. 

It  was  Hyperion  : — a  granite  peak 

His  bright  feet  touch'd,  and  there  he  stay'd  to  view 

The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 

To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  ilself 

Golden  his  hair  of  short  Aumidian  curl, 

Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 

In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the  bulk 

Of  Meninon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  one  who  travels  from  the  dusking  East: 

Sighs,  too,  as  mournful  as  that  Memnon's  harp, 

He  utter'd,  while  his  hands,  conlemjjlalive. 

He  press'd  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 

Despondence  seized  again  the  fallen  Gods 

At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day, 

And  many  hid  their  faces  from  the  light : 

But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 

Among  the  brotherhood  ;  and,  at  their  glare, 

Uprose  liipetus,  and  Creiis  too. 

And  Phorcus,  sea-born,  and  together  strode 

To  where  he  towered  on  his  eminence. 

There  those  four  shouted  forth  old  Saturn's  name  ; 

Hyperion  from  the  peak  loud  answered,  "  Saturn!" 

Saturn  sat  near  the  Mother  of  the  Gods, 

In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the  Gods 

Gave  Irom  their  hollow  throats  the  name  of  "  Saturn !' 


BOOK  III. 


Thus  m  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace. 

Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 

O  leave  them,  Muse  I  O  leave  Ihem  to  their  woes! 

For  thou  art  weak  to  sing  such  tuuiulls  dire  : 

A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 

Thy  lips,  and  aniheming  a  lonely  grief 

Leave  ihem,  O  Muse !  for  thou  anon  wilt  find 

Many  a  fallen  old  Divinity 

AVandering  in  vain  about  bewilder'd  shores. 

Meantime  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp. 

And  not  a  wind  of  heaven  but  will  breathe 

In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flnle  ; 

For  lo  !  'tis  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 

Flush  every  thing  that  hath  a  \ermeil  hue, 

Let  the  rose  glow  intense  and  warm  the  air, 

And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 

Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  bills; 

Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil. 

Cold  as  a  bubbling  well ;  let  faint-Iipp'd  shells, 

On  sands,  or  in  great  deeps,  vermilion  turn 

Through  all  tiieir  labyrinths ;  ami  let  the  maid 

Blush  keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss  surprised. 

Chief  isle  of  the  embower'd  Cyclades, 

Rejoice,  O  Delos,  with  thine  olives  green, 

And  j)()plars,  and  lawn-shading  palms,  and  beech, 

In  which  the  Zephyr  breathes  the  loudest  song. 

And  hazels  thick,  dark-stemm'd  beneath  the  shade  : 

Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme  ! 


Where  was  he,  when  the  Giant  of  the  Sun 
Stood  bright,  amid  the  sorrow  of  his  peers  i 
Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair 
And  his  twin-sister  sleeping  in  their  bower, 
And  in  the  morning  twilight  wander'd  forth 
Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet. 
Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 
The  nightingale  had  ceased,  and  a  few  stars 
VVere  lingering  in  the  heavens,  while  the  thrush 
Began  calm-throated.     Throughout  all  the  isle 
There  was  no  covert,  no  retired  cave 
Unhaunted  by  the  murmurous  noise  of  waves, 
Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green  recess. 
He  lislen'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  bright  tears 
Went  trickling  down  the  golden  bow  he  held. 
Thus  with  iialf-shut  suffused  eyes  he  stood, 
While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  boughs  hard  by 
Willi  solemn  step  an  awful  Goddess  came. 
And  there  was  purport  in  her  looks  for  him, 
Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 
Perplex'd,  the  while  melodiously  he  said  : 
"  How  camest  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  ? 
Or  hath  that  antique  mien  and  robed  form 
Moved  in  these  vales  invisible  till  now  ? 
Sure  I  have  heard  those  vestments  sweeping  o'er 
The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 
In  cool  mid  forest.    Surely  I  have  traced 
The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirls  about 
These  grassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flowers 
Lift  up  their  heads,  as  still  the  whisper  pass'd. 
Goddess  !  I  have  beheld  those  eyes  before, 
And  their  eternal  calm,  ami  all  that  face, 
Or  I  have  dream'd." — "  Yes,"  said  the  supreme  shape 
"  Thou  hast  dream'd  of  me ;  and  awaking  up 
Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side. 
Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers,  all  the  vast 
Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 
Listeu'd  in  pain  and  pleasure  at  the  birth 
Of  such  new  tuneful  wonder.    Is't  not  strange 
That  thou  shouklst  weep,  so  gifted  I   Tell  me,  youth 
What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel ;  for  I  am  sad 
When  thou  dost  shed  a  tear :  explain  thy  griefs 
To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 
The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of  life. 
From  the  young  day  when  first  thy  infant  hand 
Pluck'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till  thine  arm 
Could  bend  Iliat  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 
Show  ihy  heart's  secret  to  an  ancient  Power 
Who  haih  forsaken  old  and  sacred  thrones 
For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  loveliness  new-born." — Apollo  then, 
With  sudden  scrutiny  and  gloomless  eyes. 
Thus  auswcr'd,  while  his  while  melodious  throat 
Tiirobb'd  with  the  syllables. — '-Mnemosyne! 
Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  I  know  not  how  ; 
Wily  should  I  tell  thee  what  thou  so  well  seest  ? 
Why  should  I  strive  lo  show  what  from  thy  lips 
Would  come  no  mystery  >.  For  me,  dark,  dark, 
And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes  : 
I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  am  so  sad. 
Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs; 
And  then  u[)on  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan. 
Like  one  who  once  had  wings. — 0  why  should  I 
Feel  cursed  and  thwarted,  when  the  liegeless  aii 
Yields  to  my  step  aspirant  ?  why  should  I 
Spurn  the  green  turf  as  hateful  to  my  feet  ? 
Goddess  benign!  point  forth  some  unknown  thing. 
Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this  isle  ? 
586 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


55 


What  are  the  stars  ?  There  is  the  sun,  the  sun ! 

And  the  most  patient  brilliance  of  the  moon ! 

And  stars  by  tliousands  I  Point  me  out  the  way 

To  any  one  particular  beauteous  slar, 

And  I  will  (lit  into  it  with  my  lyre, 

And  make  its  silvery  splendor  pant  with  bliss. 

I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder:  Where  is  power? 

Whose  hand,  whose  essence,  what  divinity 

Makes  this  alarm  in  the  elements, 

While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  shores 

In  fearless  yet  in  aching  ignorance  ? 

O  tell  me.  lonely  Goddess !  by  lliy  harp, 

That  wailelh  every  morn  and  eventide, 

Tell  me  why  thus  I  rave,  alwut  these  groves! 

Mute  thou  rcniaincst — Mute  ?  yet  I  can  read 

A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face  : 

Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me. 

Names,  deeds,  gray  legends,  dire  events,  rebellions, 

Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies. 

Creations,  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 

Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain. 


And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine. 

Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  had  drunk. 

And  so  become  immortal." — Thus  the  God, 

While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 

Hencalh  his  white  soft  temples,  stedfast  kept 

Trcinliling  with  light  ujion  Mnemosyne. 

S)on  wild  loinMiolions  shook  liim,  and  made  flush 

All  llic  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs: 

Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death ; 

Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take  leave 

Of  pale  immortal  death,  and  with  a  pang 

As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 

Die  into  life  :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd  ; 

His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 

Kei)t  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 

During  the  pain,  Mnemosyne  upheld 

Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied. — At  length 

Apollo  shriek'd  ; — and  lo  !  from  all  his  limbs 

Celestial  ****** 


J^tjiiccUaneousi  }^oem!$. 


What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty  ? 

Fate  of  the  Butterfly.—SpEHSER. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  LEIGH  HUMT,  ESQ. 
6lory  and  loveliness  have  pass'd  away  ; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn, 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  uplionie 
Into  the  east  to  meet  the  smiling  day  ; 
No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft-voiced  and  young  and  gay, 

In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 

Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these ; 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 
That  in  a  time  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free, 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please, 

With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  hke  thee 


Places  of  nestling  green  for  poets  made. 

StOTy  of  Rimini. 


I  STOOD  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill, 
The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  verj*  still, 
That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 
Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside. 
Their  scanty-leaved,  and  finely-tapering  stems, 
Had  not  yet  lost  their  starry  diadems 
Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  mom. 
The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  xs  flocks  new-shorn, 
And  tresh  from  the  clear  brook ;  sweetly  they  slept 
On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 
43* 


A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves  : 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 

There  was  wide  wandering  for  the  greediest  eye, 

To  peer  aljout  U|x»n  variety; 

Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim. 

And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim; 

To  picture  out  the  (juaint  and  curious  bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley  never-ending: 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 

Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  fell  as  light,  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  play'd  upon  my  heels  :  I  was  light-hearted. 

And  many  pleasures  lo  my  vision  started ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  fwsy 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May-flowers  with  the  bees  about  them; 
Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without  them ; 
And  let  a  lush  laburnimj  oversweep  them, 
And  let  long  grass  grow  roiuid  the  roots,  to  keep  them 
Moist,  cool  and  green ;  and  shade  the  violets. 
That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert-hedge  with  wild-brier  overtwined. 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent  chequer  of  a  youngling  tree. 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  sliooLs 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots  : 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
587 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  spreading  bluebells ;  it  may  haply  mourn 
'I'hat  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds. 

Ye  ardent  marigolds! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 

I'or  great  Apollo  bids 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 

On  many  harps  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 

And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses. 

Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses  : 

So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale,  * 

His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight : 

With  wings  of  gentle  llush  o'er  dehcate  white, 

And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 

To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 

'J'hat  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 

And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings  : 

They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's  cooings. 

How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend  ; 

Kot  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 

To  the  o'erhanging  sallows :  blades  of  grass 

Slowly  across  the  chequer'd  shadows  pass. 

Why  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 

'Vo  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds ; 

Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads. 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams. 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand  ! 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand. 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain  ; 

But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses. 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  emerald  tresses ; 

'J'he  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give. 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live : 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  tiivors, 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviors. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

l''rom  low-hung  branches  :  little  space  they  stop ; 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek; 

Then  ofT  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak : 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  llieir  black  and  golden  wings, 

I'ausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterinsrs. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  1  sure  should  pray 

That  naught  less  sweet  might  call  my  thoughts  away. 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 

P'anning  away  the  dandelion's  down : 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 

I'atting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 

How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  iluis  to  be  caught 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought ! 

O  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook, 

Watch  her  half-smiling  lips  and  downward  look  ; 

O  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist  ; 

Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 

And  as  she  leaves  me  may  she  often  turn 

Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  auburn. 


Wliat  next  ?  A  tuft  of  evening  primroses. 

O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes ; 

O'er  wliich  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep, 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers  ;  or  by  the  flitting 

Of  diverse  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

O  Maker  of  sweet  poets  !  dear  delight 

Of  this  fair  world  and  all  its  gentle  livers ; 

Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 

Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  streams 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams, 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering, 

Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering! 

Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 

That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 

For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 

But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light? 

In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 

We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine ; 

And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid, 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade : 

When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings, 

The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings : 

Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faces, 

And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases; 

O'er-head  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet-brier. 

And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire ; 

While  at  our  feet,  the  voice  of  crystal  bubbles 

Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  troubles : 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world, 

Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreathed  and  curl'd. 

So  felt  he,  who  first  told  how  Psyche  went 

On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonderment ; 

What  Psyche  felt,>and  Love,  when  their  full  lips 

First  touch'd  ;  what  amorous  and  fondling  nips 

They  gave  each  other's  cheeks  ;  with  all  their  sighs. 

And  how  they  kist  each  other's  trenmlous  eyes  : 

The  silver  lamp, — the  ravishment — the  wonder, — 

The  darkness — loneliness, — the  fearful  thunder  : 

Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  up-flown. 

To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne. 

So  did  he  feel,  who  pull'd  the  boughs  aside. 

That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide. 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fauns,  and  Dryades 

Coming  with  softest  rustle  through  the  trees ; 

And  garlands  woven,  of  flowers  wild  and  sweet, 

I'pheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet  : 

Telling  us  how  fair  trembling  Syrinx  fled 

.Orcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 

Poor  nymph, — poor  Pan, — how  he  did  weep,  to  find 

Naught  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind 

Along  the  reedy  stream;  a  half-heard  strain, 

Full  of  sweet  desolation — balmy  pain. 


Wliat  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sing 
Narcissus  pining  o'er  the  untainted  spring  ? 
In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 
A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round  : 
And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 
Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool 
The  blue  sky,  here  and  there  serenely  peeping 
Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creeping. 
588 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


67 


And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  spied, 
A  meek  and  forlorn  (lower,  with  naught  of  pride, 
Drooping  its  beauty  o'er  the  watery  clearness. 
To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness : 
Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus,  it  would  not  move ; 
Bui  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to  love.  ' 
So  while  the  poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot. 
Some  fainter  gleamings  o'er  his  fancy  shot ; 
Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 
Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo's  bale. 

AVhere  had  he  been,  from  whose  warm  head  out-flew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new, 

That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness. 

Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonlight  ?  to  him  bringing 

Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly  singing 

From  out  the  middle  air,  from  tlowery  nests, 

And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 

Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars. 

Ah  I  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars  ; 

into  some  wondrous  region  he  had  gone. 

To  search  lor  thee,  divine  Endymion  I 

He  w.ts  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too. 

Who  stood  on  Latnius'  top,  what  time  there  blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below ; 

And  brought,  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and  slow, 

A  hymn  Irom  Dian's  temple  ;  while  upswelling. 

The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwelling. 

But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infant's  eyes. 

Though  she  stood  smiling  o'er  the  sacrifice, 

The  poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate, 

Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate  : 

So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he  won, 

And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air ;  thou  most  lovely  queen 
Of  all  the  brighii\ess  that  mine  eyes  have  seen! 
As  thou  exccedest  all  tilings  in  thy  shine. 
So  every  tale,  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 
O  for  three  word"?  of  honey,  that  I  might 
Tell  but  one  wonder  of  thy  bridal  night ! 

Where  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  their  keels, 
Phoebus  awhile  delay 'd  his  mighty  wheels. 
And  turn'd  to  smile  upon  thy  bashful  eyes, 
Ere  he  his  unseen  [Mimp  would  solemnize. 
The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and  clear, 
That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer ; 
Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet's  call, 
Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal : 
And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  warm. 
As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm. 
The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure. 
And  crept  through  hall-closed  lattices  to  cure 
The  languid  sick ;  it  cool'd  their  fever'd  sleep. 
And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and  deep. 
Soon  they  awoke  clear-eyed  :  nor  burnt  with  thirst- 
ing. 
Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  bursting : 
And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wond'ring  sight 
Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  delight ; 
Who  feel  their  arms,  and  breasts,  and  kiss,  and  stat'e, 
And  on  their  placid  foreheads  part  the  hair. 
Young  men  and  maidens  at  each  other  gazed, 
V\'ith  hands  held  back,  and  motionless,  amazed 


To  see  the  brightness  in  each  other's  eyes ; 

.And  so  they  stood,  fill'd  with  a  sweet  surprise, 

Until  their  tongues  were  loosed  in  jxiesy. 

Therelijre  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die  : 

But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  moment  spoken, 

Made  silken  ties,  that  never  may  be  broken. 

Cynthia  I  I  cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses 

That  (bllow'd  thine,  and  thy  dear  shepherd's  kisses : 

Was  there  a  poet  born  ? — But  now  no  more — 

I>Iy  wandering  spirit  must  no  further  soar. 


SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO  A  POEM. 

Lo !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  ; 
For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eye. 
Not  like  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days, 
But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways  ; 
So  graceful,  that  it  seems  no  mortal  hand, 
Or  e'en  the  touch  of  Archimago's  wand. 
Could  charm  them  into  such  an  attitude. 
We  must  think  rather,  that  in  playful  mood, 
.Some  mountain  breeze  had  turn'd  its  chief  deligtit 
To  show  this  wonder  of  its  gentle  might. 
Lo!  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry; 
For  while  I  muse,  the  lance  points  slantingly 
.Athwart  the  morning  air :  some  lady  sweet, 
Who  cannot  feel  for  cold  her  tender  feet, 
F'rom  the  worn  top  of  some  old  battlement 
Hails  it  with  tears,  her  stout  defender  sent; 
And  from  her  own  pure  self  no  joy  dissembling. 
Wraps  round  her  ample  robe  with  happy  trembling. 
Sometimes  when  the  good  knight  his  rest  could  take. 
It  is  reflected,  clearly,  in  a  lake. 
With  the  young  ashen  boughs,  'gainst  which  it  rests, 
Ami  th'  half-seen  mossiness  of  linnets'  nests. 
Ah !  shall  I  ever  tell  its  cruelty. 
When  the  fire  flashes  from  a  warrior's  eye, 
And  his  tremendous  hand  is  grasping  it. 
And  his  dark  brow  for  very  v.rath  is  knit? 
Or  when  his  spirit,  with  more  calm  intent. 
Leaps  to  tlie  honors  of  a  toiirn;iiiienI, 
And  makes  the  gazers  round  about  the  ring 
Stare  at  the  grandeur  of  the  balancing  ? 
No,  no  !  this  is  far  off: — then  how  shall  I 
Revive  the  dying  tones  of  minstrelsy, 
Which  linger  yet  about  long  Gothic  arches, 
In  dark-green  ivy,  and  among  wild  larches  ! 
How  sing  the  splendor  of  the  revelries, 
When  butts  of  wine  are  drank  otf  to  the  lees  ? 
And  that  bright  lance,  against  the  fretted  wall. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  stately  baniieral. 
Is  slung  with  shining  cuirass,  sword,  and  shield  ? 
Where  ye  may  see  a  spur  in  bloody  field. 
Light-footed  tiamsels  move  with  gentle  paces 
Round  the  wide  hall,  and  show  their  happy  faces; 
Or  stand  in  courtly  talk  by  fives  and  sevens. 
Like  those  fair  stars  that  twinkle  in  the  heavens. 
Yet  must  I  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  : 
Or  wherefore  comes  that  knight  so  proudly  by  ? 
Wherefore  more  proudly  does  the  gentle  knight 
Rein  in  the  swelling  of  his  ample  might  ? 
Spenser!  thy  brows  are  arched,  open,  kind. 
And  come  like  a  clear  sunrise  to  my  mind  ; 
And  always  does  my  heart  with  pleasure  dance 
When  I  think  on  thy  noble  countenance  : 
589 


58 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


AVliere  never  yet  was  aught  more  earthly  seen 

Than  the  pure  freshness  of  thy  laurels  green. 

Therefore,  great  bard,  I  not  so  fearfully 

Call  on  thy  gentle  spirit  to  hover  nigh 

My  daring  steps :  or  if  thy  tender  care, 

Thus  startled  unaware. 

Be  jealous  that  the  foot  of  other  wight 

Should  madly  follow  that  bright  path  of  light 

Traced  by  thy  loved  Libertas ;  he  will  speak, 

And  tell  thee  that  my  prayer  is  very  meek ; 

That  I  will  follow  with  due  reverence. 

And  start  with  awe  at  mine  own  strange  pretence. 

Him  thou  wilt  hear ;  so  1  will  rest  in  hope 

To  see  wide  plains,  fair  trees,  and  lawny  slope : 

The  morn,  the  eve,  the  light,  the  shade,  the  flowers ; 

Clear  streams,  smooth  lakes,  and  overlooking  towers. 


CALIDORE. 

A  FRAGME.NT. 

Young  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake  ; 

His  healthful  spirit  eager  and  awake 

To  feel  the  beauty  of  a  silent  eve. 

Which  seem'd  full  loth  this  happy  world  to  leave, 

The  light  dwelt  o'er  the  scene  so  lingeringly. 

He  bares  his  forehead  to  the  cool  blue  sky, 

And  smiles  at  the  far  clearness  all  around, 

Until  his  heart  is  well-nigh  over-wound. 

And  turns  for  calmness  to  the  pleasant  green 

Of  easy  slopes,  and  shadowy  trees  that  lean 

So  elegantly  o'er  the  waters'  brim 

And  show  their  blossoms  trim. 

Scarce  can  his  clear  and  nimble  eye-sight  follow 

The  freaks,  and  darlings  of  the  black-wing'd  swallow, 

Delighting  much,  to  see  it  half  at  rest. 

Dip  so  refreshingly  il.s  wings  and  breast 

'Gainst  the  smooth  surface,  and  to  mark  anon. 

The  widening  circles  into  nothing  gone. 

And  now  the  sharp  keel  of  his  little  boat 
Comes  up  with  ripple  and  with  easy  float, 
And  glides  into  a  bed  of  water-lilies: 
Broad-leaved  are  they,  anil  their  white  canopies 
Are  upward  turn'd  to  calch  the  heaven's  dew. 
Near  lo  a  little  island's  point  they  grew  ; 
Whence  Calidore  might  have  the  goodliest  view 
Of  this  sweet  spot  of  earth.     The  lK)wery  shore 
Went  oflT  in  gentle  windings  to  the  hoar 
And  light-blue  moiuitains :   but  no  breathing  man 
With  a  warm  heart,  and  eye  prepared  lo  scan 
Nature's  clear  beauty,  could  pass  lightly  by 
Objects  that  look'd  out  so  invitiiiffly 
On  either  side.     These,  gentle  Calidore 
Greeted,  as  he  had  known  them  long  before. 

The  sidelong  view  of  swelling  leafiness. 
Which  the  glad  setting  sun  in  gold  doth  dress. 
Whence,  ever  and  anon,  the  joy  outsprings. 
And  scales  upon  the  beauty  of  its  wings. 

The  lonely  turret,  shatter'd,  and  outworn, 
Stands  venerably  proud  ;  too  proud  to  mourn 
Its  long-lost  grandeur  :  flr-trees  grow  around, 
Aye  dropping  their  hard  fruit  upon  the  ground. 


The  little  chapel,  with  the  cross  alx)ve 
Upholding  wreaths  of  ivy  ;  the  white  dove. 
That  on  the  windows  spreads  his  feathers  light. 
And  seems  from  purple  clouds  to  wing  its  flight. 

Green-tufted  islands  casting  their  soft  shades 

Acro.ss  the  lake  ;  seqiiester'd  leafy  glades. 

That  through  the  dnnness  of  their  twilight  show 

Large  dock-leaves,  spiral  foxgloves,  or  the  glow 

Of  the  wild  cat's-eyes,  or  the  silvery  stems 

Of  delicate  birch-trees,  or  long  grass  which  hems 

A  litile  brook.     The  youth  had  long  been  viewing 

These  pleasant  things,  and  heaven  was  bedewing 

The  mountain  flowers,  when  his  glad  senses  caught 

A  trumpet's  silver  voice.     Ah  !  it  was  fraught 

With  many  joys  for  him  :  the  warder's  ken 

Had  found  white  coursers  prancing  in  the  glen  : 

Friends  very  dear  to  him  he  soon  will  see  ; 

So  pushes  off  his  boat  most  eagerly. 

And  soon  uj)on  the  lake  he  skims  along, 

Deaf  to  the  nightingale's  first  under-song ; 

Nor  minds  he  the  white  swans  that  dream  so  sweetly  > 

His  spirit  flies  before  him  so  completely. 

And  now  he  turns  a  jutting  point  of  land, 

Whence  may  be  seen  the  castle  gloomy  and  grand . 

Nor  will  a  bee  buzz  round  two  swelling  peaches, 

Before  the  point  of  his  light  shallop  reaches 

Those  marble  steps  that  through  the  viater  dip : 

Now  over  them  he  goes  with  hasty  trip, 

And  scarcely  stays  to  ope  the  folding-doors: 

Anon  he  leaps  along  the  oaken  floors 

Of  halls  and  corridors. 

Delicious  sounds !  those  little  bright-eyed  things 
That  float  about  the  air  on  azure  wings, 
Had  been  less  heartfelt  by  him  than  the  clang 
Of  clattering  hoofs ;  into  the  court  he  sprang, 
Just  as  two  noble  steeds,  and  palfreys  twain, 
Were  slanting  out  their  necks  with  loosen'd  rein; 
While  from  beneath  the  threatening  portcullis 
They  brought  their  happy  burthens.     What  a  kiss, 
What  gentle  squeeze  he  gave  each  lady's  hand  ! 
How  tremblingly  their  delicate  ankles  spann'dl 
Into  how  sweet  a  trance  his  soul  was  gone, 
While  whisperings  of  affection 
Made  him  delay  to  let  their  tender  feet 
Come  to  the  earlh ;  with  an  incline  so  sweet 
From  their  low  palfreys  o'er  his  neck  they  bent: 
And  whether  there  were  tears  of  languishment, 
Or  that  the  evening  dew  had  pearl'd  their  tresses, 
He  feels  a  moisture  on  his  cheek,  and  blesses 
Willi  lips  that  tremble,  and  with  glistening  eye, 
All  the  soft  luxury 

That  nestled  in  his  arms.     A  dimpled  hand, 
Fair  as  some  wonder  out  of  fairy  land, 
Hung  from  his  shoulder  like  the  drooping  flowers 
Of  whitest  Cassia,  fresh  from  summer  showers  : 
And  this  he  fondled  with  his  happy  cheek, 
As  if  for  joy  he  would  no  further  seek: 
When  the  kind  voice  of  good  Sir  Clerimond 
Came  to  his  ear,  like  something  from  beyond 
His  present  being :  so  he  gently  drew 
His  warm  arms,  thrilling  now  with  pulses  new, 
From  their  sweet  thrall,  and  forward  gently  bending, 
Thank'd  heaven  that  his  joy  was  never-ending : 
590 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


59 


While  'gainst  his  forehead  he  devoutly  press'd 
A  hand  Heaven  made  to  succor  the  distress 'd  ; 
A  hand  that  from  tlie  worlil's  bleak  |)romonlory 
Had  lifted  Calidore  for  deeds  of  Glory. 

Amid  the  pages,  and  the  torches'  glare. 

There  stood  a  knight,  patting  the  Ihnving  hair 

Of  his  proud  horse's  mane  :  he  was  wiihal 

A  man  of  elegance,  and  stature  tall  : 

So  that  the  waving  of  his  pinnies  would  be 

High  as  the  berries  of  a  wild-ash  tree, 

Or  as  the  winged  cap  of  Mercury. 

His  armor  was  so  dexterously  wrought 

In  shape,  that  sure  no  living  man  had  thought 

It  hard,  and  heavy  steel :  but  that  indeed 

It  was  some  glorious  form,  some  splendid  weed, 

In  which  a  spirit  new  come  from  the  skies 

Might  Uve,  and  show  itself  to  human  eyes. 

'Tis  the  far-famed,  the  brave  Sir  Gondibert, 

Said  the  good  man  to  Calidore  alert ; 

While  the  young  warrior  with  a  step  of  grace 

Came  up, — a  courtly  smile  u)5on  his  face. 

And  mailed  hand  held  out,  ready  to  greet 

The  large-eyed  wonder,  and  amt)itious  heat 

Of  the  aspiring  boy ;  who,  as  he  led 

Those  smiling  ladies,  often  turn'd  his  head 

To  admire  the  visor  arch'd  so  gracefidly 

Over  a  knightly  brow ;  while  they  went  by 

The  lamps   that    from    the    high-roof'd   walls  were 

pendent. 
And  gave  the  steel  a  shining  quite  transcendent. 

Soon  in  a  pleasant  chamber  they  are  seated, 

The  svveet-lipp'd  ladies  have  already  greeted 

All  the  green  leaves  that  round  the  window  clamber. 

To  show  their  purple  stars,  and  bells  of  amber. 

Sir  Gondibert  has  doflTd  his  shining  steel. 

Gladdening  in  the  free  and  airy  feel 

Of  a  light  mantle;  and  while  Clerimond 

Is  looking  round  about  him  with  a  Ibnd 

And  placid  eye,  young  Calidore  is  burning 

To  hear  of  knightly  deeds,  and  gallant  spurning 

Of  all  unworthiness ;  and  how  the  strong  of  arra 

Kept  off  dismay,  and  terror,  and  alarm 

From  lovely  woman :  while  brimful  of  this, 

He  gave  each  damsel's  hand  so  warm  a  kiss, 

And  had  such  manly  ardor  in  his  eye, 

That  each  at  other  look'd  half-siaringly : 

And  then  their  features  started  into  smiles, 

Sweet  as  blue  heavens  o'er  enchanted  Isles. 

Softly  the  breezes  from  the  forest  came, 
Softly  they  blew  aside  the  taper's  ftame  ; 
Clear  vi-as  the  song  from  Philomel's  far  bower ; 
Grateful  the  incense  from  the  lime-tree  flower; 
Mysterious,  wild,  the  far-heard  trumpet's  tone ; 
Lovely  the  moon  in  ether,  all  alone  : 
Sweet  too  the  converse  of  these  happy  mortals, 
As  that  of  busy  spirits  when  the  portals 
Are  closing  in  the  West ;  or  that  soft  humming 
We  hear  around  when  Hesperus  is  coming. 
Sweet  be  their  sleep.     ****** 


TO  SOME  LADIES 

OS  RECEIVING  A  CfUIOUS  SHELL. 

What  though,  while  the  wonders  of  nature  exploring, 
I  cannot  your  light  mazv  footsteps  attend  ; 
3P 


Nor  listen  to  accents,  that  almost  adoring. 
Bless  Cynthia's  face,  the  enthusiast's  friend ; 

Yet  over  the  sleep,  whence  the  mountain-stream  rushes, 
Witli  you,  kindest  friends,  in  idea  I  rove ; 

Mark  the  clear  tumbling  crystal,  its  passionate  gushes. 
Its  spray  that  the  wild-(lower  kindly  bedews. 

Why  linger  ye  so,  the  wild  labyrinth  strolling? 

Why  breathless,  unable  your  bliss  to  declare  ? 
Ah !  you  list  to  the  nightingale's  tender  condoling. 

Responsive  to  sylphs,  in  the  moonbeamy  air. 

'Tis  mom,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  are  yet  drooping, 
I  see  you  are  treading  the  verge  of  the  sea  : 

And  now!  ah,  I  see  it — you  just  now  are  stooping 
To  pick  up  the  keepsake  intended  for  me. 

If  a  cherub,  on  pinions  of  silver  descending. 

Had  brought  me  a  gem  from  the  fretwork  of  Heaven ; 

And  smiles  with  his  star-cheering  voice  sweetly  blend- 
ing, 
The  blessings  of  Tighe  had  melodiously  given ; 

It  had  not  created  a  warmer  emotion 

Than  the  present,  fiiir  nymphs,  I  was  blest  with 
from  you  ; 

Than  the  shell,  from  the  bright  golden  sands  of  the 
ocean. 
Which  the  emerald  waves  at  your  feet  gladly  threw. 

For,  indeed,  'tis  a  sweet  and  peculiar  pleasure 
(And  blissful  is  he  who  such  happiness  finds), 

To  possess  but  a  span  of  the  hour  of  leisure 
In  elegant,  pure,  and  aerial  minds. 


OX  RECEIVING  A  COPV  vlF  VERSES  FROM  THE 
SAME  LADIES. 

Hast  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem 
Pure  as  the  ice-drop  that  froze  on  the  mountams  ? 

Bright  as  the  humming-bird's  green  diadem, 

When  it  fluttere  in  sunbeams  that  shine  through  a 
fountain  ? 

Hast  thou  a  goblet  for  dark  sparkling  wine  ? 

That  goblet  right  heavy,  and  ma.ssy,  and  gold  ? 
And  splendidly  mark'd  with  the  story  divine 

Of  Armida  the  fair,  and  Rinaldo  the  bold  ? 

Hast  thou  a  steed  with  a  mane  richly  flowing  ? 

Hast  thou  a  sword  that  thine  enemy's  smart  is  ? 
Hast  thou  a  trumpet  rich  melodies  blowing? 

And  wear'st  thou  the  shield  of  the  famed  Brito 
martis  ? 

What  is  it  that  hangs  from  thy  shoulder  so  brave, 
Embroider'd  with  many  a  spring-peering  flower  ? 

Is  it  a  scarf  that  thy  fair  lady  gave  ? 

And  hastest  thou  now  to  that  fair  lady's  bower  ? 

Ah !   courteous  Sir  Knight,  with  large  joy  thou  art 
crown'd ; 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth ! 
I  will  tell  thee  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
In  magical  powers  to  bless  and  to  soothe. 
591 


60 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


On  this  scroll  thou  scest  written  in  characters  fair 
A  sunbeaming  tale  of  a  wreath,  and  a  chain : 

And,  warrior,  it  nurtures  the  property  rare 

Of  charming  my  mind  from  the  trammels  of  pain. 

This  canopy  mark :  't  is  the  work  of  a  fay ; 

Beneath  its  rich  shade  did  King  Oberon  languish. 
When  lovely  Titania  was  far,  far  away, 

And  cruelty  left  him  to  sorrow  and  anguish. 

There,  oft  would  he  bring  from  his  soft-sighing  lute 
Wild  strains,  to  which,  spell-bound,  the  nightin- 
gales listen'd  I 
The  wondering  spirits  of  Heaven  were  mute. 

And   tears  'mong  the  dew-drops  of  morning  oft 
glisten'd. 

In  this  little  dome,  all  those  melodies  strange. 
Soft,  plaintive,  and  melling,  for  ever  will  sigh ; 

Nor  e'er  will  the  notes  from  their  tenderness  change, 
Nor  e'er  will  the  music  of  Oberon  die. 

So  when  I  am  in  a  voluptuous  vein, 

I  pillow  my  head  on  the  sweets  of  the  rose. 

And  list  to  the  tale  of  the  wreath,  and  the  chain, 
Till  its  echoes  depart ;  then  I  sink  to  repose. 

Adieu  !  valiant  Eric  !  with  joy  thou  art  crown'd, 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth, 

I  too  have  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
In  magical  powers  to  bless  and  to  soothe. 


TO 


Hadst  thou  lived  in  days  of  old, 

O  what  wonders  had  been  told 

Of  thy  lively  countenance, 

And  thy  humid  eyes  that  dance. 

In  the  midst  of  their  own  brightness, 

In  the  very  fane  of  lightness,- 

Over  which  thine  eyebrows,  leaning, 

Picture  out  each  lovely  meaning  I 

In  a  dainty  bend  they  lie, 

Like  to  streaks  across  the  sky, 

Or  the  feathers  from  a  crow, 

Fallen  on  a  beil  of  snow. 

Of  thy  dark  hair,  that  extends 

Into  many  graceful  bends : 

As  the  leaves  of  hellebore 

Turn  to  whence  they  sprung  before. 

And  behind  eacii  ample  curl 

Peeps  the  richness  of  a  pearl. 

Downward  too  flows  many  a  tress 

With  a  glossy  waviness, 

Full,  and  round  like  globes  that  rise 

From  the  censer  to  the  skies 

Through  sunny  air.     Add  too,  the  sweetness 

Of  thy  honey 'd  voice  ;  the  neatness 

Of  thine  ankle  lightly  tarn'd  : 

With  those  beauties  scarce  discem'd, 

Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy. 

That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 

Of  the  little  Loves  that  fly 

Round  about  with  eager  pry. 

Saving  when  with  freshening  lave, 

Thou  dipp'st  them  in  the  taintless  w'ave  ; 


Like  twin  water-lilies,  born 

In  the  coolness  of  the  morn. 

O,  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then, 

Now  the  Muses  had  been  ten. 

Couldsl  thou  wish  for  lineage  higher 

Thaji  twin-sister  of  Thalia  ? 

At  least  for  ever,  evermore 

Will  I  call  the  Graces  four, 

Hadst  thou  lived  when  chivalry 

Lifted  up  her  lance  on  high, 

Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  ? 

Ah !  I  see  the  silver  sheen 

Of  tliy  broider'd  floating  vest 

Cov'ring  half  thine  ivory  breast : 

Which,  O  Heavens !  I  should  see. 

But  tiiat  cruel  Destiny 

Has  placed  a  golden  cuirass  there. 

Keeping  secret  what  is  fair. 

Like  sunbeams  in  a  cloudlet  nested. 

Thy  locks  in  knightly  casque  are  rested; 

O'er  which  bend  four  milky  plumes. 

Like  the  gentle  lily's  blooms 

Springing  from  a  costly  vase. 

See  with  what  a  stately  pace 

Comes  thine  alabaster  steed; 

Servant  of  heroic  deed  I 

O'er  his  loins,  his  trappings  glow 

Like  the  northern  lights  on  snow. 

Mount  his  back  !  thy  sword  unsheath  ! 

Sign  of  the  enchanter's  death ; 

Bane  of  every  wicked  spell ; 

Silencer  of  dragon's  yell. 

Alas!  thou  this  wilt  never  do: 

Thou  art  an  enchantress  too. 

And  wilt  surely  never  spill 

Blood  of  those  whose  eyes  can  kill. 


TO  HOPE. 


When  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit. 

And  hateful  thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  in  gloom 
When  no  fair  dreams  before  my  "  mind's  eye"  flit, 

And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom ; 
Sweet  Hope !  eiliereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

Whene'er  I  wander,  at  the  fall  of  night, 

Where  woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's  brighT 
ray. 

Should  sad  Despondency  my  musings  fright. 
And  frown,  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness  away. 

Peep  with  the  moonbeams  through  the  leafy  roof, 

And  keep  tliat  fiend  Despondence  far  aloof 

Should  Di.sappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 
Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless  heart 

When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air. 
Preparing  on  his  spell-bound  prey  to  dart : 

Chase  him  away,  sweet  Hope,  with  visage  bright, 

And  fright  him,  as  the  morning  frightens  night ! 

W^hene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 
Tells  to  my  painful  breast  a  tale  of  sorrow, 

O  bright-eyed  Hope,  my  morbid  fancy  cheer ; 
Let  me  awhile  thy  sweetest  comforts  borrow : 

Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  me  shed. 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head ! 
592 


mSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Gl 


Should  o'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain, 
From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair, 

O  let  me  think  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 
To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  the  midnight  air ! 

Sweet  Hope!  ethereal  balm  nyion  me  shed, 

And  wave  tliy  silver  pillions  o"er  my  head. 

[n  the  long  vista  of  the  years  to  roll, 

Let  me  not  see  our  country's  honor  fade ! 

O  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul ! 

Her  pride,  her  freedom  ;  and  not  freedom's  shade. 

From  thy  bright  eyes  unusual  brightness  shed — 

Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head  I 

Let  me  not  see  the  patriot's  high  bequest. 
Great  Liberty  !  how  great  in  plain  attire  ! 

With  the  base  purple  of  a  court  oppress'd. 
Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  expire : 

But  let  me  see  thee  stoop  from  Heaven  on  wings 

That  fill  the  skies  with  silver  glitterings ! 

And  as,  in  sparkling  majesty,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bright  summit  of  some  gloomy  cloud ; 
Brightening  the  half-veil'd  face  of  heaven  afar : 

So,  when  dark  thoughts  my  boding  spirit  shroud, 
Sweet  Hope  I  celestial  influence  round  me  shed, 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

February,  1815. 


IMITATION  OF  SPENSER. 


'     Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came, 
And  her  first  footstep  touch'd  a  verdant  hill : 
Crowning  its  lawny  crest  with  atnber  flame, 
Silvering  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill ; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down  distil, 
And,  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill. 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven  bowers, 

And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never  lowers. 

There  the  kingfisher  saw  his  plumage  bright. 
Vying  w  ith  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below  ; 
Whose  silken  fins'  and  golden  scales'  light 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby  glow: 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched  snow, 
And  oar'd  himself  along  with  majesty  ; 
Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes  ;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony. 
And  on  his  bark  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 

Ah !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen  : 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye: 
It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  bright  waters;  or  as  when  on  high. 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs  the  cerulean 
sky. 

And  all  around  it  dipp'd  luxuriously 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy  tide, 
Which,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity. 
Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side; 


As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears  it  tried. 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree  stem  I 
Haply  it  w:us  the  workings  of  its  pride. 
In  strife  to  tl.fow  upon  the  'shore  a  gem 
Outvying  all  tiie  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 


Woman  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain. 

Inconstant,  childish,  proud,  and  full  of  fancies ; 

Without  that  modest  softening  that  enhances 
The  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 
That  its  mild  light  creates  to  heal  again  ; 

E'en  then,  elate,  my  spirit  leaps  and  prances. 

E'en  then  my  soul  with  exultation  dances 
For  that  to  love,  so  long,  1  've  dormant  lain : 
But  when  I  see  thee  meek,  and  kind,  and  tender 

Heavens !  how  desperately  do  I  adore 
Thy  winning  graces ; — to  be  thy  defender 

I  hotly  burn — to  be  a  Calidore — 
A  very  Red-Cross  Knight — a  stout  Leandor — 

Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of  yore. 

Light  feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted  hair ; 

Soft  dimpled  hands,  white  neck,  and  creamy  breast ; 

Are  things  on  which  the  dazzled  senses  rest 
Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  they  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures.  Heavens  I  I  cannot  dare 

To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpossess'd 

They  be  of  what  is  worthy, — though  not  drest 
In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark  ; 

These  lures  I  straight  forget,-  e'en  ere  I  dine^ 
Or  thrice  my  palate  moisten  :  bui  when  I  mark 

Such  charms  witli  mild  intelligences  shine, 
My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark 

To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being  ? 

Who  can  forget  her  half-retiring  sweets  ? 

God !  she  is  hke  a  milk-white  lamb  thitt  bleats 
For  man's  protection.     Surely  the  All-soeuig, 
Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agreeing. 

Will  never  give  him  pinions,  who  entreats 

Such  innocence  to  ruin, — who  vilely  cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.     In  truth,  there  is  no  freeing 
One's  thoughts  from  such  a  beauty  ;  when  I  hear 

A  lay  that  once  I  saw  her  hand  awake. 
Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near: 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbor  take 
A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear, 

And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture  shake 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

1. 

Mv  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  pa.«t,  and  Lcihe-wards  had  sunk 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless. 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 
503 


62 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  siin-burnt  mirth ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 


Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs. 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies: 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  he  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs. 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 


Away  !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 


Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 

While  tliou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain- 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


Thou  wast  not  bom  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  (read  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 


Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for 
home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm 'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy-lands  forlorn. 


Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  tiie  hill-side;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music  : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

1. 
Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness  ! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  wlio  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf  fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape       •■ 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What  maidens  loth  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?  What  struggle  to  escape  ?  * 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?   What  wild  ecstasy  ? 


Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefl)re,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  car.  but,  more  endear'd. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Thottgh  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  lliy  bliss. 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

3. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd. 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  j-oung ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


Who  arc  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  thai  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore. 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
594 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


63 


Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  l)e ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

5. 

O  Altic  shape!  Fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  tliis  generation  waste. 
Thou  slialt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  kjiow. 


ODE  TO  PSYCHE. 

0  Goddess  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 
By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear, 

And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung, 
Even  into  ttiine  own  soft-couched  ear : 

Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 

The  winged  Psyche  with  av.aken'd  eyes! 

1  wander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly. 

And,  on  the  sudden,  fainting  with  surprise, 
.Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 

In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whisp'ring  roof 

Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where  there  ran 
A  brooklet,  scarce  espied  : 
'Mid  hush'd,  cool-rooted  flowers,  fragrant-eyed, 

Blue,  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
They  lay  calm-breathing  on  the  bedded  grass ; 

Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too; 

Their  lips  touch'd  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber. 
And  ready  still  past  liisses  to  outnumber 

At  tender  eye-dawn  of  Aurorean  love  : 
The  winged  boy  I  knew ; 

But  who  wast  thou,  O  happy,  happy  dove  ? 
Ilis  Psyche  true ! 

0  latest-bom  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  ail  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy! 
Fairer  than  Pii(cbe's  sapphirc-region'd  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky ; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none. 

Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers ; 
Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours ; 
No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming ; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouthed  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest!  though  too  late  for  antique  vows, 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre, 

When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs. 
Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire  ; 

Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired 
From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 
Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 

So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 
Upon  the  midnight  hours ; 
44 


Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming  ; 
Thy  shrine,  tliy  prove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  palc-niouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 

In  some  initrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Wliere  branched  thoughts,  new-grown  with  pleasint 
pain, 

Instead  of  pines  shall  min-mur  in  the  wind  : 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep ; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  luU'd  to  sleep; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
Wiih  the  wreathed  trellis  of  a  working  brain. 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name, 
With  all  ilie  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign. 

Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same 
And  there  shall  be  lor  thee  all  soft  delight 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night. 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in ! 


FANCY. 

EvEU  let  the  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth. 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  waiider 

Tiirough  the  thoughts  still  spread  beyond  her 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  li)rth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy  I  let  her  loose  ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  oX  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  ; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too. 

Blushing  througli  the  mist  and  dew. 

Cloys  wiih  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 

.Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  liigot  l)lazcs  bright. 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled. 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  jilowboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  l)anish  F.ven  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  sclf-overaw'd. 

Fancy,  high  commLssion'd  :  send  her! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her : 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together. 

All  delights  of  summer  weather ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth. 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

503 


64 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thou  shalt  quaff  it : — thou  shall  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  mom : 

And,  in  the  same  moment — hark ! 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meager  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin ; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  liawthorn-tree. 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 

When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm ; 

Acorns  ripe  dov^n-pattering. 

While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

O,  sweet  Fancy !  let  her  loose ; 
Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use : 
Where 's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade. 
Too  much  gazed  at  ?  Where 's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where 's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary  ?  Where 's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where 's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  peltelh. 
Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind : 
Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 
Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 
How  to  frov\'n  and  how  to  chide ; 
With  a  waist  and  witli  a  side 
White  as  Hebe's  when  her  zone 
Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 
Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  leet. 
While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 
And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 
Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 
Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 
And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. — 
Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


ODE. 

Hards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 


With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Sealed  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented. 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not  ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing. 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying. 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day. 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ! 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradi.se 
Sweeter  tlian  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?  O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away. 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, — 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine. 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
596 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


65 


ROBIN  HOOD 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


No  I  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years  : 
Many  times  have  Winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 


No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more. 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  healii  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  niid-tbrest  laugh. 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  Ihe  seven  stars  to  light  you. 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan. 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  wliile 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguil 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent  ; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din  ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  lough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  '' grene  shawe;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  lulled  grave. 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days. 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze  : 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  Ihe  dock-yard  strokes. 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  lo  her — strange!  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money ! 

So  It  IS  ;  yet  let  us  sing 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string! 
Honor  to  the  bugle-horn  ! 
Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn  I 
Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green ! 
Honor  to  the  archer  keen ! 
Honor  to  tight  little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon  I 
Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood ! 


Honor  to  maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  llie  Shprwo(Hl  clan  ! 
Though  their  days  iiave  hurried  by. 
Let  us  two  a  burden  trj'. 


TO  AUTUMN. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  I 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  l)less 

With  fruit  ihe  vines  tiiat  round  liie  thatch-eves  run, 
To  bend  witli  apples  the  moss'd  ciitiage-lrecs. 

And  fdl  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel-shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel  ;  to  set  budding  more. 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the.  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  sofi-lified  l)y  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep. 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swaili  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  wilh  patient  look. 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  ihe  soft-dying  day. 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  red-breast  vvhisiles  from  a  garden-croft ; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY. 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooled,  for  its  poisonous  wine ; 
Nor  suflfer  ihy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine; 
Make  not  your  rosarj'  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

But  w-hen  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud. 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all. 

And  hides  Ihe  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud  ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  moniing  rose. 
Or  on  the  raiiiljow  of  the  salt  sand-wave. 
Or  on  the  vveallh  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  ihy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows. 
Imprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eye?. 
597 


66 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  hps 
Bidding  adieu  ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips  : 
Ay.  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

V'eil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous 
tongue 
Can  hurst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine  ; 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 


As  I  lay  in  my  bed  slepe  full  unniete 
Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I  ne  iriiiiht 
Kest  I  lie  wist,  for  there  n'  as  ertlily  wight 
(As  I  suppose)  had  more  of  hertis  ese 
Than  I,  fur  I  ii'  ad  sicknesse  luirdisesc. 
Chaccer. 


What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  ? 
What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty  hummer 
That  slays  one  moment  in  an  open  llower, 
And  buzzes  cheerily  from  bower  to  bovver  ? 
What  is  more  tranquil  than  a  musU-rose  blowing 
In  a  green  island,  far  from  all  men's  knowing  ? 
More  healthful  than  the  leallness  of  dales  I 
More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales  ? 
More  serene  than  Cordelia's  countenance  ? 
More  full  of  visions  than  a  high  romance? 
What,  but  thee.  Sleep  ?  Soft  closer  of  our  eyes! 
Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies! 
Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pillows  ! 
Wreather  of  poppy  buds,  and  weeping  willows ! 
Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses ! 
Most  happy  listener !  when  the  morning  blesses 
Thee  tor  enlivening  all  the  cheerful  eyes 
'J'hat  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sunrise. 

But  what  is  higher  beyond  thought  than  thee  ? 

Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain-tree  ? 

More  strange,  more  beautiful,  more  smooth,  more  regal. 

Than  wings  of  swans,  than  doves,  than  dim-seen  eagle  ? 

What  is  it '.   And  to  what  shall  I  compare  it  ? 

It  has  a  glory,  and  naught  else  can  share  it: 

The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and  holy. 

Chasing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly: 

Coming  someiimos  like  fearful  claps  of  thunder ; 

Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions  nnder ; 

And  someiimes  like  a  gentle  whispering 

Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wondrous  thing 

That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant  air; 

So  that  we  look  around  with  jirying  stare, 

Perhaps  to  see  shapes  of  light,  aerial  lynming. 

And  catch  soft  floatings  from  a  faint-heard  hymning; 

To  see  the  laurel-wreath,  on  high  suspended. 

That  is  to  crovin  our  name  when  life  is  ended. 

Someiimes  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice, 

And  from  the  heart  up-springs.  Rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 

Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Framer  of  all  things, 

And  die  away  in  ardent  mutterings. 

P<o  one  who  once  the  glorious  sun  has  seen, 
A  nd  all  the  clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom  clean 


For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  must  know 
What  'tis  I  mean,  and  feel  his  being  glow: 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit. 
By  teUing  what  he  sees  from  native  merit. 


O  Poesy !  for  thee  I  hold  my  pen. 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven — should  1  rather  kneel 

Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  leel 

A  glowing  splendor  round  al)out  me  hung. 

And  echo  back  the  voice  of  thine  own  tongue  ? 

O  Poesy !  for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  ihy  wide  heaven;  yel,  to  my  ardent  prayer. 

Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air. 

Smoothed  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 

Of  flowering  bays,  that  ]  may  die  a  death 

Of  luxuiy,  and  my  young  spirit  follow 

The  morning  sunbeams  to  the  great  Apollo, 

Like  a  fresh  sacrifice ;  or,  if  I  can  bear 

The  o'er  whelming  sweets,  'twill  bring  to  me  the  fail 

Visions  of  all  places :  a  bowery  nook 

Will  be  elysium — an  eternal  book 

Whence  I  may  copy  m.'uiy  a  lovely  saying 

About  the  leaves,  and  flowers — about  the  playing 

Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains ;  and  the  shade 

Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid  ; 

And  many  a  verse  from  .so  strange  inlluence 

That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence 

It  came.    Also  imaginings  will  hover 

Round  my  tire-side,  and  haply  there  discover 

Vistas  of  solemn  beauiy,  where  I'd  wander 

In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  Meander 

Through  iis  lone  vales;  and  where  I  found  a  spot 

Of  awi'uUer  shade,  or  an  enchanted  grot, 

Or  a  green  hill  o'erspread  with  chequer'd  dross 

Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  loveliness. 

Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  permitted, 

All  that  was  for  our  human  senses  fitted. 

Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I  'd  seize 

Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  spirit  tease 

Till  all  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 

Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 


Stop  and  consider !  life  is  but  a  day ; 
A  fragile  dew-drop  on  ils  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 
Of  Montinorenci.    Why  so  sad  a  moan  ? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown ; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil ; 
A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 


O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy!  so  I  may  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 
Then  I  will  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 
In  long  perspective,  and  continually 
Tasie  their  pure  fountains,    p'irst  the  realm  I  '11  paw 
Of  Flora,  and  old  Pan  :  sleep  in  the  grass, 
Feed  upon  apples  red,  and  strawberries, 
And  choose  each  pleasure  that  my  fancy  sees ; 
598 


mSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


67 


Catch  the  white-handed  nymphs  in  shady  places, 

To  woo  sweet  kisses  from  uverteii  faces, — 

Play  with  their  lingers,  touch  tlicir  stioulders  white 

Into  a  pretty  shrinliing  witii  a  bite 

As  hard  as  lips  can  make  it :  till  agreed, 

A  lovely  tale  of  human  l.ife  we'll  read. 

And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how  it  best 

May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest : 

Another,  bending  o'er  licr  nimble  tread, 

Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her  head, 

And  still  will  dance  with  ever-varied  ease. 

Smiling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees: 

Another  will  entice  me  on,  and  on 

Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cinnamon; 

Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafy  world 

We  rest  in  silence,  like  two  gems  upcurl'd 

In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell. 

And  can  I  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell? 

Yes,  I  must  pass  them  lor  a  nobler  life. 

Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 

Of  human  hearts  ;  lor  lo  !  I  see  afar, 

O'er-sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 

And  steeds  with  streamy  manes — the  charioteer 

Looks  out  upon  the  winds  with  glorious  fear: 

And  now  the  numerous  tramplings  quiver  lightly 

Along  a  huge  cloud's  ridge;  and  now  with  sprightly 

Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresher  skies, 

Tipt  round  with  silver  from  the  sun's  bright  eyes. 

iStill  downward  with  capacious  whirl  they  glide; 

And  now  I  see  them  on  a  green  hill-side 

In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodding  stalks. 

The  charioteer  with  won<lrous  gesture  talks 

To  the  trees  and  mountains ;  and  there  soon  appear 

Shapes  of  delight,  of  mystery,  and  fear. 

Passing  along  belbre  a  dusky  space 

Made  by  some  mighty  oaks :  as  they  would  chase 

Some  ever-fleeting  music,  on  they  sweep. 

Lol  how  they  murmur,  laugh,  and  smile,  and  weep: 

Some  with  upholden  hand  and  mouth  severe; 

Some  with  their  faces  muffled  to  the  ear 

Between  their  arms ;  some  clear  in  youthful  bloom. 

Go  glad  and  smilingly  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  upward  gaze ; 

Yes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  difrurent  ways 

Flit  onward — now  a  lovely  wreath  of  girls 

Dancing  their  sleek  hair  into  tangled  curls  ; 

And  now  broad  wings.    Most  awfully  intent 

The  driver  of  those  steeds  is  forward  bent, 

And  seems  to  listen :  O  that  I  might  know 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrying  glow ! 

The  visions  all  are  fled — the  car  is  fled 
Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong, 
And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear  along 
My  soul  to  nothingness :  but  I  will  strive 
Against  all  doubtings,  and  will  keep  alive 
The  thought  of  that  same  chariot,  and  the  strange 
Journey  it  went. 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old  ?  prepare  her  steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange  deeds 
44  *  "  3  Q 


Ujwn  the  clouds  ?    Has  she  not  shown  us  all  ? 

From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 

Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding  ?  Froiii  the  meaning 

Of  Jove's  large  eye-brow,  to  the  tender  greening 

Of  April  meadows  >  Here  her  nitar  shone, 

E'en  in  this  isle  ;  and  who  could  paragon 

The  fervid  choir  tli;it  lifted  up  a  noise 

Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 

Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 

Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 

Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void  >. 

Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh  cloy'd 

With  honors  ;  nor  had  any  other  care 

Than  to  sing  out  and  soothe  their  wavy  hair 

Could  all  this  be  forgotten  ?    Yes,  a  schism 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 

Made  great  A[X)llo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 

His  glories:  with  a  puling  infant's  force 

They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking-horse, 

And  thought  it  Pegiisus.    Ah,  dismal-soul'd  ! 

The  winds  of  Heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roll'd 

Its  gathering  waves — ye  felt  it  not.    The  blue 

Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 

Of  summer  night  collected  still  to  make 

The  morning  precious  :  Beauty  was  awake  ! 

Why  were  ye  not  awake  (  But  ye  were  dead 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of. — were  closely  wed 

To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 

And  compass  vile :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 

Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit. 

Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit. 

Their  verses  tallied.    Easy  was  the  task : 

A  thousand  haiidici'aftsmen  wore  the  mask 

Of  Poesy.    Ill-fated,  impious  race  ! 

That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face. 

And  did  not  know  it, — no,  they  went  about, 

Holding  a  poor,  decrepit  standard  out, 

Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottoes,  and  in  large 

The  name  of  one  Boileau  ! 


O  ye  whose  charge 
It  is  to  hover  round  our  pleasant  hills  ! 
Whose  congregated  majesty  so  fills 
My  boundly  reverence,  that  I  cannot  trace 
Your  hallow'd  names,  in  this  unholy  place. 
So  near  those  common  folk  ;  did  not  their  shames 
AfTright  you  ?  Did  our  old  lamenting  Thames 
Delight  you  I  did  ye  never  cluster  round 
Delicious  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound. 
And  weep?  Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions  where  no  more  the  laurel  grew  ? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To  some  lone  spirits  who  iwM  j)roudly  sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?  'T  was  even  so  : 
But  let  me  think  away  those  times  of  woe : 
Now  'tis  a  fairer  season  ;  ye  have  breathed 
Rich  benedictions  o'er  us  ;  ye  have  wreathed 
Fresh  garlands  :  for  sweet  music  has  been  heanl 
In  many  places;  some  has  been  u|)stirr'd 
From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake. 
By  a  swan's  ebon  bill ;  from  a  thick  brake, 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild. 
Bubbles  a  pipe;  fine  sounds  are  floating  wild 
About  the  earth :  happy  are  ye  and  glad. 
599 


OS 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


These  things  are,  doubtless :  yet  in  trulh  we  've  had 

ytraiige  ihunders  from  the  potency  of"  song ; 

Mingled  indeed  with  what  is  sweet  and  strong, 

From  majesty :  but  in  clear  truth  the  themes 

Are  ugly  cubs,  the  Poets'  Polyphemes 

Disturbmg  the  grand  sea.    A  drainless  shower 

Of  light  is  poesy ;  'lis  the  supreme  of  power; 

Tis  might  half-slumb'ring  on  its  own  right  arm. 

The  very  archings  of  her  eyelids  charm 

A  thousand  willing  agents  to  obey, 

And  still  she  governs  with  the  mildest  sway: 

But  strength  alone  though  of  the  Muses  born 

Is  like  a  fallen  angel :  trees  uptorn. 

Darkness,  and  worms,  and  shrouds,  and  sepulchres 

Delight  it ;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs 

And  thorns  of  life ;  forgetting  the  great  end 

Of  poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 

To  soothe  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts  of  man. 


Yet  I  rejoice :  a  myrtle  fairer  than 

E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  fro.Ti  the  bitter  weeds 

Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds 

A  silent  space  with  ever-sprouting  green. 

All  tenderesl  birds  there  find  a  pleasant  screen. 

Creep  through  the  shade  with  jaunty  fluttering. 

Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers,  and  sing. 

Then  let  us  clear  away  the  choking  thorns 

From  round  its  gentle  stem;  let  the  young  fawns, 

Yeaned  in  after-times,  when  we  are  flown, 

Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 

With  simple  flowers  :  let  there  nothing  be 

More  boisterous  than  a  lover's  bended  knee  ; 

IS'aught  more  ungentle  than  the  placid  look 

Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book ; 

Naught  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy  slopes 

Between  two  hills.    .411  hail,  deliglitful  hopes! 

As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 

ln;o  most  lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone, 

And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 

Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing  things. 

O  may  these  joys  be  ripe  before  I  die  I 


Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptuously 

Have  spoken  ?  that  from  hastening  disgrace 

'Tvvere  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  fiice  ? 

That  whining  boyhood  should  with  reverence  bow 

F.re  the  dread  thuiulerbolt  could  reach  ?  How! 

If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 

In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  Poe.sy : 

If  1  do  fail,  at  least  I  will  be  laid  ' 

Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poplar  sliade ; 

And  over  me  the  gra.ss  shall  be  smooth  shaven; 

And  there  shall  be  a  kind  memorial  graven. 

But  bff;  Despondence!  miserable  bane! 

They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst  to  gain 

A  noble  end,  are  thirsty  every  hour. 

What  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the  dower 

Of  spanning  wisdom ;  though  I  do  not  know 

The  shiflings  of  the  mighty  winds  that  blow 

Hither  and  thither  all  the  changing  thoughts 

Of  man;  though  no  great  minist'riug  reason  sorts 

Out  the  dark  mysteries  of  human  souls 

To  clear  conceiving  ;  yet  there  ever  rolls 

A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 

Therefrom  my  liberty  ;  theiice  too  I've  seen 


The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.    'Tis  clear 

.\s  any  thing  most  true ;  as  that  the  year 

Is  made  of  the  four  sea.sons — manifest 

As  a  large  cross,  some  old  cathedral's  crest, 

Lifted  to  the  white  clouds.    Therefore  should  I 

Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 

A  coward,  did  my  very  eyelids  wink 

At  speaking  out  what  I  have  dared  to  think 

Ah!  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 

Over  some  precipice;  let  the  hot  sun 

Melt  my  Dedalian  wings,  and  drive  me  down 

Convulsed  and  headlong!  Stay!  an  inward  frown 

Of  conscience  bids  me  be  more  calm  awhile. 

An  ocean  dim,  sprinkled  with  many  an  isle, 

Spreads  awfully  before  me.    How  much  toil! 

How  many  days  !  what  desperate  turmoil ! 

Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  widenesses. 

Ah,  what  a  task !  upon  my  bended  knees, 

I  could  unsay  those — no,  impossible 

Impossible ! 

For  sweet  relief  I'll  dwell 
On  humbler  thoughts,  and  let  this  strange  essay 
Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en  now  all  tumult  from  my  bosom  fades: 
I  turn  full-hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 
That  smooih  the  path  of  honor ;  brotherhood. 
And  friendliness,  the  nurse  of  mutual  good. 
The  hearty  grasp  that  sends  a  pleasant  sonnet 
Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it ; 
The  silence  when  some  rhymes  are  coming  out 
And  when  they're  come,  the  very  pleasant  rout 
The  message  certain  to  bo  done  to-morrow. 
'Tis  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to  borrow 
Some  precious  book  from  out  its  snug  retreat. 
To  clusffer  round  it  when  we  next  shall  meet. 
Scarce  can  I  scribble  on  ;  for  lovely  airs 
Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves  in  pairs 
Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling. 
When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender  falling. 
And  with  these  airs  come  forms  of  elegance 
Stooping  their  shoulders  o'er  a  horse's  prance, 
Careless,  and  grand — fingers  soft  and  round 
Parting  luxuriant  curls; — and  the  swift  bound 
Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his  eye 
Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 
Thus  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  flow 
Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 


Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 
To  trains  of  peaceful  images :  the  stirs 
Of  a  swan's  neck  unseen  among  the  ru-shes . 
A  linnet  starting  all  about  the  bushes : 
A  butterfly,  with  golden  wings  broad-parted, 
Nestling  a  rose,  convulsed  as  though  it  smarted 
With  over-pleasure — many,  many  more. 
Might  1  indulge  at  large  in  all  my  store 
Of  luxuries :  yet  I  must  not  fbrget 
Sleep,  ([uiet  with  his  poppy  coronet: 
For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these  rhymes 
1  partly  owe  to  him  :  and  thus,  the  chimes 
Of  friendly  voices  had  just  given  place 
Ti)  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  I  'gan  retrace 
The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 
It  was  a  poet's  house  who  keeps  the  keys 
600 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


69 


Of  pleasure's  temple. — Rouml  about  were  hung 

The  glorious  features  of  the  l)arJs  who  sung 

In  other  ages — cok!  and  sacred  busts 

Smiled  at  each  other.     Happy  he  who  trusts 

To  clear  Futurity  hi.s  darling  fame  ! 

Then  there  were  iauns  anil  satyrs  taking  aim 

At  swelling  apples  with  a  frisky  leap, 

And  reaching  fingers  'mid  a  luscious  heap 

Of  vine-leaves.     Then  there  rose  to  view  a  fane 

Of  liney  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 

Of  nymphs  approaching  fiiirly  o'er  the  sward : 

One,  loveliest,  holding  her  white  hand  toward 

The  dazzling  sunrise  :  two  sisters  sweet 

Bending  their  graceful  figures  till  they  meet 

Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  child  : 

And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  wild 

Thrilling  li(|uidily  of  dewy  piping. 

See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are  wiping 

Cherishingly  Diana's  timorous  limbs; — 

A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 

At  the  bath's  edge,  and  keeps  a  gentle  motion 

With  the  subsiding  crystal :  as  when  ocean 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothness  o'er 

lis  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 

The  patient  weeds ;  that  now  unshent  by  foam, 

Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home. 

Sappho's  meek  head  was  there  half  smiling  down 

At  nothing;  just  as  though  the  earnest  frown 

Of  over-thinking  had  that  moment  gone 

From  off  her  brow,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  he  always  lislen'd  to  the  sighs 
Of  the  goaded  world ;  and  Kosciusko's,  worn 
By  horrid  sufferance — mightily  forlorn. 

Petrarch,  out-stepping  from  the  shady  green, 

Starts  at  the  sight  of  Laura;  nor  can  wean 

His  eyes  from  her  sweet  face.     Most  happy  they ! 

For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 

Of  outspread  wings,  and  from  between  them  shone 

The  face  of  Poesy :  from  off  her  throne 

She  overlook'd  things  that  I  scarce  could  tell, 

The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might  well 

Keep  Sleep  aloof:  but  more  than  that  there  came 

Thought  after  thought  to  nouri-sh  up  the  flame 

Within  my  breast ;  so  that  the  morning  light 

Surprised  me  even  from  a  sleepless  night ; 

And  up  I  rose  refresh'd,  and  glad,  and  gay. 

Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 

These  lines ;  and  howsoever  they  be  done, 

f  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 


SONNETS. 

TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE. 

Many  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen: 
The  sun,  when  first  he  kist  away  the  tears 
That  fill'd  the  eyes  of  Mom ; — the  laurell'd  peers 

Who  from  the  feathery  gold  of  evening  lean ; — • 

The  Ocean  with  its  vasincss,  its  blue  green, 

Its  sliijjs,  its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  hopes,  its  fears, — 
Its  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 

Must  think  on  what  will  be,  and  what  has  been. 


E'en  now,  dear  George,  while  this  for  you  I  write 
Cynthia  is  from  her  silken  curtains  peeping 

So  scanlly,  that  it  scenw  her  bridal  night, 
And  she  her  half-discover'd  revels  keeping. 

But  what,  without  the  social  thought  of  thee. 

Would  be  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea  ? 


Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs 
Be  echoed  swiftly  through  that  ivory  siiell 
Thine  ear,  and  find  thy  gentle  heart;  so  well 

Would  pas.sion  arm  me  for  the  enterprise : 

But  ah  !  I  am  no  knight  whose  foeman  dies  ; 
No  cuirass  glistens  on  my  bosom's  swell ; 
1  am  no  happy  shepherd  of  the  dell 

Whose  lips  have  trembled  with  a  maiden's  eyes. 

Yet  must  I  dote  upon  thee, — call  thee  sweet. 
Sweeter  by  fiir  than  Hybla's  honey 'd  roses 
When  sieep'd  in  dew  rich  to  intoxication. 

Ah!  I  will  taste  that  dew,  for  me  'tis  meet, 
And  when  the  moon  her  pallid  face  discloses, 
I'll  gather  some  by  spells,  and  incantation. 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  DAY  THAT  MR.  LEIGH  HUNT  LEFT 
PRISON. 

What  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd  state, 

Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has  he 

In  his  immortal  spirit,  been  as  free 
As  the  sky-searching  lark,  anil  as  elate. 
Minion  of  grandeur  !  think  you  he  did  wait  ? 

Think  you  he  naught  but  prison-walls  did  see, 

Till,  so  unwilling,  thou  unturn'dst  the  key? 
Ah,  no!  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate! 
In  Spenser's  halls  he  stray 'd,  and  bowers  fair, 

Culling  enchanted  flowers;  and  he  flew 
With  daring  Millon  through  the  fields  of  air: 

To  regions  of  his  own,  his  genius  true 
Took  happy  flights.     Who  shall  his  fame  impair 

When  liiou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched  crew? 


How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time ! 

A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food 

Of  my  delighted  fancy. — I  could  brood 
Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime  : 
And  olien,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme, 

The.se  will  in  throngs  before  my  mind  intrude : 

But  no  confusion,  no  di-sturbance  rude 
Do  they  occasion  ;  'I  is  a  pleasing  chime. 
So  the  unnumber'd  sounds  that  evening  store; 

The  songs  of  birds — the  whisp'ring  of  the  leaves — 
The  voice  of  waters — the  great  bell  that  heaves 

Witli  solemn  sound,  and  thousand  others  more, 
That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves. 

Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  uproar. 


TO  A  FRIEND  WHO  SENT  ME  SOME  ROSES. 

As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields, 

What  time  the  skylark  shakes  the  tremulous  dew 
From  his  lush  clover  covert : — w  hen  anew 

Adventurous  knights  take  up  their  dinted  shields : 
GOl 


70 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  saw  the  sweetest  flower  wild  nature  yields, 

A  fresh-blown  musk-rose ;  't  w-as  the  first  that  threw 
Its  sweets  upon  the  summer:  graceful  it  grew 

As  is  the  wand  that  queen  Titania  wields. 

And,  as  I  feasted  on  its  fragrancy, 

I  thought  the  garden-rose  it  far  exeell'd ; 

But  when,  O  Wells  I  thy  roses  came  to  me, 
My  sense  with  their  deliciousness  was  spell'd  : 

Soft  voices  had  they,  that  with  tender  plea 

Whisper'd  of  peace,  and   truth,  and  friendliness 
imquell'd. 


TO  G.  A.  w. 

NvMPii  of  the  downward  smile,  and  sidelong  glance! 

In  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 

Art  thou  most  lovely  ?  when  gone  far  astray 
Into  the  labyrinths  of  sweet  utterance  ? 
Or  when  serenely  wand'ring  in  a  trance 

Of  sober  thought  ?  Or  when  starting  aw'ay, 

With  careless  robe  to  meet  the  morning  ray, 
Thou  sparest  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance  ? 
Haply  'tis  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly. 

And  so  remain,  because  thou  listenest : 
But  thou  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  completely 

That  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best. 
I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  which  Grace  more  neatly 

Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  the  rest. 


O  Solitude'  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell. 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings  :  climb  with  me  the  steep, — 

Nature's  observatoiy — whence  the  dell, 

Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell. 
May  seem  a  span ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavilion'd,  where  the  deer's  swift 
leap, 

Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell. 

But  though  I  '11  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee. 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  iruiocent  mind, 

Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refined, 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure;  and  it  sure  must  be 

Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind. 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 


TO  MY  BROTHERS. 

S.MALL,  bu.'ty  flames  play  through  the  fresh-laid  coals, 

And  their  faint  cracklings  o'er  our  silence  creep 

Like  whispers  of  the  household  gods  that  keep 
A  gentle  empire  o'er  fraternal  souls. 
And  while,  for  rhymes,  1  search  around  the  poles. 

Your  eyes  are  iix'd,  as  in  poetic  sleep. 

Upon  the  lore  so  voluble  and  deep. 
That  aye  at  fall  of  night  our  care  condoles. 
This  is  your  birih-day,  Tom,  and  I  rejoice 

That  thus  it  passes  smoothly,  quietly. 
Many  such  eves  of  gently  vvhisp'ring  noise 

May  we  together  pass,  and  calmly  try 
What  are  this  world's  true  joys, — ere  the  great  Voice, 

From  its  fair  face  shall  bid  our  spirits  fly. 
November  18,  1816. 


Kee.n  fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here  and  there 

Among  the  bushes,  half  leafless  and  dry  ; 

The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air. 

Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily. 

Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on  liigh. 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  pleasant  lair: 
For  I  am  brimful  of  the  friendliness 

That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found ; 
Of  fair-hair'd  Milton's  eloquent  distress. 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid'  drow'n'd  ; 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light-green  dress. 

And  fiiithful  Petrarch  gloriously  crown'd. 


To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 

And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 

Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career. 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 

E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silentlv. 


ox  FIRST  LOOKI.VG  INTO  CHAPMAN  S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold. 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


ON   LEAVING  SOME  FRIENDS  AT  AN  EARLY  HOUR 

Give  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean 

On  heap'd-up  flowers,  in  regions  clear,  and  farj 
Bring  me  a  tablet  whiter  than  a  star. 

Or  hand  of  hymning  angel,  when  't  is  seen 

The  silver  strings  of  heavenly  harp  atween : 
And  let  there  glide  by  many  a  pearly  car, 
Puik  robos,  and  wavy  hair,  and  diamond  jar. 

And  half-discover'd  wings,  and  glances  keen. 

The  while  let  music  wander  round  my  ears, 
And  as  it  reaches  each  dehcious  ending. 
Let  me  write  down  a  line  of  glorious  tone. 

And  full  of  many  wonders  of  the  spheres : 
For  what  a  height  my  spirit  is  contending! 
'Tis  not  content  so  soon  to  be  alone. 
602 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


71 


ADDRESSED  TO  HAYDON. 

IIiGH-MiN'DEDXEss,  a  jcalousy  for  food, 

A  loving-kindness  for  the  great  man's  fame, 
Dwells  liere  and  there  with  people  of  no  name. 

In  noisome  alley,  and  in  pathless  wood : 

And  where  we  think  the  truth  least  understood. 
Oft  may  be  found  a  '•  singleness  of  aim," 
That  ought  to  frighten  into  hooded  shauio 

A  money-niong'ring,  pitiahle  brood. 

llow  glorious  this  affection  for  the  cause 
Of  stedfast  genius,  toiling  gallantly  ! 

What  when  a  stout  unbending  champion  awes 
Envy,  and  malice  to  their  native  sty  > 

Unnumber'd  souls  breathe  out  a  still  applause, 
Proud  to  behold  him  in  his  country's  eye. 


ADDRESSED  TO  THE  SAME. 

Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning : 
He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake. 
Who  on  Ilelvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 

Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing : 

He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring. 

The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake : 
And  lo  !  w  hose  stcdfistness  would  never  take 

A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 

And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 
Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come  ; 

These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart. 
And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 

Of  mighty  workings  ? 

Listen  awhile,  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 


It  fells  me  too,  that  on  a  happy  day. 

When  some  goo<i  spirit  walks  u|K)n  the  earth. 
Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great  of  yore 
Gently  commingling,  gives  tromcniious  birth 
To  a  loud  liynm,  that  sounds  far,  far  away 
To  where  the  great  God  lives  for  evermore. 


Happy  is  England !  I  could  lie  content 

To  see  no  olhcr  verdure  than  its  own; 

To  feel  no  olhcr  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  v\iih  high  romances  blent: 
Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  langiiishnient 

For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 

To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne. 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters ; 

Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me. 

Enough  their  whiiest  arms  in  silence  clinging: 

Yet  do  I  often  warmly  burn  to  see 

Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing 
And  float  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun. 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead : 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never  : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

December  30,  1816. 


THE  HUMAN  SEASONS. 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year  ; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man : 

He  has  his  lusly  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  : 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 

To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  nigh 

Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :  quiet  coves 

His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

He  furleth  close ;  contented  so  to  look 

On  mists  in  idleness — lo  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  winter  too  of  pale  misfeature. 

Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 


TO  KOSCIUSKO. 

Good  Kosciusko!  thy  great  name  alone 

Is  a  full  harvest  whence  to  reap  high  feeling ; 
It  comes  upon  us  like  the  glorious  pealing 

Of  the  wide  spheres — an  everlasting  tone. 

And  now  it  tells  me,  that  in  worlds  unknown, 
The  names  of  heroes,  burst  from  clouds  concealing, 
And  changed  to  harmonies,  for  ever  stealing 

Through  cloudless  blue,  and  round  each  silver  throne. 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  LEANDER. 

Come  hither,  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 
Down-looking  aye,  and  with  a  chasten'd  light 
Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white, 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined  be, 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 
Untouch'd,  a  victim  of  your  beauty  bright, 
Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night. 
Sinking  bewilder'd  'mid  the  dreary  sea: 
'Tis  young  Leander  toiling  to  his  death ; 
Nigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weury  lips 
For  Hero's  cheek,  and  smiles  against  her  smile. 
O  horrid  dream  I  see  how  his  body  dips 
Dead-heavy  ;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam  awhile  : 
He's  gone;  up  bubbles  all  his  amorous  breath! 


TO  AILSA  ROCK. 

Hearken,  thou  craggy  ocean  pyramid  ! 
(iive  answer  from  thy  voice,  the  sea-fowl's  screams! 
When  were  thy  shoulders  mamled  in  huge  streams  ? 
When,  from  the  sun,  was  thy  broad  forehead  hid  ? 
603 


72 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  long  is't  since  the  mighty  power  bid 

Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  fathom  dreams  ? 

Sleep  in  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sunbeams, 

Or  when  gray  clouds  are  thy  cold  cover-lid  ? 

Thou  answer"st  not,  for  thou  art  dead  asleep! 

Thy  life  is  but  two  dead  eternities — 

The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep; 

First  with  the  whales,  last  with  the  eagle-skies — 

Drown'd  wast  thou  till  anearihtiuake  made  thee  steep, 

Another  cannot  wake  thy  giant  size. 


EPISTLES. 


Among  the  rest  a  shepherd  (thoiiirh  but  young 
Yet  hartneil  to  his  pipe)  with  all  the  skill 
His  few  yeeres  could,  began  to  fit  his  quill. 

Britannia's  Pastorals. — Browne. 


TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW. 

Sweet  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong, 

And  doubly  sweet  a  brotherhood  in  song; 

Not  can  remembrance,  Mathew  I  bring  to  view 

A  fate  more  pleasing,  a  delight  more  true 

Than  that  in  which  ihe  brother  poels  joy'd, 

Who,  with  combined  powers,  their  wit  employ'd 

To  raise  a  trophy  to  the  drama's  muses. 

The  thought  of  this  great  partnership  diffuses 

Over  the  genius-loving  heart,  a  feeling 

Of  all  that's  high,  and  great,  and  good,  and  healing. 

Too  partial  friend  I  fain  would  1  follow  thee 

Past  each  horizon  of  fine  poesy ; 

Fain  would  I  echo  back  each  pleasant  note 

As  o'er  Sicilian  seas,  clear  anthems  float 

'Mong  the  light-skimming  gondolas  far  parted. 

Just  when  the  sun  his  farewell  beam  has  darted  : 

But  'tis  impossible  ;  far  different  cares 

Beckon  me  sternly  from  soft  "  Lydinn  airs," 

And  hold  my  faculties  so  long  in  thrall. 

That  I  am  oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all 

1  shall  again  see  I'ha'bus  in  the  morning; 

Or  flush'd  Aurora  in  the  roseate  dawning; 

Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream; 

Or  a  rapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam ; 

Or  again  witness  what  with  thee  I  've  seen. 

The  dew  by  fairy  feet  swept  from  the  green, 

After  a  night  of  some  quaint  jui)ilee 

Which  every  elf  and  fay  had  come  to  see  : 

When  bright  processions  took  their  airy  march 

Beneath  the  curved  moon's  iriinniihal  arch. 

But  might  I  now  each  passing  moment  give 

To  the  coy  muse,  with  me  she  would  not  live 

In  this  dark  city,  nor  would  condescend 

'Mid  contradictions  her  delights  to  lend. 

Should  e'er  the  fine-eyed  maid  to  me  he  kind, 

Ah  .'  surely  it  must  be  whene'er  I  find 

Some  flowery  spot,  sequesler'd,  wild,  romantic, 

That  often  must  have  seen  a  poet  frantic; 

Where  oaks,  that  erst  the  Druid  knew,  are  growing. 

And  flowers,  the  glory  of  one  day,  are  blowing; 

Where  the  dark-leaved  laburnum's  drooping  clusters 

Reflect  athwart  tiie  stream  their  yellow  lustres, 


And  intertwined  the  cassia's  arms  unite. 

With  its  own  drooping  buds,  but  very  white. 

Where  on  one  side  are  covert  branches  hung, 

'Mong  which  the  nightingales  have  always  sun" 

In  leafy  quiet;  where  to  pry,  aloof 

Atween  Ihe  pillars  of  the  sylvan  roof, 

Would  be  to  find  where  violet  beds  were  nestling, 

And  where  the  bee  with  cowslip  bells  was  wrestling 

There  must  be  too  a  ruin  dark,  and  gloomy. 

To  say,  "  Joy  not  too  much  in  all  that's  bloomy." 

Yet  this  is  vain — O  Mathew !  lend  thy  aid 
To  find  a  place  where  I  may  greet  the  maid — 
Where  we  may  soft  humanity  put  on. 
And  sit,  and  rhyme,  and  think  on  Chatterton; 
And  that  warm-hearted  Shakespeare  sent  to  meet  hia 
Four  laurell'd  spirits,  heavenward  to  entreat  him 
With  reverence  would  we  speak  of  all  the  sages 
Who  have  left  sircaks  of  light  athwart  their  ages: 
And  thou  shoidd^t  moralize  on  Milton's  blindness. 
And  mourn  the  fearful  dearth  of  human  kindness 
To  those  who  strove  with  the  bright  golden  wing 
Of  genius,  to  flap  away  each  sting 
Thrown  by  the  pitiless  world.     We  next  could  tell 
Of  those  who  in  the  cause  of  freedom  fell ; 
Of  our  own  Alfred,  of  Helvetian  Tell ; 
Of  him  whose  name  to  every  heart's  a  solacet 
High-minded  and  unbending  William  Wallace 
While  to  the  rugged  north  our  musing  turns 
We  well  might  drop  a  tear  for  him,  and  Bu.'ns. 
Felton  I  without  incitements  such  as  these. 
How  vain  for  mo  the  niggard  Muse  to  tease  ! 
For  thee,  she  will  thy  every  dwelling  grace, 
And  make  "  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  :" 
For  thou  wast  once  a  floweret  blooming  wild. 
Close  to  the  source,  bright,  pure,  and  undefiled. 
Whence  gush  the  streams  of  song:  in  happy  hour 
Came  chaste  Diana  from  her  shady  bower, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  from  the  east  uprising ; 
And,  as  for  him  .some  gift  she  was  devising, 
Beheld  thee,  pluck'd  thee,  cast  thee  in  the  stream 
To  meet  her  glorious  brother's  greeting  beam. 
I  marvel  much  that  thou  hast  never  told 
How,  from  a  flower,  into  a  fish  of  gold 
Apollo  changed  thee  :  how  thou  next  didst  seem 
A  black-eyed  swan  upon  the  widening  stream ; 
And  when  thou  first  didst  in  that  mirror  trace 
The  placid  features  of  a  human  face  : 
That  thou  hast  never  told  thy  travels  strange, 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  mazy  range 
O'er  pebbly  crystal,  and  o'er  golden  sands ; 
Kissing  thy  daily  food  from  Kaiad's  pearly  hands 
November,  1 81 5. 


TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE. 

FuT.L  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past. 
My  brain  bevvilder'd,  and  my  mind  o'crcast 
With  heaviness  ;  in  seasons  when  I've  thought 
No  sphery  strains  by  me  could  e'er  be  caught 
From  the  blue  dome,  though  I  to  dimness  gaze 
On  the  far  depth  where  sheeted  lightning  plays. 
Or,  on  the  wavy  grass  outstretch'd  supinely. 
Pry  'mong  the  stars,  to  strive  to  think  divinely  : 
That  I  should  never  hear  Apollo's  song. 
Though  feathery  clouds  were  floating  all  along 

G04 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


73 


The  purple  west,  and,  two  bright  streaks  between, 

The  golden  lyre  itself  were  dimly  seen : 

That  the  still  mnrinur  of  the  honey-bee 

Would  never  teach  a  rural  song  to  me : 

That  the  bright  glance  from  beauty's  eyelids  slanting 

Would  never  make  a  lay  of  mine  enchanting, 

Or  warm  my  breast  with  ardor  to  unfold 

Some  tale  of  love  and  arms  in  time  of  old. 


But  there  are  limes,  when  those  that  love  the  bay, 

Fly  from  all  sorrowing  lar,  far  away ; 

A  sudden  glow  comes  on  them,  naught  they  see 

In  water,  earth,  or  air,  i)ut  Poesy. 

It  ha.s  been  said,  dear  George,  and  true  I  hold  it, 

(For  knightly  Spenser  to  Libertas  told  it), 

That  when  a  Poet  is  in  such  a  trance. 

In  air  he  sees  white  coursers  paw  and  prance, 

Bestridden  of  gay  knights,  in  gay  apparel. 

Who  at  each  other  tilt  in  playful  quarrel ; 

And  what  we,  ignorantly,  sheet-lightning  call, 

Is  the  swift  opening  of  their  wide  portal. 

When  the  bright  warder  blows  his  trumpet  clear, 

WTiose  tones  reach  naught  on  earth  but  poet's  ear. 

When  these  enchanted  portals  open  wide. 

And  through  the  light  the  horsemen  swiftly  glide. 

The  Poet's  eye  can  reach  those  golden  halls. 

And  view  the  glorj'  of  their  festivals : 

Their  ladies  fair,  that  in  the  distance  seem 

Fit  for  the  silv'ring  of  a  seraph's  dream  ; 

Their  rich  brimm'd  goblets,  that  incessant  run. 

Like  the  bright  spots  that  move  about  the  sun : 

And  when  upheld,  the  wine  from  each  bright  jar 

Pours  with  the  lustre  of  a  falling  star. 

Yet  further  off,  are  dimly  seen  their  bowers. 

Of  which  no  mortal  eye  can  reach  the  flowers ; 

And  'tis  riglit  just,  for  well  Apollo  knows 

'T  would  make  the  Poet  quarrel  with  the  rose. 

All  that 's  reveal'd  from  that  fiir  seat  of  blisses. 

Is,  the  clear  fountains'  interchanging  kisses, 

As  gracefully  descending,  light  and  thin. 

Like  silver  streaks  across  a  dolphin's  fin. 

When  he  up-swimmeth  from  the  coral  caves, 

And  sports  with  half  his  tail  above  the  waves. 

These  wonders  strange  lie  sees,  and  many  more. 

Whose  head  is  pregnant  with  poetic  lore: 

Should  he  upon  an  evening  ramble  fare 

With  forehead  to  the  soothing  breezes  bare, 

Would  he  naught  see  but  the  dark,  silent  blue. 

With  all  its  diamonds  trembling  through  and  through? 

Or  the  coy  moon,  when  in  the  waviness 

Of  whitest  clouds  she  does  her  beauty  dress, 

And  staidly  paces  higher  up,  and  higher. 

Like  a  sweet  nun  in  holiday  attire  ? 

Ah,  yes !  much  more  would  start  into  his  sight — 

The  revelries,  and  mysteries  of  night : 

And  should  I  ever  see  them,  I  will  tell  you 

Such  tales  as  needs  must  with  amazement  spell  you. 

These  aye  the  living  pleasures  of  the  bard: 

But  richer  far  posteriiy's  award. 

What  does  he  murmur  with  his  Litest  breath. 

While  his  proud  eye  looks  through  the  film  of  death? 

"What  though  1  leave  this  dull,  and  earthly  mould, 

Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 


With  after-times. — The  patriot  shall  feel 

My  stern  alarum,  and  unshcath  his  steel  ; 

Or  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  inimbers. 

To  startle  princes  from  their  easy  sluml^ers. 

The  sage  will  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 

My  hapjiy  thoughts  sententious:   he  will  teem 

With  lofty  periods  when  my  versos  fire  him, 

And  then  I'll  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire  him. 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 

That  maids  will  sing  them  on  their  bridal-night. 

Gay  villagers,  u()on  a  morn  of  May, 

When  they  have  tired  their  gentle  hmljs  with  play 

And  form'd  a  snowy  circle  on  the  grass, 

And  placed  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  la.ss 

Who  chosen  is  tlieir  (|ueen, — with  her  fine  head, 

Crown'd  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and  red  : 

For  there  the  lily,  and  the  musk-rose,  sighing, 

Are  emblems  true  of  hajjless  lovers  dying : 

Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  tell  trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  fidl-blown,  and  double. 

Serenely  sleep  : — she  from  a  casket  takes 

A  little  book, — and  then  a  joy  awakes 

About  each  youthful  heart, — v\ith  stifled  cries. 

And  rubbing  of  while  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes: 

For  she 's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes,  and  fears ; 

One  that  I  fosler'd  in  my  youthful  years : 

The  pearls,  that  on  each  glistening  circlet  sleep, 

Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep, 

Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.     To  sweet  rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's  breast. 

Be  luH'd  with  songs  of  mine.     Fair  world,  adieu' 

Thy  dales  and  hills  are  lading  from  my  view : 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide-spreading  |)inions. 

Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  tiiy  dominions. 

Full  joy  1  feci,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air, 

That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  tliy  daughters  fair. 

And  warm  thy  sons!"  Ah,  my  dear  friend  and  brother 

Could  I,  at  once,  my  mad  ambition  smother. 

For  lasting  joys  like  these,  sure  I  should  be 

Happier,  and  dearer  to  society. 

At  times,  'tis  true,  I've  lelt  relief  from  pain 

When  some  bright  thought  has  darted  through  my 

brain : 
Through  all  that  day  I  've  felt  a  greater  pleasure 
Than  if  I  had  brought  to  light  a  hidden  treasure. 
As  to  my  sonnets,  though  none  else  should  heed  them 
I  feel  delighted,  still,  tiiat  you  should  read  them. 
Of  late,  too,  I  have  had  much  calm  enjoyment, 
Stretch'd  on  the  grass  at  my  best-loved  employment 
Of  scribbling  lines  lor  you.     These  things  I  thought 
While,  in  my  face,  the  freshest  breeze  I  caught. 
E'en  now,  I  am  pillow'd  on  a  bed  of  flowers. 
That  crowns  a  lofty  clilf,  which  proudly  towers 
Alxjve  the  ocean  waves.     The  stalks,  and  blades. 
Chequer  my  tablet  with  their  quivering  shades. 
On  one  side  is  a  field  of  drooping  oats. 
Through  which  the  poppies  show  their  scarlet  coats. 
So  pert  and  useless,  that  they  bring  to  mind 
The  scarlet  coats  that  pester  human-kind. 
.\nd  on  the  other  side,  outspread,  is  seen 
Ocean's  blue  mantle,  streak'd  with  purple  and  green  , 
Now  'tis  I  see  a  canvass'd  ship,  and  now 
Mark  the  bright  silver  curling  round  her  prow  ; 
I  see  the  lark  down-dn)pping  to  his  nest, 
And  the  broad-wing'd  sea-gull  never  at  rest; 
For  when  no  more  he  spreads  his  feathers  free, 
His  breast  is  dancing  on  the  restless  sea. 
605 


74 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  1  direct  my  eyes  into  the  West, 
Which  at  this  moment  is  in  sunbeams  drest : 
Why  westward  turn  ?  'T  was  but  to  say  adieu  ! 
'Twas  but  to  kiss  my  hand,  dear  George,  to  you! 
August,  1816. 


TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE. 

Oft  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning. 
And  with  proud  breast  his  own  white  shadow  crown^ 

ing; 
He  slants  his  neck  beneath  the  waters  briglit 
So  silently,  it  seems  a  beam  of  light 
Come  from  the  galaxy  :  anon  he  sports, — 
With  outspread  wings  the  Naiad  Zephyr  courts. 
Or  ruffles  all  the  surface  of  the  lake 
In  striving  from  its  crystal  face  to  take 
Some  diamond  water-drops,  and  them  to  treasure 
In  milky  nest,  and  sip  them  off  at  leisure. 
But  not  a  moment  can  he  there  insure  them, 
Nor  to  such  downy  rest  can  he  allure  them  ; 
For  down  they  rush  as  though  they  would  be  free. 
And  drop  like  hours  inlo  eternily. 
Just  like  that  bird  am  I  in  loss  of  time. 
Whene'er  I  venture  on  the  stream  of  rhyme ; 
With  shatter'd  boat,  oar  snapt,  and  canvas  rent, 
I  slowly  sail,  scarce  knowing  my  intent ; 
Still  scooping  up  the  water  with  my  fingers, 
In  which  a  trembhng  diamond  never  lingers. 

By  this,  friend  Charles,  you  may  full  plainly  see 

VVhy  I  have  never  penn'd  a  line  to  thee: 

Because  my  thoughts  were  never  free,  and  clear, 

And  little  fit  to  please  a  classic  ear ; 

Because  my  wine  was  of  loo  poor  a  savor 

For  one  whose  palate  gladdens  in  the  flavor 

Of  sparkling  Helicon : — small  good  it  were 

To  take  him  to  a  desert  rude  and  bare, 

Who  had  on  Baite's  shore  reclined  at  ease, 

While  Tasso's  page  was  floating  in  a  breeze 

That  gave  soft  music  from  Anuida's  bovvers, 

Mingled  with  fragrance  from  her  rarest  flowers : 

Small  good  to  one  who  had  by  MuUa's  stream 

Fondled  the  maidens  with  the  breasts  of  cream ; 

Who  had  beheld  Belphoebe  in  a  brook. 

And  lovely  Una  in  a  leafy  nook, 

And  Archimago  leaning  o'er  his  book  : 

Who  had  of  all  that's  sweet,  tasted,  and  seen, 

From  silv'ry  ripple,  up  to  beauty's  queen; 

From  the  sequester'd  haunts  of  gay  Titania, 

To  the  blue  dwelling  of  divine  Urania: 

One,  who,  of  late  had  ta'en  sweet  Ibrest  walks 

With  him  who  elegantly  dials  and  talks — 

The  wrong'd  Libertas — who  has  told  you  stories 

Of  laurel  chaplet,s,  and  Aiiollo's  glories; 

Of  troops  chivalrous  prancing  through  a  city. 

And  tearful  ladies,  made  for  love  and  pity : 

With  many  else  which  I  have  never  known. 

Thus  have  I  thought ;  and  days  on  days  have  flown 

Slowly,  or  rapidly — imwilling  still 

For  you  to  try  my  dull,  unlearned  quill. 

Nor  sliould  I  now,  but  that  I  've  known  you  long ; 

That  you  fa-st  taught  me  all  the  sweets  of  song: 

The  grand,  the  sweet,  the  terse,  the  free,  the  fine : 

^Vhat  swell'd  with  pathos,  and  what  right  divine: 


Spenserian  vowels  that  elope  with  ease. 
And  float  along  like  birds  o'er  summer  seas : 
Miltonian  storms,  and  more,  Miltonian  tenderness: 
Michael  in  arms,  and  more,  meek  Eve's  fair  slender 

ness. 
Wlio  read  for  me  the  sonnet  svielling  loudly 
Up  to  its  climax,  and  then  dying  proudly? 
Who  found  lor  me  the  grandeur  of  the  ode. 
Growing,  like  Atlas,  stronger  from  its  load  ? 
Who  let  me  taste  that  more  than  cordial  dram, 
The  sharp,  the  rapier-pointed  epigram? 
Show'd  me  that  epic  was  of  all  the  king. 
Round,  vast,  and  spanning  all,  like  Saturn's  ring  1 
You  too  upheld  the  veil  from  Clio's  beauty. 
And  pointed  out  the  patriot's  stern  duty  ; 
The  might  of  Alfred,  and  the  shaft  of  Tell ; 
The  hand  of  Brutus,  that  so  grandly  fell 
Upon  a  tyrant's  head.     Ah!  had  I  never  seen, 
Or  known  your  kindness,  what  might  I  have  been? 
What  my  enjoyments  in  my  youthful  years, 
Bereft  of  all  that  now  my  life  endears  ? 
And  can  I  e'er  these  benefits  forget  ? 
And  can  I  e'er  repay  the  friendly  debt? 
No,  doubly  no  ; — yet  should  these  rhymings  please, 
I  shall  roll  on  the  grass  with  twofold  ease ; 
For  1  have  long  time  been  my  fancy  feeding 
With  hopes  that  you  would  one  day  think  the  reading 
Of  my  rough  verses  not  an  hour  misspent ; 
Should  it  e'er  be  so,  what  a  rich  content! 
Some  weeks  have  pass'd  since  last  I  saw  the  spires 
In  lucent  Thames  reflected: — warm  desires 
To  see  the  sun  o'er-peep  the  eastern  dimness, 
And  morning-shadows  streaking  into  slimne.ss 
Across  the  lawny  fields,  and  pebbly  water ; 
To  mark  the  time  as  they  grow  broad  and  shorter ; 
To  feel  the  air  that  plays  about  the  hills. 
And  sips  its  freshness  from  the  little  rills ; 
To  see  high,  golden  corn  wave  in  the  light 
When  Cynthia  smiles  upon  a  summer's  night. 
And  peers  among  the  cloudlets,  jet  and  white, 
As  though  she  were  reclining  in  a  bed 
Of  bean-blossoms,  in  heaven  freshly  shed. 
No  sooner  had  I  stcpt  iiuo  these  pleasures, 
Than  I  began  to  think  of  rhymes  and  measures 
The  air  that  floated  by  me  soem'd  to  say 
"  Write  I  thou  \\\\t  never  have  a  better  day." 
And  so  I  did.     When  many  lines  1  'd  written. 
Though  with  their  grace  I  was  not  over-smitten. 
Yet,  as  my  hand  was  warm,  I  thought  I  'd  better 
Trust  to  my  feelings,  and  write  you  a  letter. 
Such  an  attempt  required  an  inspiration 
Of  a  ])cculiar  sort, — a  consummation  ; — 
Whicii,  had  I  felt,  these  scribblings  luighl  have  been 
Verses  from  which  the  soul  would  never  wean ; 
But  many  days  have  i)ast  since  last  my  heart 
Was  warm'd  luxuriously  by  divine  Mozart ; 
By  Arne  delighted,  or  by  Handel  madden'd  ; 
Or  by  the  song  of  Erin  pierced  and  saddcn'd  : 
What  time  you  were  before  the  music  sitting. 
And  the  rich  notes  to  each  sensation  fitting. 
Since  I  have  walk'd  with  you  through  shady  lanes 
That  freshly  terminate  in  open  plains. 
And  revell'd  in  a  chat  that  ceased  not, 
When,  at  night-fall,  among  your  books  we  got : 
No,  nor  when  supper  came,  nor  after  that, — 
Nor  when  reluctantly  I  took  my  hat ; 
006 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


75 


No,  nor  till  cordially  you  sliook  my  haiiil 
Midway  between  our  liomes : — your  ai-teiits  bluiid 
Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  1  no  more 
Could  hear  your  lbolste|)s  loucii  the  gravelly  floor. 
Sonielimes  1  lost  lliem,  and  then  found  again ; 
You  changed  tiie  Ibol-paih  for  the  grassy  jilain. 
In  llios(!  still  niouionts  1  have  wish'd  you  joys 
That  well  you  know  to  honor : — "  Life's  very  toys 
With  him,"'  said  1.  "will  lake  a  pleasant  charm; 
It  cannot  be  that  aught  will  work  liinx  harm." 
These   thoughts  now  come   o'er  me   with  all  their 

might : — 
Again  I  shake  your  hand, — IrienJ  Charles,  good-nighl. 
Seplember,  1816. 


STANZAS. 

I.\  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  tree, 
Tliy  branches  ne'er  remember 
Their  green  felicity : 
45  3R 


The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
Willi  a  sleety  whistle  through  ttiem  ; 
IN'or  frozen  timwings  glue  them 
l-'roni  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting. 
They  slay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah!  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it. 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it. 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

607 


TllE  LND. 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

THE 
HANES  FOUNDATION 

FOR  THE  STUDY  OF  THE 

ORIGIN  AND  DEVELOPMENT 

OF  THE  BOOK 

ESTABLISHED  BY  THE  CHILDREN  OF 

JOHN  WESLEY  AND 

ANNA  HODGIN  HANES 

RARE  BOOK  COLLECTION 

Keats 

PR4809 

.H2 

A4 

1841 


